“I don’t know if you got my text, but I’m in town and the Governor would really appreciate your giving me five minutes.”
He left me little wiggle room.
“I’m not sure I can do that because I’m already back at my hotel for the night.”
“That’s perfect. I’ll meet you in the Polo Lounge in a half-hour.”
Kinda creepy. I hadn’t told him where I was staying.
I needed a head start, so 10 minutes later I was seated in a booth at the iconic watering hole awaiting what was already my second drink when Hunter approached my table and sat down, looking like he’d just stepped off the pages of a J. Crew catalogue.
“Great job tonight, Stan. The Governor loved the way you didn’t take any shit from Maher.”
“Somehow I didn’t figure she’d be in the demographics I was reaching.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Stan. I’m sure there were many on our side who tuned in tonight specifically to see whether Morning Power could play in the big leagues. And you certainly silenced any doubt.”
Our side. I didn’t even find that objectionable. Not after the way the rock star, actor and comedian had tried to gang bang me in front of a national audience.
Someone downed the dimmer switch in the bar, and a piano player began his set. Hunter was now drinking a Coke with a lemon slice. I was ravaging a dish of nuts.
“Stan, this was just a warm-up for what’s to come in three nights. You have an enormous opportunity to shape the fight for the nomination on Monday night, and the presidential race overall. The governor is sure you will be up for the task. And she hopes you will not be offended if I leave you with a few thoughts.”
I said nothing. I just sipped my drink.
Hunter reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a nondescript white envelope. There was no addressor or addressee. It was just a white envelope that, judging from its width, held only a sheet or two of paper. It reminded me of listeners handing me packages at Gadsden flag rallies. Like the one that purported to be a Scientology audit.
“Just for your consideration,” he reiterated, placing it on the table.
I didn’t immediately retrieve what he was handing over. I just let it sit in front of us and took another sip of my drink.
“You know, Stan, once Tuesday’s primary is behind us, Governor Haskel will shift her focus to planning the summer convention. And that includes the roster of those who will be invited to speak in a supportive role in prime time while the nation watches.”
This must be what Jules had referenced. Damn, this young guy was smooth. Nothing that was happening could be proven in a court of law, but it was pretty clear to me that there was a quid pro quo. Something in that envelope could help determine the outcome of the debate. And my willingness to use it was directly tied to a speaking role at the GOP convention in Tampa.
For the second time since my arrival the previous day, the foreboding lyrics of “Hotel California” popped into my head: “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”
Hunter excused himself and told me he’d see me Monday night. I watched him leave and ordered my third drink. Then I pulled out my iPhone to go through a mountain of emailed reactions to the program that by now was finishing its second airing of the night. As I thumbed through the lot, I thought about the education I had gotten in just the past 24 hours. For starters, I’d learned that a former DJ could, within a few years, be a presidential power broker in the United States. Others might see a Horatio Alger tale. I suddenly felt like I was living in a banana republic. I’d also confirmed that prime time at a national convention was something that could be negotiated in a back room, or at least the Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel. I looked at the envelope and wished I’d told the pretty boy to shove it up his ass. Instead I slid it inside my coat pocket and took another sip of my drink.
CHAPTER 13
I awoke late Saturday morning in California to the sound of a knock at the door from a waiter delivering coffee that I had ordered with one of those hanging chads on my doorknob the night before. A fellow dressed in a white linen version of the Beatles’ suits on the Sgt. Pepper’s album cover greeted me by name and poured my coffee for me. As soon as he left, I took my java, my iPad and my monstrous headache out onto a patio shaded by palm trees and began to scroll through a boatload of email messages, each calling my attention to the online treatment that my smackdown with Maher was receiving. In conservative circles, I was being hailed for having stood up for God and country. In liberal quarters, I was, well, a douche.
Drudge: Tampa Talker Trashes Tinseltown
Huffington Post: Maher Eviscerates Evangelical Host
Evangelical host? They obviously had me confused with Pat Robertson or Benny Hinn.
But maybe this was a good thing. I made a mental note to have Steve Bernson send a link of the latter to the suits at MML&J in Atlanta, who were still being pissy and had refused to clear me for the f-bomb. Before I left for LA, Bernson had told me that the owners of WRGT were pleased with my newfound national success but suspicious as to how a God-fearing man could have so casually dropped “an expletive” in front of an open mic.
“Obviously he has said that word before,” their missive supposedly read.
No shit Sherlock.
Bernson said they had peppered him with questions regarding my behavior off-air, including whether or not I was “living in sin” with Debbie. I saw Rod Chinkles’ hand in that one. The truth was that we lived separately. But it sounded like the sort of horseshit he’d feed his old man to prove his intelligence-gathering capabilities. I told Bernson that the next time they asked if I was “living in sin,” he should tell them, “Every night he can.” Bernson did not smile. I liked him, but was reminded that he was still a suit.
Those who knew me best condensed their email reactions into just a few words in the subject line, understanding that the likelihood of my reading anything longer was pretty dim. First was a follow-up from Debbie that struck a note similar to what she’d texted the night before.
Debbie: “What did he say that you haven’t?”
Ouch.
Alex: “Wow.”
Rod: “Amen brother.”
Carl: “You’re buying Tuesday night.”
Count on it.
Clay: “So what’s it ‘Mr.’ Cocksucker now?”
Like me, Clay knew all the lines from Wall Street.
Phil: “Fallout as I expected (and hoped).”
That sounded promising.
Jules: “Ur on fire. Break a leg Monday!”
Monday. As in, the day after tomorrow.
Not that I had completely forgotten, but getting through the previous night had been just about all my attention span could handle. With the Real Time appearance now behind me, I was 48 hours away from going back on national television, this time to question the Republican presidential candidates in their final encounter. And only now did I remember the still unopened envelope given to me by Jackson Hunter last night. I retrieved it from my sport coat and slid it open. It read:
“Governor James: Many voters in tomorrow’s California primary wish to vote for a candidate who shares their family values. Can someone who once told his own spouse that he desired an open marriage be that candidate?”
The suggested question was worse than I could have imagined. That was some pretty nasty shit right there, I thought. Somewhere, Donald Segretti would be smiling. Molly Hatchet wanted me to take out the Colorado governor with a question that purported to be about family values, but was really about wife swapping, or so it sounded. I could just imagine conservatives hearing that and conjuring up an image in their minds of Governor James walking into some party and throwing his car keys in a dish, anxious to find out whose wife he’d be driving home (in more ways than one).
Attached to the page with the typed question was the purported justification for asking it: a page from the deposition James’ first wife had given in the midst of their
divorce many years ago, where she claimed that the now Colorado governor had wanted a threesome. Regardless of the reliability of the source, it was just the sort of thing that would serve as chum in the shark-infested debate waters, one night before the final primary vote. The prospect immediately sapped any sense of pride I’d had in pulling off the appearance the night before.
I suddenly needed to clear my head and break a sweat. I put on a pair of sneakers and asked the hotel concierge, who had the same name as a famous comedian (but not his appearance), where to go for a hike. He suggested Runyon Canyon and handed me a map. Twenty minutes later, I parked my rental car on an incline on Franklin Avenue and headed for the trek. While Van Halen pumped through my buds, I weighed my willingness to prostrate myself on national TV for Margaret Haskel. She currently led Wynne James in the latest California polls, but only by a narrow margin. A strong performance on Monday night would presumably keep her on that perch and finish off any chance James had to win the nomination.
I figured things could be worse. At least I hadn’t been asked to stack the deck by someone who looked like a loser. If I asked the question, and James fumbled, I would not only be facilitating Margaret Haskel’s victory, but also cementing myself in her good graces as attention shifted to the convention being held in my hometown in just two months. Such a relationship with the nominee could only be beneficial. So professionally speaking, it was all net. There is no such thing as going too far in my business. Rush had called Sandra Fluke a “slut.” Imus had referred to female college basketball players as “nappy-headed hoes.” Beck had called Obama a “racist.” That kind of crazy talk could actually help your career, no differently than it did in Congress. South Carolina’s Joe Wilson had raised a fortune in fundraising after shouting down Obama in a joint session of Congress with a cry of “You lie!” Same on the left with Alan Grayson when he’d said that the Republican healthcare plan was that they “want you to die quickly.” The more heated the rhetoric, the further you got. In the talk world, even the guys who got fired for being outrageous never stayed fired for long.
Personally, however, the decision was not so simple. I had little regard for Governor Haskel and could never see myself voting for her. The only reasonable guy on the stage was the one I was being asked to undermine. Frankly, all of the other candidates scared the shit out of me. Colonel Figuera not only still supported the war in Iraq, he was also saying that we should have stayed and seized the oil. Senator Redfield’s invoking of Biblical reference convinced me that there was little difference between his approach to government and that of the Taliban. He seemed oblivious to the fact that we were governed by the rules of man, not God. Then there was William Lewis, who supporters liked to tout as a hybrid between two other businessmen-turned-politicians, Ross Perot and Herman Cain. He had Perot’s all-American story, and Cain’s personality on the stump, but he lacked any depth whatsoever on any subject to which he could not apply his entrepreneurial instincts. During one of the earlier debates, he had firmly stated that “Israel should be allowed to develop a nuclear capability.” You’d think one of his high-priced advisors would have briefed him on the fact that they already had.
As I climbed higher above the City of Angels the view became increasingly spectacular. Finally I paused on a bench at a spot that gave me a terrific, 180-degree view. Straight ahead was downtown LA. To my left, the iconic Hollywood sign. Off to the right lay the Pacific Ocean, which I had a desire to visit. And around me—walking, some marching—was a mismatch of Holmby Hills housewives in designer spandex and twentysomethings whose sociological ancestors would have best been described as beatniks. There were dogs on leashes, dogs off leashes, and a couple of photographers smoking pot who looked like they were disappointed that a starlet hadn’t kept her promise of a “spontaneous jog.” A better place to people watch I hadn’t seen since a night I spent on the Atlantic City boardwalk. Stan Powers had used California for plenty of fodder over the years, but now, caught up in the scenery, I was thinking there were plenty of worse places I could be. The hum of my iPhone ruined the solitude. I answered reflexively, without first looking at who was calling. A voice said:
“What are the five questions?”
It was Phil. Even at a nearly airplane altitude, there was no escaping his reach.
The only item of substance on my Saturday agenda was a late afternoon conference call with the other debate participants, and I had been requested to be ready with five potential debate questions. Not surprisingly, Phil had strong feelings as to how I should conduct myself. I myself hadn’t come up with anything, figuring that something would pop from the morning headlines. But I had forgotten to even look at them given what was now on my plate.
“Remember, this time you’re officiating a Thanksgiving Dinner dispute, Stan. Unlike last night, your role is not to take sides.”
Easy for him to say—he had not been visited in the Polo Lounge by the aide to the frontrunner with a request to throw a hand grenade into the tent of the runner up. But Phil was adamant that I play the part of party elder and not be perceived as having a favorite.
“They are all family,” he said. “Escape without a YouTube moment and you cement the next step at the convention.”
That was the total opposite of what I was contemplating. And it convinced me that while Phil was almost certainly tied into the Haskel campaign, he was out of this particular loop. Jackson Hunter hadn’t needed to say “don’t’ tell anyone,” it was implied. So instead of telling him about the envelope, I told Phil that I would be finished with my preparation later in the afternoon and would email him my five intended questions. I suspected that if he knew what I’d been asked to do, he would have argued for dropping the bomb on radio first, something that was not possible anyway because, due to the time difference, I was not scheduled to be back on air again before the debate.
My Saturday call was set for 5 p.m. Pacific Time, which left my hands idol for some devil worshipping. The pungent smell from the paparazzi made me want to get high, and I figured I could combine a beach trip with a reefer run. Venice was a 35-minute drive with no traffic on a Saturday, so I retrieved my rental and headed toward the 5 without stopping at the hotel. Upon arrival, I quickly experienced what Governor Schwarzenegger had once bragged was a great “contact high” near Muscle Beach. I had my choice of dispensaries that required only a prescription from a walk-in “clinic” where Mr. Pawlowski showed his ID while feigning back pain.
“How long have you been suffering?” asked the quack.
I was tempted to say, “Since I walked past the guys getting high in Runyon.” But I didn’t.
Back at the hotel, I toked on the private patio and used a notepad from under my room phone to make notes. Try as I might, I just couldn’t come up with five questions to send to Phil for clearance. Instead, I took a nap at the pool and woke up just in time to log onto the call.
The conference call was a circle-jerk led by the debate moderator, Barry Earl, another one of Jules’ clients, who the press had nicknamed “Mr. Wonderful.” If you wondered why, you need only ask him and no doubt he’d be happy to explain. He spent a full 20 minutes pontificating to me and Penny Wire, the other panelist, about why this debate was the most significant since Kennedy/Nixon. He finally came up for air only to ask us if there was anything we wished to ask him. The guy was so caught up in himself that never once did he ask us what we intended to ask the presidential candidates, much less attempt to nail down our five specific questions. Which suited me just fine.
Starving, I next headed for Dan Tana’s, a classic Italian restaurant not far from my hotel. I was flying solo and had no reservation, intending to discreetly saddle up to the bar and enjoy some pasta before going back to the Polo Lounge. The place was small and built inside a classic California cottage that would look nondescript to the uninitiated, but it had a street-smart maitre d’ who was old school, and made it his business to know faces. Several people were waiting to be seated but when he saw me, t
here was a glimmer of recognition along the lines of what I’d been getting at home in Florida, and he quickly found an open seat for me at an otherwise crowded bar. I don’t think the guy could have identified me as Stan Powers. But I do believe that he’d seen me somewhere and figured he’d cover his bases in case I was somebody important. Well not yet, but I was working on it.
Since I wasn’t doing Morning Power on Monday, my plan was to relax at the pool for the next two days before being picked up late Monday afternoon and driven to Simi Valley. I would take my luggage with me because immediately after the debate, I was catching a red-eye back to Tampa so that I could host the radio show on Tuesday morning. If things went according to plan, I’d land at about 5 a.m. and get to the studio just in time to host the second hour of the program. Steve Bernson had already texted that the local network affiliates appeared interested in sending cameras to the studio to record me taking calls and offering a debate recap.
Sunday brought a reminder of how big my participation in the debate was back at home. The Tampa Bay Times had a morning story titled “Power in the Morning” previewing my role in the debate and what they described as a “meteoric rise in the GOP power circle.” There was a quote in the story, which I read online, from state party chairman Herb Barness, who said he viewed me as “a committeeperson without portfolio” who could “single-handedly drive the vote in the I-4 corridor.” Not bad.
He even said, “Stan Powers might elect the next president.”
The notoriety was building, not only back home, but even here on the left coast, and not just at Dan Tana’s. On Sunday at lunchtime, a Swede named Sven who ran the pool at the hotel approached me in my cabana saying, “Mr. Powers, is there anything you require for tomorrow night?” Not for today. Not for the pool. He meant for the debate. I made myself at home there for the rest of the day and returned on Monday morning to read the papers poolside on my iPad. Enjoying the sun and star treatment, and eating eggs Benedict at a cabana while watching a model swim laps, the idea of hitting Governor James below the belt with a question about his open marriage didn’t seem so awful anymore.
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