CHAPTER 11
“I’m coming to Florida, Stan, and would like to see you.”
My first thought when I heard Jules DelGado say those words was that I was getting shit-canned. I suspected he’d gotten wind of a formal FCC investigation for my “wake the fuck up” comment to Dr. Kervorkian.
“What brings you to town?” I timidly inquired.
“You. What kind of question is that?”
I quickly evaluated how much of a pussy I would be if I said something like “What about me?” and decided against it.
Forty-eight hours later, we were having dinner at Bern’s Steak House, not too far from the studios of WRGT. Bern’s was a legendary joint started in the ’50s by a guy with that name. It offered the finest steak and the most expansive wine list in a setting where you figured dessert would come after some buxom madam called your name and said, “Sonny, you are about to get blown in bedroom No. 45.” Seriously, the place looked like a brothel out of a John Wayne western. But more deals got cut at Bern’s than any other place in town, so when Jules said he was coming for dinner, there was no hesitation on my part as to where to take him. If this was an execution, I was going to be the equivalent of someone getting their hand cut off in an Iranian soccer stadium.
Jules DelGado was a great barometer of where my career stood. I was used to competing for his attention. For a few years, I had been his least important client, often wondering why, given his unresponsiveness, he’d ever undertaken my representation. But now, when we spoke, there were fewer interruptions on his end of the line where his male assistant, Philippe, was always a third wheel in our conversations. During so many previous calls, Philippe had barged in with something like, “Mr. DelGado, you have a conference call holding,” or “Mr. DelGado, I have Ben Sherwood waiting from ABC to begin your call.” At last, I was the subject of the conference call. Hell, Jules was actually calling me for a change, instead of the other way around. I was fighting less for his attention. And struggling to keep up with his emails seeking updates on my show plans and cable appearances. Now we were meeting, and on my turf.
Fearing that he was the bearer of bad news, I decided to invite Debbie along, on the theory that it’d be more difficult to deliver a blow if a guy’s significant other were at the table. Of course, I’d shared nothing with her of my concern for the fallout from Doctor’s Hours. Yeah, I’d told her a bit about the incident, but I’d deliberately underplayed it, lest it spark another lecture.
“Stan, you really need to grow up. You talk live, on radio, for 20 hours a week without cursing. Don’t you find it interesting that you couldn’t hold your tongue when you were recording an interview, in the same way you can’t seem to hold your tongue when you aren’t on air?”
She didn’t say that. But I figured she would have if I’d told her the full story. It’s funny how many conversations I’d had with her in my mind like that—conversations she never even knew had taken place. I figured it saved time. Multitasking by Stan Powers.
To my pleasant surprise, I could tell Jules was in a good mood from the moment we were seated. The three of us sat with a view of the kitchen while we put a dent into a bottle of Peter Michael L’Espirit Des Pavot Cabernet Sauvignon while devouring steaks.
“Stan, I want you to know how much I value our relationship. I’m sorry if in the past you’ve felt that you had to compete for my attention. Those days are over.”
Jules had never spoken to me with such an attempt at sincerity. Maybe that was for Debbie’s benefit. She looked terrific which is no doubt why, even when he was speaking to me, Jules was mostly looking at her. I loved hearing the words roll off his lips, not that I was fully buying it. Until then, I knew I was always the low man on his totem poll, somewhere after about a dozen other talk and cable personalities, and his wife and kids. But I’d always calculated that I was better off being on his second team than anyone else’s first squad. He’d been representing me since I negotiated an extension of my afternoon program back in Pittsburgh. Star Channel had made me an offer that I thought was weak, and so I called Jules up cold to ask him to represent me and try to do better. It worked. We never met and hardly spoke to discuss the deal. But the mere involvement of his firm had added at least ten percent to the deal, which is exactly the amount he took of my annual salary.
“I’m getting calls about you, Stan, calls from people who are contemplating whether to give you a larger platform.”
Hallelujah.
“Your name is coming up more and more often as the big syndicators survey the landscape to see who can be the heir to Limbaugh, Beck and Hannity.”
He said that the overtures had been increasing since my Tobias and Haskel interviews and the resulting cable appearances. As Phil had predicted, there was a great demand on the part of the television broadcasters to have someone on camera who was in the thick of the I-4 corridor and could give good ear on Tobias’ political prospects, and I was doing my best to keep up. Gore Vidal once said, “You should never miss a chance to have sex or appear on television.” Well, Vidal only told part of the story. GOP dirty trickster and Vidal acolyte, Roger Stone was the one who correctly explained that doing the latter would facilitate the former. The more you appeared on television, the more opportunity you had to get laid.
And never before had I had the opportunity that was now around me. It was everywhere, even though I wasn’t taking it. Chicks from sales whose names I didn’t know where suddenly delivering my live copy to the studio early mornings, instead of just leaving it in my Morning Power mailbox as they had done for years. I had broads introducing themselves to me at supermarkets and gas stations. Of course, my newfound fame had the reverse effect with Debbie, who took every opportunity to tell me how disgusted she was by what she called my “Sybil situation.”
“There is now medicine for schizophrenics like you, Stan,” she would say.
While Jules continued, I was sure I saw Debbie rolling her eyes.
“I have an offer for you Stan. One of the cable outlets has invited you to be an official, paid contributor.”
“What does that mean?’
“It means they will put you on the payroll, commit to so many appearances per week, and will ask for exclusivity in return. No more appearing on whatever channel happens to ask. Now you will be tied to one.”
He reached for his wine before adding:
“Which is why I don’t think you should take it.”
I had often heard others whom I was appearing alongside introduced as “contributors” and was never sure about the distinction, but it seemed like a credential worth having. When I was introduced, they usually said “Stan Powers is joining us now from Tampa, where he is the host of a daily morning radio program on WRGT.” Or, “Stan Powers is a conservative radio host based in Tampa.” Those who were introduced as “contributors” had a level of validation I envied, even if there was no serious coin attached. I was happy to hear that they wanted me on that team, and surprised that Jules was seeking to curb my enthusiasm.
“It’s meaningless, Stan. Chump change, really. We are playing for bigger stakes now.”
I was rapt. Debbie was frowning. We both remained silent.
“It’s only worth $250 per appearance, and while I’m sure you’d like the ego stroke of the contributor title, it’s not worth tying your hands. I’m duty-bound to present you with all offers, but I think you’d be making a big mistake by taking it.”
He then used a baseball analogy and explained that this was a bona-fide invitation to play pro ball, but that I was being placed in triple A ball, instead of being called up to the big show.
“They see you are on the come, but they don’t yet know what to do with you. I’ve seen this move before. They want to take you off the board before someone else can come along and make you a real deal,” he reasoned.
I wasn’t sure. The only thing that registered was that we’d just drank a week’s worth of cable TV contributor fees with our appetizers.
“You flew down here to tell me not to accept a title for $250 an appearance?”
“Hell no. I flew down here to tell you that you’re on a fast track, that people are noticing you in a way that you have long wanted to be recognized, and to share with you an opportunity far bigger than a horseshit title on a cable station that during most of its hours, has fewer eyeballs watching than you currently have ears listening.”
The waitstaff from Bern’s commenced carting off the carcasses while Jules caught his breath and prepared to lay out his plan. Debbie said she was going to freshen up and I ordered a pair of Remy Martin Cognac Louis XIII Grande.
“Stan, the goal here is national syndication. The only thing cable TV can do for you professionally is gain you recognition with PDs across the country, so that when they get a call from a syndicator who wants to know if they’ll clear your show, they don’t say, ‘Never heard of him.’ Remember, there are more than fifty guys who are syndicated in this country, but only about five who have made it work. When I cut your deal, I want you to be one of the five, not one of the fifty.”
“I’m listening.”
“Well, you’re in demand by the B-list of syndicators, but the A-team is still not paying enough attention.”
“Maybe they need to see more of me on television?”
“Horseshit. You’ve already done that part.”
“Then what do I need to do?”
“Participate in a debate.”
We both stood at the table in a perfunctory manner to welcome Debbie back to the conversation.
Jules speculated that the GOP nomination fight might not wrap up before California voted, and there was an important, upcoming Republican presidential debate being planned for the Ronald Reagan Presidential Foundation and Library in Simi Valley. This would be the final debate between Haskel, James, and the others, assuming they stayed in the race until the end. Super Tuesday hadn’t been decisive on either side of the aisle. For the Republicans, Margaret Haskel had only barely edged out Wynne James in Ohio. The real upset that day was in Virginia where James was the victor, officially moving him from the dark-horse category and turning the GOP contest into a competitive race. Every time Figuera, Lewis and Redfield grabbed a few points in each state where they competed, they were cutting into Haskel’s conservative vote, a fact not lost on the Lone Star governor. “My three amigos” she began referring to them on the campaign trail with a smile that could cut a rib eye. Without fanfare, and certainly with no advance warning to pollsters, every remaining moderate Republican was casting a ballot for Wynne James. Haskel was fortunate that this was a year when the Texas primary, often superfluous when finally staged in late May, would have real value. Still, it was doubtful her home state would put her over the top. That distinction could come in California. The Democratic race was no less interesting. It too had divided along the lines of an A and B tier, with Tobias and Baron sharing the top shelf while Evers, Foley, Yih, Wrigley and Brusso vied for attention on the second level. The governors of Florida and New York had traded states along the eastern seaboard tit-for-tat, reminiscent of a Civil War divide. Georgia (Tobias), Massachusetts (Baron), Ohio (Baron), Tennessee (Tobias). Baron had the Empire State primary on the horizon, but Tobias was showing strength in the Midwest and West. Texas was also polling well for Tobias, and his numbers in California were looking particularly strong. Most surprisingly, none of the second-tier candidates in either party were showing signs of fatigue or interest in dropping out. Such was the tumult and uncertainly caused by President Summers’ surprise withdrawal, and the abundance of free media supplied by a 24/7 news cycle, that each appeared content to stay in until the end of the primary season or even the conventions, assuming no one locked up the requisite number of delegates. There was true strength in numbers. If any of them folded, it might set off a domino effect, but for now, all were standing pat. The visibility for me as a panelist would be huge. The GOP debates had been ongoing for more than a year, although it seemed that only now were people paying attention. Not only had President Summers’ announcement created a scramble on the Democratic side, it made Americans want to pay attention to the GOP race, too. Jules said that another of his firm’s clients, a big-name network anchor who he would not name, was about to be announced as the moderator of this forthcoming debate, and that he’d be accompanied on the debate stage by a pair of questioners drawn from other media outlets.
“Stan, what if I were to offer you the chance to be a debate questioner? How would you like to sit on the stage under Ronald Reagan’s Air Force One, with the entire nation watching while you ask any question to any Republican running for president?”
I was stunned.
“Are you shitting me?”
“Nope.”
“The party thinks it’s important to give the talk community a seat at the table because of the importance of the format to the base of the GOP. They want a new face, preferably from a swing state. I had my guy suggest your name, and the party approved you. So too did the network brass. They think you’ll add some edge.”
There was that word again.
“Who will the other panelist be?”
“Probably a newspaper reporter from a regional publication, more along the lines of the Orange County Register, than say the New York Times or Washington Post.”
I moved my sifter toward him looking for a celebratory clink, but Jules didn’t reciprocate; he wasn’t finished.
“I don’t know if you appreciate the power you have in this presidential election, Stan. While your focus is on expanding your reach, others are looking at the value you could bring to them with the following you already have.”
The cognac settled in my stomach, chasing my wine, which had already pursued a gin martini. I was starting to feel too fucked up to follow.
“I’m talking about the party, Stan. The GOP. It’s their debate. The RNC calls this shot, although the network has final approval. And their national leadership is pushing for your involvement harder than I have. I’d like to take more credit, but you were an easy choice, Stan. Everybody knows the importance of the area you reach, and they like that you are playing hardball with Tobias who looks like he’ll take down Vic Baron and win the nomination.”
In the midst of my cognac fog, I suddenly remembered Margaret Haskel telling me she’d be seeing me in California. Now her comment made sense, but the fact that she’d known well before I did made it seem a bit unsavory. I could only imagine what Debbie would say if I told her. So, of course, I didn’t.
“They view you as a power broker, Stan. The only guy with a command of the I-4 corridor in what the experts all see as the swing state, with or without Tobias. More than Ohio. Bigger than North Carolina. The Republican Party desperately needs you, so much, that I think after the debate they will consider a role for you at the convention.”
“What kind of a role?”
“That remains to be seen and negotiated, but some kind of a speaking role for sure.”
Now our glasses met. We both sipped and smiled, and then remembering Debbie’s presence almost as an afterthought, we looked in her direction. There was no reaction.
“This debate is big. Don’t fuck it up. Make an impact in the debate and you will assure yourself a role at the convention, maybe in prime time. You do both, and I can guarantee you a syndication deal worth signing. I’m sure Phil Dean can offer some thoughts. How is that sack of shit? Oops, sorry Debbie.”
“Don’t mind me while you plot the destruction of the country,” she said, her first words in 30 minutes.
Jules smiled in her direction but said nothing, no doubt pondering what was going on in her head.
Fucking Phil. It hadn’t occurred to me that he was a part of this new dynamic. I could only imagine what he might want me to do in a debate, although the drill would be different than the normal carpet-bombing of liberals. Only Republican candidates would be on that stage in California, and there was only so much fellatio permitted in prime time.
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br /> I was feeling no pain by the time that Jules paid the bill and jumped in a cab. Debbie and I said so long to him outside the valet stand, and when they brought my car around, she directed me toward the passenger side and announced that she was driving. I could tell that she was upset and knew better than to challenge her.
I was nevertheless in a celebratory mood as we headed to my place, but she would have none of it. She started up just as soon as the valet closed her door.
“You have got to be shitting me,” said the normally proper Ms. Cross. “Stan, I know you. At least I think I know you. And you’re building an entire career based on a fiction. The Stan I know isn’t a guy who would voluntarily spend 10 minutes with Margaret Haskel even if it were in the Oval Office. The Stan I know doesn’t give a damn about what church Bob Tobias kneels in, or whether he kneels at all. Maybe because I happen to know that my Stan hasn’t walked into a church himself since I have known him! He gets more intellectual stimulation trying to decide what Roger Waters was writing about when he composed The Wall than he does from the Wall Street Journal, and would rather smoke pot with his buddies Clay and Carl than sit in a smoke-filled room with political windbags.”
Talk Page 15