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“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.

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.”

Through bloodshot eyes I could see her carotid artery pulsing and knew she wasn't finished.

“Just how far are you going to take this? You're not just some guy spinning records. You aren't influencing a top 10 playlist anymore. People look to you for guidance thinking you are honest and sincere in your views. The future of the country is at stake. There is no way this ends well for you if you keep it up.”

All of which is kinda what I'd expected her to say. Maybe on some level, it was why I'd invited her along to begin with. She was my sanity check. She grounded me. She spoke to me in a way the sycophants I'd been collecting in my orbit never would. Whether I was prepared to heed her warning was another story.

A few weeks later, it was announced that I'd been chosen as a panelist for the GOP debate at the Reagan Library. Not long thereafter, Alex got a phone call from a Bill Maher producer. The debate at the Reagan Library was set for a Monday night, the night before the California primary. The stakes were big for Haskel and James. She could finish him off with a win in California. But a James victory in California meant the GOP battle might be settled in New Jersey, New Mexico, Montana or Utah—or not until the floor of the Republican National Convention. So of course, Haskel was going all in for Cali. And on the Democratic side, there was a similar sense of finality between Tobias and Baron. The seven-way sprint that began with the surprise withdrawal of a sitting president's candidacy, looked likely to wrap up with a Tobias victory on the left coast. Funny thing, the more I'd questioned his religious conviction, the higher his numbers seemed to rise among the core of his party—the exact opposite effect I'd had among Republicans. I might be killing his chances in a general election, but I was
actually helping Tobias secure his party's nomination, not that I thought Susan would be giving me credit anytime soon.

The Maher producer wondered whether I'd be willing to be a panelist on Maher's HBO program,
Real Time
, the Friday before the debate. For me it was a no-brainer. Here was a great opportunity to expand my visibility in left-wing circles on the eve of the GOP debate. Jules, too, thought it suited our objective because Maher was watched by anyone who mattered in the world of punditry, even those who would never admit it. He said it was all about enhancing visibility for potential program directors.

“Everyone on the left and right watches him, Stan. The only difference is that the conservatives pretend otherwise. It's a great opportunity to build your brand with syndicators and potential affiliates.”

Phil disagreed.

“You're getting sandbagged, Stan. The only reason he's invited you on is because you've embarrassed Tobias by questioning whether he's a conventional Christian. Maher loves the idea that Tobias might be what your audience loathes.”

Phil was more animated about this than anything we'd discussed since my in-studio interview with Tobias. He was insistent that before I commit, I first watch Maher's movie about religion, which I promised to do, but never did. Big mistake. It would've let me know what was coming.

“And I'll tell you another thing. That audience will fucking hate you. He'll put you in the wing-nut chair alongside two Hollywood types, and nothing good comes from getting heckled by Bill Maher in that lion's den.”

I could tell from Phil's detailed analysis that he was among the regular viewers, just as I would have suspected. Still, as I protested, he remained firm.

“Remember, he gave all that money to Obama. Our audience will think you are pandering to Maher unless you cold-cock him. I say don't take the risk.”

This was the first time I could remember there being such a sharp difference of opinion between Jules and Phil. Then again, they had separate roles and it might have been the very first time their interests had collided. Jules' job was to increase my platform and cut deals. Any notice on a national stage was going to help him make the case to syndicators (and thereby to potential station affiliates) that I was a sufficient radio star to warrant a national rollout. Phil's role was to ensure that I was always saying the right things to cultivate support from the talk radio base, thereby enabling Jules to grow the platform. In this case, Phil's argument was that Jules' efforts would be hampered by any association between Maher and me since he was viewed as a pariah by the program directors of conservative talk stations. Jules' response was that the PDs didn't have to like me—they just needed to be able to see my name in lights. Phil and Jules had a healthy respect for one another, but they never actually spoke, and this time was no exception. Instead they made their independent arguments to me and left the decision in my hands.

My brain agreed with Phil, but my ego sided with Jules. I found the idea of flying to California early for the debate and being a big shot on HBO intoxicating. If unpredictability was the issue, I rationalized to Phil, then how different could it be from the risk of taking a live call on radio and not knowing what the person was going to say?

“On any given morning, I never know what might happen when I answer the phone,” I said to him.

“Stan, the only difference amongst your callers is their shade of red,” he answered. “This live audience will be a sea of blue and we can't afford a YouTube moment.”

What I didn't tell either of them was that I was myself a pretty avid Maher watcher. I didn't always agree with him and thought he was pretty acerbic, but I liked the politically incorrect nature of the program and certainly sided with him on legalizing pot. Maybe I should wear short sleeves, I wondered? Of course, Maher didn't know what was emblazoned on my forearm—and even if he did, I was still an unlikely ally. The only thing he'd know was that I was a conservative talker from Tampa with an increasing amount of influence on the other side of the aisle in the midst of the presidential race. And, he'd surely know that I had raised questions with regard to Tobias' faith. Which is why Phil was worried that I would be a particularly attractive candidate for a Maher ass-kicking on national TV just a few nights before the debate. So one more time, I circled back to Jules for some confirmation.

“Phil's right to be cautious,” he said. “But if you think you can handle Maher, the payoff in visibility could be enormous. The timing is perfect. I wasn't going to tell you Stan, but today I spoke with Chuck Schwartz from Panache Broadcasting and he has room on his roster. You are on that short list, although you may have to change time slots because it's tough to syndicate a morning show.”

That was the only encouragement I needed. I flew to LA as HBO's guest on a Thursday right after
Morning Power
and checked into the Beverly Hills Hotel, all on HBO's dime. Pulling into the driveway off Sunset Boulevard I saw the iconic, pink outline that I first came to know as the cover art for the Eagles'
Hotel California
while studying the vinyl in my Ft. Myers bedroom. I felt that my career had come full circle. Then I wondered if it was an omen as the title track's lyrics popped into my head with a sense of foreboding.

I spent the late afternoon sipping bloody marys at a cabana, and watching a pair of thongs swim laps in a pool that played
music through underwater speakers. Later that night, I drove a rental car a short distance to the Whiskey A-Go-Go to see some live rock. The room that had once hosted the likes of the Doors, Guns and Roses, and Van Halen was filled with twentysomething headbangers listening to a Scandinavian band that looked like they were from Spinal Tap, only they were too young to have known what I was talking about if I'd asked whether their amps where turned up to “11.” Maybe I'm too old for this shit, I thought. Anytime I wore my old concert t-shirts around my condo, Debbie would say, “Time to retire it, Stan.”

The next day I ate breakfast at a diner-like counter in the basement of the hotel while sitting next to a starlet who was famous for being famous. She'd either shoplifted or had one too many DUIs. She may also have recorded a few songs, but I was sure that in ten years no one would remember her name unless she OD'd in a room upstairs. Then again, maybe if she knew who I was she might say the same thing about me.