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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.

•  •  •

Reagan Library made me actually want to be a Republican in more than name only. The place was magnificent, built on a hilltop, and it featured the actual Air Force One that had carried both Nixon back to San Clemente and Ronald Reagan to his meeting with Mikhail Gorbachev in Reykjavik. This Boeing 707 had been flown to California, disassembled and put back together inside a glass pavilion that made you feel like you were coming in for a landing when you stood next to it and looked outside. It was an awesome sight and with the airplane as a backdrop, it made a wonderful setting for a presidential debate. We panelists were to be positioned with our backs to the audience of a few hundred wealthy donors and party activists, facing the candidates.

The debate was scheduled to last 90 minutes. There would be an opening sentence, not really a statement, for the candidates to introduce themselves. Then, 20 minutes of questioning by Mr. Wonderful, followed by a question each from myself and Penny Wire. This was the first time I'd gotten a look at her. She was a thirtysomething hottie from the
Orange County Register
who'd probably gotten the gig because of her eyewear. She fit the bill for what was needed—easy on the eyes female from a California conservative oracle, but she wore a pair of designer glasses that were the equivalent of lipstick on Fox. Then we'd repeat that drill three times. So I'd be asking three questions but had to have more at the ready in case any of my material was preempted either directly or indirectly by the other two.

I figured there would be some last-minute coordination among the three of us regarding what we would ask, but there was none. As the hour drew near, we still had not shared any thoughts with one another. And there were no limitations as to what I could ask—at least none that anyone had brought to my attention. This was much more seat-of-the-pants than I would have imagined. I guess that could be attributed to journalistic integrity, but I had none. And I was committed to dropping the hammer at my first opportunity. My thinking was that by asking the question early, I would create a ripple effect. And if they chose to, the other candidates could come back to it, no matter what James responded.

I took my place at a desk which would face the candidates with my back to the crowd. Mr. Wonderful was at the other end. Penny Wire sat in the middle. The red lights of the cameras went on and Mr. Wonderful welcomed the national television audience to raucous applause from the live crowd. By now the packed room had the feel of a political rally, not a serious debate, and not too different from what I'd experienced three nights prior at
Real Time
.

“And now,” said Mr. Wonderful, “let's meet the Republican candidates.”

Out they walked, one at a time, taking their places at their respective podiums.

“Texas Governor Margaret Haskel.”

There she was looking pretty damn hot in a fitted white dress with a blue scarf.

“Colorado Governor Wynne James.”

I couldn't even look him in the eyes. Partly for what I'd failed to do in support of him over the past few months, but mostly for what I was planning to do to him tonight.

“Georgia Senator Laurent Redfield.”

Redfield got huge applause, but only from a handful of people. I figured they were whatever's left in Southern California of the John Birchers.

“Businessman William Lewis.”

He hadn't won a single state so far, but if you'd landed from Mars, turned off the sound on your television and judged the debate solely based on confidence and charisma, you'd have scored him a winner. As usual, he was perfectly coiffed, sporting a bespoke suit, probably from Saville Row, and a striped shirt that I was sure had been made for either him or Prince Charles at Turnbull & Asser.

“And Colonel George Figuera.”

Figuera gave what was by now his signature salute. He did it every time he was introduced at debates or at his rallies. His supporters would return the salute whether they'd actually served or were chicken-hawks. But he was no chicken-hawk. Figuera was the real deal: a hawk's hawk. At some level I had to respect that. He'd been there. He just wished we hadn't left, and I couldn't fathom why.

They each shook hands with one another and got comfortable. The order from left to right was: William Lewis, Governor
James, Margaret Haskel, Senator Redfield and Colonel Figuera. The idea was that James and Haskel would share center stage; they'd earned this prominence through their performance in primaries thus far. The three others would flank them. Many things were odd about this crew, not the least of which was that none of these five had dropped out even though only Haskel and Lewis had a shot at capturing the nomination. The two had traded victories in some delegate-rich states. Illinois had been a big victory for Haskel. Wisconsin, too. But James had responded in kind with a win in New York. In Pennsylvania, a strong James showing in the Philadelphia suburbs gave him a decisive victory. North Carolina went to Haskel. And of course, Haskel won big in Texas, putting her within striking distance of securing the nomination. It was a marathon and they were all still standing. Something else the Republicans had in common became obvious from the very first question: no one was going to leave anything off the table tonight!

The crowd had come for red meat, a fact not lost on the five candidates. The more extreme the answer, the better it played with the live audience. Logic be damned, theatrics mattered. It was hard, I'm sure, for the candidates to refrain from feeding on that instant gratification and think instead about those watching from home in California. Or even Middle America. As the night progressed, I knew that the mainstream media would have a field day in lampooning everyone on the stage, including me.

“I wonder if I'll end up as SNL material,” I thought to myself.

William Lewis set the standard for the night with his very first response.

Mr. Wonderful: “Mr. Lewis, you've yet to win a single primary, and yet here you are tonight. Why would anyone vote for you in the California primary tomorrow where your sole role is that of spoiler?”

Lewis, without missing a beat: “I happen to know you get paid seven figures to essentially work one day a week hosting a Sunday morning show. How about you and I make a wager. I'll bet you $10,000 that I win tomorrow's primary and if I don't, that money will go to a charity of your choice. All you need do is match my offer.”

The crowd went absolutely crazy.

“Do it, do it, do it!” erupted the audience in a chant.

I sat there loving the fact that Lewis had completely turned around an embarrassing question with a preposterous wager. Mr. Wonderful was now a seven-figure pussy. Temporarily forgotten was the fact that Mr. Wonderful was correct—Lewis hadn't won a single primary but had nonetheless stayed in the race until the end.

A question or two later, Mr. Wonderful turned to a giant video screen to welcome a YouTube submission, where a military veteran had a question for Colonel Figuera.

“Thank you for your service, sir,” the questioner began innocently enough. “I am Brian Meyers, and I honorably served my country on two tours of duty in Afghanistan.”

There was polite applause from the audience as the tape of the questioner continued.

“I share your view that we dishonored the sacrifice of those who never came home when we bid a hasty retreat.”

I tried not to show any facial expression, but found that idea to be absolutely crazy. Hasty retreat? After a decade of war? What wouldn't be hasty? Twenty years? Fifty? I looked at Figuera who was standing tall and smiling, obviously enjoying the attention.

“But there is one area in which we disagree, sir. I am a gay American, and I would like to know why you opposed, and still oppose the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell?”

Figuera frowned. The audience immediately turned sour. What had been polite applause for a young veteran was now a
smattering of boos. It wasn't a majority of the audience. It wasn't even half. But it was a noticeable number, and the boos would certainly be audible to television viewers. A soldier who had fought in Afghanistan and wanted us to remain there—but who happened to be gay—had just gotten a Bronx cheer. It was the equivalent of Philadelphia Eagles fans once booing Santa Claus, and now, on top of Lewis' $10K wager, this too would make news.

Figuera proceeded to mishandle the question. He gave a substantive response which would have been appropriate had there not been the boos. He ignored that reaction completely. Big mistake. Had Colonel Figuera confronted that outburst, he would've been the hero, at least in my book, and gotten some positive media play for the GOP. But instead he gave a rote reply about “maintaining discipline in a battlefield environment.”

“Wow,” I thought. This thing was quickly turning into a clusterfuck.

As the questioning continued, with the exception of Governor James, the candidates were each trying to out-right-wing one another as they had been doing for more than a year. And nary a question was answered without someone invoking Ronald Reagan's name. But in my opinion, if the Gipper were alive he would never have passed the litmus tests this group heaped upon one another.

After Senator Redfield repeated his mantra that he'd remove every last vestige of Obamacare from the federal regulations, Mr. Wonderful asked him, “What would be the fate of an illegal immigrant who walked into an emergency room lacking insurance?”

Redfield's reply that “His care will be left to God” drew a robust round of applause.

Three thousand miles from Florida, I thought I heard Debbie vomit.

Margaret Haskel took a question from the woman at the
Orange County Register
regarding her opposition to an assault weapons ban (big applause) and turned it into an opportunity to highlight her signing of 17 death-sentence warrants (even bigger applause).

Poor Governor James. He'd done far better in the actual primaries than anyone would ever have guessed from the crowd's reaction. His supporters never seemed to be represented in these venues; perhaps they preferred to leave their McMansions, draw a curtain closed, and vote for him anonymously before heading to Starbucks. The more he made sense—at least to me—the more he was heckled by the crowd. When Mr. Wonderful asked him whether he'd enforce federal drug laws in states like his that had decriminalized marijuana, you'd have thought he'd embraced reprieves for child molesters, not Americans who chose a joint instead of a martini.

Molly Hatchet took every opportunity to go after him.

“I run a border state. I know what it's like to have these marauding illegals come across the border and to take our jobs, prosperity, and women. You should ask Governor James why he wants to send all their kids to college in front of ours.”

The line didn't make sense, at least as I had heard it, but it didn't matter. The audience ate it up, hearing only, I am sure, that James was for the illegals (bad) and Haskel was not (good). And when James offered an explanation about “extending American opportunity to children who themselves had not sought to break any laws,” his answer drew catcalls from the crowd.

That's when Mr. Wonderful came to me.

As the debate had progressed, so had my dread. On a legal tablet in front of me, replete with the insignia of the Reagan Library and my idiotic doodles (including the prism from the jacket of
Dark Side of the Moon
), sat the paper with the typed
question that Jackson Hunter had handed me in the Polo Lounge. To ask it could potentially ensure Margaret Haskel's victory in tomorrow's primary, her nomination, and my syndication. But when those words left my mouth, so would every ounce of dignity I had left.

Could I do it? Should I do it? I heard Phil's voice in my head as I had so many times before: “Don't be a pussy, Powers.” I took a deep breath, grabbed my sack, and let it fly.

“Governor James. Many voters in tomorrow's California primary wish to vote for a candidate who shares their family values. Can a candidate who once told his own spouse that he desired an open marriage be that individual?”

For the first time all evening, there was rapt silence. The gay soldier had been booed. A preposterous $10,000 wager, death penalty talk, and the idea that God was a better answer than modern medicine had been cheered. But now the hall stood frozen. It was as if everyone at the Reagan Library inched forward in their seat, not wanting to miss a word of James' reply. That the governor was on his second marriage was not news. That his first had ended badly was also the subject of rumor and speculation, but not something that had ever been publicly addressed. His first wife had died from breast cancer after their divorce and before he married his second wife, or perhaps she would have spoken for herself. And while the divorce records of the parties were supposedly long sealed, Jackson Hunter's question had a seemingly credible attachment: a page from Evelyn James' deposition in which she stated that a young Wynne James had come to her with a proposition for an open marriage for reasons that were not identified in the transcript. Now, tonight, on the eve of the final primary, I had just rolled that stink bomb right under Air Force One.