Talk

Praise for
Talk
:

“If you've ever wondered what one of those hyperventilating, ‘Look-out! The sky is falling!' radio leatherlungs is really thinking, here is a bracing dose of candor, offered by one of the medium's most insightful figures. It's a gift to his listeners that Michael does not practice what his character screeches . . . and a gift to his readers that he renders this world so compellingly.”

—J
EFF
G
REENFIELD, JOURNALIST, AUTHOR, AND FIVE-TIME
E
MMY-WINNING
TV
CORRESPONDENT

“What a rollicking, romping, rip-roaring read! Smerconish manages to compress into one book all the horrors, humor, and humiliations of both modern-day politics and talk radio. It may be fiction, but for those of us who have lived in those worlds,
Talk
hits awfully close to the bone.”

—M
ARK
M
C
K
INNON
,
MEDIA ADVISOR TO
P
RESIDENT
G
EORGE
W. B
USH, COFOUNDER OF
N
O
L
ABELS

“Whether you love or hate talk radio—and no one's neutral on this one—you will devour
Talk
. It's scintillating, sexy and smart. It also makes a powerful point you will love or hate, but can't ignore. Read
Talk
and talk about it.”

—A
LAN
D
ERSHOWITZ, AUTHOR OF
T
AKING THE
S
TAND
: M
Y
L
IFE IN THE
L
AW

“You want a preview of how we will pick our next president? Read this compelling first novel by Michael Smerconish. I couldn't put it down.
Talk
is the fascinating behind-the-scenes story of how big-time politics and the big-time media are on a daily collision course. The resulting police report: careers are made, lives are destroyed and somebody ends up standing at the presidential podium.”

—S
AL
P
AOLANTONIO, NATIONAL CORRESPONDENT
, ESPN

“Look at them: The guy stuck in traffic alongside you, the woman behind you, both glaring at the cars stalled in front of them, enemies attacking their day. And what are they doing? Listening to talk radio. Listening and deciding what nuggets—bizarre or rational, thoughtful or borderline crazy—they'll ponder as they navigate through the politics that affect every American life. In his first novel, Michael Smerconish, a guy who actually brings rational, thoughtful opinion and insight daily to the national stage, has drawn back the curtain on a two universes—politics and talk radio—that have dominated so much of the discourse around the direction of the country. Who knew? Smerconish writes as well as he talks. Buy the book. Learn a lot.”

—M
IKE
B
ARNICLE, COLUMNIST AND CONTRIBUTOR TO
M
ORNING
J
OE
ON
MSNBC

“For years, people have said that Tom Friedman of the
New York Times
would make a great Secretary of State. After reading
Talk
, I have a better idea: Michael Smerconish as White House Communications Director. Because the president should have a guy who knows how things actually work.
Talk
is funny, insightful and scary. It says ‘novel' on the cover but I'm not so sure.”

—M
ICHAEL
B
AMBERGER, SENIOR WRITER
,
S
PORTS
I
LLUSTRATED

“Wow! Strap in because this is one helluva fun ride.
Talk
is Michael Smerconish's brutal and brilliant true-to-life story of politics, media and the games people play. I did say this was fiction, right?”

—M
ICHAEL
S
TEELE, FORMER
C
HAIRMAN OF THE
R
EPUBLICAN
N
ATIONAL
C
OMMITTEE

“In
Talk
, clichés such as ‘page turner' or ‘riveting' are inadequate. Once you pick it up to read, as I did, you will stay up all night to finish it. It is an inside expose of the political talk show and the banalities and superficial personalities that dominate it. Its surprise ending will knock your ears off!”

—J
AMES
C. H
UMES, FORMER SPEECHWRITER FOR
P
RESIDENT
R
ONALD
R
EAGAN AND
L
ADY
M
ARGARET
T
HATCHER, AND AUTHOR OF
S
PEAK
L
IKE
C
HURCHILL
, S
TAND
L
IKE
L
INCOLN
AND
T
HE
W
IT AND
W
ISDOM OF
A
BRAHAM
L
INCOLN

“Fire, tits, and sharks are TV gold. But on radio you need to make ‘em hot the harder way. Through the ears.”

Welcome to the media world according to Phil Dean. The new year had just begun, we'd only been connected for five minutes, and already he was on a roll.

I'd called him on my iPhone just as soon as I'd cleared the shitty mobile reception of the underground lot at Whiting and Ashley beneath the radio station where I work in downtown Tampa. It was our first skull session since before Christmas break, but there was no holiday rust apparent in his rapid-fire delivery. So far his advice for the coming year sounded pretty much the same as ever. My hunch was that he was about to hit me with his 3C mantra, and sure enough, it came in his next sentence.

“Remember Stan, the three C's are still king….”

I finished the sentence for him, pulling his chain.

“Compelling, compelling, compelling.”

“
Conservative
, consistent, and compelling,” he quickly corrected, stressing c-o-n-s-e-r-v-a-t-i-v-e, just as he had
in virtually every conversation we'd had in the several years prior.

There was a certain routine to these chats which were always scheduled for weekday mornings after my air shift. As usual, I'd pulled out of the parking lot and given my customary nod to the tall, 60-something, short-sleeved black guy fishing in MacDill Park on the Riverwalk with ear buds, beneath an enormous piece of red modern art that I could never figure out. (Just what were those intersecting pieces of metal? They reminded me of the game of pick up sticks.) He was there every day, probably looking for snook or red fish. We didn't know one another and we'd never chatted, but we crossed paths here each day.

He could be a listener for all I know. I've got tens of thousands of them, but even if he was, I doubt he'd know who I am by sight. Then again, with some of my recent cable TV appearances, he just might.

Northbound on Ashley, I headed for 275 South, passing the big beer-can better known as the Sykes building and spying a billboard that said, “Retire Worry Free.” Not me. Not yet. But maybe someday if Phil's advice paid off. With his three C's still echoing in my head, I steered my car down my familiar path toward Clearwater Beach and home.

Phil believed that compelling radio conversation should primarily come from conservative politics. And there were many successful talk radio personalities across the country who were practitioners of his advice. He'd always held the names of his star pupils close to the vest, but I could recognize his weapons in the arsenals of the biggest names in the business. This morning's call was one of his standard tutorials.

“Remember Stan, you need red meat for the troops.”

That was another of his staples.

“And add an occasional slice-of-life segment. Sprinkle in some
Seinfeld
shit.”

For the latter, he was forever imploring me to look outside the normal mix of newspapers and cable TV shows for my program content. He believed that too many talk radio hosts didn't balance the hard news of the day with whatever might command attention at workplace water coolers and coffee machines across the nation. Phil paused, maybe needing to catch his breath in the thin desert air of New Mexico. “If listeners aren't using your stuff for stupid talk with people they barely know, then you didn't nail it on air, Powers.”

What he said made professional sense to me and I usually followed his advice, but I'd heard some of it more times than I could stomach. The thing with Phil was this: about 90 percent of his advice was repetitive or irrelevant bullshit, but the other 10 percent was radio gold. Sifting through all the crap could make a career, and right now, I was counting on him to make mine. Of course, finding talk radio gold wasn't always easy.

Like the time when in the middle of some abstract history lesson about the marketing failure of New Coke, Phil told me that a good talk show host should be able to go the length of an entire program without taking a single call from a listener. He actually challenged me to do it on my next program. That tutorial was a keeper.

“But isn't that the purpose of a talk radio program—for the host and the listeners to talk?” I'd naively asked.

“Don't be ridiculous, Powers. The purpose of a talk program is the same as the guy talkin' on a fucking CB—to get people to listen. It's all entertainment.”

And then he said something I've never forgotten.

“Nobody is listening to your show, or any other talk radio show, because of the callers. They listen for the host. You will
never meet a listener who tunes into your program because of your callers. They are listening to hear you, Stan. And if you don't entertain them, they won't listen at all. No matter who your callers are, or what horseshit they have to say.”

Until then, it hadn't occurred to me, but he was right. Not once had anyone ever emailed my web site or spoken to me directly about something a caller said on the air. For better or worse, all the feedback was about me.

These mid-morning chats were never “conversations,” because truth-be-told, Phil did most of the talking. Which is kind of funny given that between the two of us, I was the one who got paid to speak for a living. Now, however, I was getting paid by the suits in management to listen. Which was fine, when I was decompressing on the drive home after my show.

I'm usually spent and in need of a nap by the time I reach the end of a morning shift, especially if I've been out carousing the night before. I get up in the middle of the night and arrive to work before most breakfast cooks are out of bed. The program is four hours long, with four six-minute breaks per hour for commercials, news and PSAs. During those commercial breaks I am usually obligated to read live spots, which leaves little time to even take a piss. So there is really no stopping once the “on air” light goes on, and by the time it turns off at 9 a.m., I've got very little to say. Which is why on this, my first work day of the new year, I was content to listen and drive.