“She’s a suntanned Hillary for Chrissakes! Get to it, Stan.”
Phil clicked off, no doubt to go give marching orders in some other radio market. There was no way he could have known it, but he’d finally hit a wall with me. I could spout off all the conservative bluster he’d want, but there were personal reasons why attacking Susan Miller, Florida’s first lady, was out of the question. I drove home to get sick and grab a nap.
CHAPTER 3
President Summers’ late withdrawal rendered the Iowa Caucus and New Hampshire primary meaningless for the Democrats. If South Carolina could print new ballots in time to accommodate the quickly emerging Democratic field, it would be the first real contest. But it was more likely that Florida would have that distinction.
It was a different story on the GOP side of the aisle. The Republican field had been set for nearly two years, but now the calculus was about to change. Previously it had been about who was best suited to defeat a liberal, sitting president. Now it was about who would be the strongest against whoever ultimately emerged from the sudden chaos among the Democrats where the outcome of that contest was unpredictable.
Vying for the Republican nod were two governors, one senator, one businessman and one retired military man. Margaret “Molly” Haskel, the conservative, stunning-looking, silver-tonged governor of Texas, had been the frontrunner for nearly 18 months. Of course, nobody ever used her surname. To her hardcore fans, she was “Molly Hatchet,” on account of the fact that there was no state program in Texas that she had not hacked away at or cut entirely during her two terms in office. That record had helped Haskel placate the base in more than a dozen debates during the last several months, and she was benefiting from an intra-party skirmish amongst three conservative candidates who were running even further to the right and splitting the fringe vote.
The other state CEO competing for the job was Wynne James from Colorado. Governor James was my kind of Republican. He’d balanced Colorado’s books without needing a hatchet. And he’d overseen the state’s implementation of the legalization of marijuana in a businesslike fashion without theatrics. James not only embraced same-sex marriage, he’d actually officiated the union of one of his cabinet members to a long-term partner. He was both a fiscal conservative and a social libertarian, which caused him to be viewed with suspicion and some derision by the evangelical forces within the party. His open support for abortion and gay rights—two positions that, I believed, actually reflected true conservatism since they meant less government involvement in people’s personal lives—made him a pariah in many quarters. But he didn’t seem to care and had refused to bend to the political winds of a very conservative primary process. Thus far he’d refused to court crazy, and it had cost him amongst the party’s most passionate. If Governors Haskel and James had squared off in the GOP that presided after Reagan first took office, James would have cleaned her clock. But instead he was trailing in the polls and many doubted he’d get out of single digits in any state but his own. He was the last vestige of a party that had once had as its standard bearers the likes of Nelson Rockefeller, George H.W. Bush, and Bob Dole. But this was not his father’s GOP.
The remaining three Republican candidates used James for cannon fodder as they tried to out-gun Haskel from the right, a feat not easily accomplished. Senator Laurent Redfield of Georgia was a Tea Party purist. He professed to never having voted for a tax increase during a career that spanned 10 years in the Georgia legislature and two terms in the U.S. Senate. He opposed abortion in all instances, including rape and incest, and had called evolution “lies from the pit of hell” during a debate, which was typical of the way he courted conservatives. That sort of thing played well in primary season but was a death knell in a general election.
Colonel George Figuera was a Marine who had distinguished himself in Iraq and received the Navy Cross, the nation’s second highest award behind the Medal of Honor. Figuera was a one-issue candidate, running on a platform of strengthening national defense. He talked nonstop about the U.S. withdrawal from Iraq and Afghanistan—both of which he had opposed. Figuera argued that the U.S. should have maintained control of both countries, and Iraq’s oil, a position that might have garnered him more support had fracking not begun to convince Americans that the days of energy dependence on Muslims were coming to a close. When Governor James quipped in an early debate that “Colonel Figuera never saw a U.S. base he didn’t want to expand,” he was hissed at by the audience, and Figuera took it as a compliment. Handsome and charismatic, Figuera showed no signs of generating broad support, but the reaction he was drawing from military-minded Republicans was strong. As James had learned the hard way, any whiff of criticism of Figuera ran the risk of being branded un-American. Ever since then, the other candidates had been loath to criticize the Colonel. They left him alone on debate stages like an island unto himself.
The final Republican candidate was no less a character than the other four: William Lewis had never run for any office before seeking the presidency. He was a billionaire who’d made his money in private equity and who enjoyed 100 percent name ID across the nation. Sadly for him that nation was the United Kingdom, where he owned one of the English Premier League’s football clubs, and not the United States. While American kids were taking to soccer, I couldn’t see any evidence that American voters were ready to elect a WASPy team owner, much less of a foreign franchise. Lewis was a free-market purist who was quick to drop Karl Marx’s name when rhapsodizing about a “Washington out of control.” The base loved that line. But he never volunteered any thoughts outside of this comfort zone. The debates had been the only times when Lewis said a peep about foreign policy, or Figuera was forced to comment on domestic policy matters.
But then Figuera stunned observers by narrowly winning the Iowa Caucus, although few thought he’d sustain the momentum. Iowa had a history of picking losers who were ideologues. The morning after the Iowa Caucus, I commented on air that it reminded me of Rick Santorum winning in 2012. If the GOP were smart, they’d reconfigure the primary process to dilute the influence of its fringe, because they kept nominating candidates who didn’t have a prayer in a general election. Before Iowa, everyone in the party had pretty much assumed Figuera was headed nowhere. Now, post Iowa, others were rethinking his prospects, but it hadn’t changed my view. Shy of a Muskie breakdown in New Hampshire, I figured Margaret Haskel was it. As I predicted, she rebounded by winning there.
The Democratic race wasn’t as linear, to say the least. The only opposition President Summers had faced in the Iowa Caucus had come from Mississippi Congressman Ezekiel Evers. A civil rights leader and Baptist preacher, he had opposed a sitting president in his own party for what he said was an abandonment of the civil rights agenda. How and where Summers had done that, I wasn’t exactly clear. Neither, apparently, were Iowa Caucus voters, because Evers didn’t get out of single digits. Now, Summers said that he would release all of his delegates from Iowa and New Hampshire without making an endorsement. In keeping with Granite State tradition, there were two-dozen candidates on the New Hampshire ballot, but only President Summers and Congressman Evers were established politicians. Moving forward, South Carolina’s ballot still had only Summers and Evers printed on it. But by Florida, it looked like the field would be crowded.
Against a backdrop of candidate announcements and hurried fundraising, the DNC immediately set about negotiating a system of standards by which the states next in line to vote would amend their filing procedures and deadlines to accommodate a field that was not yet established. Despite the fact that some states had had early filing deadlines in November and December of the previous year, the state legislatures were working in concert to pass emergency measures to change this. In a few cases, governors and state election commissions were able to make changes without direct legislative action. But in states where reducing the number of signatures was deemed necessary to facilitate the timely printing of emergency ballots, there was no way to prevent a
plethora of unknowns from gaining access to the ballots and getting their names in the mix. The free-for-all that ensued was good for the party insofar as it generated non-stop interest in the election—but it ran the risk of making the abbreviated nomination process a bit like American Idol. The situation also promised a bit more than the usual election day chaos where campaign supporters flanked the polling stations and used signs and stickers to try and ensure that their candidates’ names stood out on suddenly crowded ballots.
The fact that the Florida primary, just weeks away, would be the first real contest amongst a newly constituted Democratic field was obviously to the advantage of Governor Bob Tobias. The question was how he would fare in the primaries after the Sunshine State. Nevada, Colorado, Minnesota, Missouri, Maine, Arizona and Michigan would all hold their primary elections within 30 days. And then would come Super Tuesday.
Amidst the confusion, there quickly emerged seven seemingly serious Democratic candidates. Besides Governor Tobias and Congressman Evers (who had been billing himself as “the frontrunner” ever since Summers had dropped out), the field included another governor, a former ambassador, two other congressmen, and a senator.
I figured Governor Vic Baron was Tobias’ biggest threat. A former trial lawyer in New York City, he now governed the Empire State as its chief executive and was formidable on many fronts, not the least of which was that his state offered a rich number of delegates. That the state was New York cut both ways. In many parts of the country, namely the South, there persisted a distrust of Northeastern liberals even within the Democratic ranks. But smart money said Baron and Tobias would be the last two standing.
Ambassador Bill Brusso had been the U.S. representative in Luxemborg two decades ago. Brusso, the scion of a family fortune made in Canadian cadmium, had gotten the post the old fashioned way: he bought it with campaign contributions. Along the way, he’d mistaken his plum position for an earned career in foreign service and had begun to think of himself as a modern day James Baker or George Mitchell. He had no discernable base, but like William Lewis on the other side of the aisle, he appeared willing to spend vast sums from his personal fortune to continue his quixotic bid.
Congressman Coleman Foley was the second member of Congress to get into the race. Foley represented that portion of Western Pennsylvania that had often elected Jack Murtha before his passing. Foley was a Blue Dog Democrat elected to office by constituents whose parents had twice swung to Reagan because of the appeal of his plain speak. I doubted whether he had appeal outside the Keystone state and suspected his bid was a no-risk way to raise his national profile. Roy Yih was the third and final member of Congress seeking the Democratic nod. Asian-American Yih lived in Silicon Valley where he had been a software inventor. Asian Americans had become a reliable Democratic constituency in recent years although not yet at the level of Hispanics. Yih had zero national recognition and I gave him less than a zero-percent chance of winning. Same for the final candidate, Laura Wrigley, the female senator from Vermont. I don’t know what it is with New England, but Wrigley was Bernie Sanders in pant suit. Had she served with George McGovern, she’d have made him look conservative.
What had already been a long vetting process for Republicans was about to be compressed into six months for the Democrats. Less, really, if someone put together a string of victories. Come Super Tuesday, 10 states would be casting ballots on a single day in April. New York and Pennsylvania would not vote until later the next month, which was too bad for Governor Baron. If New York and Florida had swapped primary dates, Baron would have the edge now enjoyed by Tobias. It was impossible to guess what was going to happen. Even California, usually of little national consequence when its primary occurred in June, could this time be relevant for both parties.
“The only guaranteed winner in this thing is you, Powers, so long as you don’t fuck it up,” Phil told me. “Florida will again be key and to win Florida, you need to control the I-4 corridor, you lucky bastard.”
Lucky for me, because when it came to talking politics in the I-4 corridor, WRGT was the only game in town. That meant I had reach where the key votes were up for grabs. While the northern part of the state reflected the conservative politics of the Deep South, and urban centers like Miami were heavy Democratic areas, the middle of the state—especially Tampa, its political hub—was home to a beehive of swing voters. And who could reach those voters better than anyone? Stan Powers. Florida realtors like to talk about location, location, location, and as a talk host in the I-4 corridor during a heated election season, I had it.
The Republican candidates had already figured this out, and I’d had all the candidates, save William Lewis, as my guests in recent months. That Lewis had not done my program was testament to the unconventional nature of his campaign. Margaret Haskel had done the program twice, Governor Wynne James twice, Senator Redfield once, and Colonel Figuera once. Each had been phoners and I hadn’t played favorites. I couldn’t say it on air, but I’d found Governor James the most impressive. Senator Redfield was stone cold crazy. I admired Colonel Figuera’s service, but his comments reminded me that there’s a reason we have civilian control over our military. Still, I always toed the line.
“Well, somebody needs to take a hatchet to the federal budget, Governor Haskel.”
“I applaud the level of your conviction, Senator Redfield.”
“Thank you for your service, Colonel Figuera.”
I’d kissed each of their asses, except, of course, for Governor James. I played it straight with him, and asked basic questions, never putting through the listeners who telephoned the program while he was on. That was to his benefit.
“James is a RINO, Stan, a Republican In Name Only. We don’t need another Arlen Specter,” said the first caller I took after cutting James loose.
The listeners were merciless in condemning the one candidate who I thought had the broadest appeal. But of course, this was primary season where there are no words dirtier than “moderate” or “compromise.”
None of the interviews I did with the Republican candidates made any real news, but each was important in reinforcing my bona fides with both the candidates and the audience. I knew they’d all be looking for more airtime as the Florida primary drew near which would be good for everyone, including me. If I wanted to achieve syndication, it was important for me to cement Morning Power as the hub of political discourse in the Tampa/St. Petersburg area leading up to the election. Which is why, despite the fact that I spent most of my time trashing all things Democrat, I said I’d be happy to speak with Governor Vic Baron when one of his people asked Alex for some airtime.
“You better rip his fucking head off,” was Phil’s angry advice when I told him about the booking.
“But then he’ll never come back.”
“You don’t want him back. You will ruin your credibility if you kiss his nuts, Stan.”
But I didn’t follow that advice, much to Phil’s fury. I pretty much treated the Democratic governor of New York with dignity and respect, and in Tallahassee they’d taken note. Now Governor Bob Tobias was asking for equal air time.
CHAPTER 4
Like me, Governor Bob Tobias was a Florida native. But that wasn’t all we had in common. A shrink might even say he was partly responsible for my coming to Tampa to do morning drive. Yakkers Magazine once wrote about me: “Such were Stan Powers’ political convictions that he was willing to risk an established persona in classic rock just to make his imprint on the dialogue of the day.” My ass. If they only knew that instead it was a story as old as time: Another guy looking for fame and fortune, and hoping to catch the eye of a woman.
If they’d taken a vote at Fort Myers High School back in the 1980s, I would have been voted least likely to end up as a talk radio host, or least likely to do anything productive for that matter. Truth is, I was a bit of a stoner and played soccer before the sport got cool. I was into three things: trying to get laid, music, and trying harder to get laid. I h
ad a few close buddies and not much of a career plan. My grades were average, which only deepened the mystery as to how I finished in the 85th percentile on the SATs.
“Stan, you have either been purposely shitting the bed throughout your school years, or you just got damn lucky,” my father said at the time. I’m sure my Mom knew which it was; Dad, however, was content to wonder if the stars had aligned for just one Saturday morning.
I’d taken the test only because I told my parents I would. I never promised them I’d go to college, and I never did. The idea of compounding my lack of a plan by sitting in two or four more years of classrooms was just not something Stanislaw Pawlowsky was prepared to do. Stan Powers probably would have taken a different path. But that go-getter wouldn’t be born for another quarter century. This I can tell you: Powers would have had little regard for Pawlowsky. Probably would have called him a “pothead liberal destined to suck on the social tit of America.”
Stan Pawlowsky got a tattoo of a pirate on his left butt cheek on a road trip to New Orleans with his high school buddies, and later, one of a tiny cannabis leaf on his left forearm. Nowadays, the first stays hidden under Brooks Brothers boxer shorts, the other behind a long-sleeved blue or white Oxford, at least when I am working. Even in Florida, long sleeves are a must for me unless I’m truly among friends because of that indiscretion of my youth. The country has become far more accepting of smoking pot, but there is still no way my P1s could handle the sight of a drug reference unless they were convinced it was a Ron Paul-style libertarian protest in the name of God’s green earth.
Needless to say, I didn’t grow up wishing or intending to be a talk radio host. The people who do are the board ops who end up on the other side of the glass. Seems we hosts all get here after lots of twists and turns in the career path. But if my career was a roadway, then it had taken a hairpin curve to put me here.
Talk Page 4