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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, there 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.