Talk (6 page)

The fact that the Florida primary, just weeks away, would be the first real contest amongst a newly constituted Democratic field was obviously to the advantage of Governor Bob Tobias. The question was how he would fare in the primaries
after
the Sunshine State. Nevada, Colorado, Minnesota, Missouri, Maine, Arizona and Michigan would all hold their primary elections within 30 days. And then would come Super Tuesday.

Amidst the confusion, there quickly emerged seven seemingly serious Democratic candidates. Besides Governor Tobias and Congressman Evers (who had been billing himself as “the frontrunner” ever since Summers had dropped out), the field included another governor, a former ambassador, two other congressmen, and a senator.

I figured Governor Vic Baron was Tobias' biggest threat. A former trial lawyer in New York City, he now governed the Empire State as its chief executive and was formidable on many fronts, not the least of which was that his state offered a rich number of delegates. That the state was New York cut both ways. In many parts of the country, namely the South, there persisted a distrust of Northeastern liberals even within the Democratic ranks. But smart money said Baron and Tobias would be the last two standing.

Ambassador Bill Brusso had been the U.S. representative in Luxemborg two decades ago. Brusso, the scion of a family fortune made in Canadian cadmium, had gotten the post the old fashioned way: he bought it with campaign contributions. Along the way, he'd mistaken his plum position for an earned career in foreign service and had begun to think of himself as a modern day James Baker or George Mitchell. He had no
discernable base, but like William Lewis on the other side of the aisle, he appeared willing to spend vast sums from his personal fortune to continue his quixotic bid.

Congressman Coleman Foley was the second member of Congress to get into the race. Foley represented that portion of Western Pennsylvania that had often elected Jack Murtha before his passing. Foley was a Blue Dog Democrat elected to office by constituents whose parents had twice swung to Reagan because of the appeal of his plain speak. I doubted whether he had appeal outside the Keystone state and suspected his bid was a no-risk way to raise his national profile. Roy Yih was the third and final member of Congress seeking the Democratic nod. Asian-American Yih lived in Silicon Valley where he had been a software inventor. Asian Americans had become a reliable Democratic constituency in recent years although not yet at the level of Hispanics. Yih had zero national recognition and I gave him less than a zero-percent chance of winning. Same for the final candidate, Laura Wrigley, the female senator from Vermont. I don't know what it is with New England, but Wrigley was Bernie Sanders in pant suit. Had she served with George McGovern, she'd have made
him
look conservative.

What had already been a long vetting process for Republicans was about to be compressed into six months for the Democrats. Less, really, if someone put together a string of victories. Come Super Tuesday, 10 states would be casting ballots on a single day in April. New York and Pennsylvania would not vote until later the next month, which was too bad for Governor Baron. If New York and Florida had swapped primary dates, Baron would have the edge now enjoyed by Tobias. It was impossible to guess what was going to happen. Even California, usually of little national consequence when its primary occurred in June, could this time be relevant for both parties.

“The only guaranteed winner in this thing is you, Powers, so long as you don't fuck it up,” Phil told me. “Florida will again be key and to win Florida, you need to control the I-4 corridor, you lucky bastard.”

Lucky for me, because when it came to talking politics in the I-4 corridor, WRGT was the only game in town. That meant I had reach where the key votes were up for grabs. While the northern part of the state reflected the conservative politics of the Deep South, and urban centers like Miami were heavy Democratic areas, the middle of the state—especially Tampa, its political hub—was home to a beehive of swing voters. And who could reach those voters better than anyone? Stan Powers. Florida realtors like to talk about location, location, location, and as a talk host in the I-4 corridor during a heated election season, I had it.

The Republican candidates had already figured this out, and I'd had all the candidates, save William Lewis, as my guests in recent months. That Lewis had not done my program was testament to the unconventional nature of his campaign. Margaret Haskel had done the program twice, Governor Wynne James twice, Senator Redfield once, and Colonel Figuera once. Each had been phoners and I hadn't played favorites. I couldn't say it on air, but I'd found Governor James the most impressive. Senator Redfield was stone cold crazy. I admired Colonel Figuera's service, but his comments reminded me that there's a reason we have civilian control over our military. Still, I always toed the line.

“Well, somebody needs to take a hatchet to the federal budget, Governor Haskel.”

“I applaud the level of your conviction, Senator Redfield.”

“Thank you for your service, Colonel Figuera.”

I'd kissed each of their asses, except, of course, for Governor James. I played it straight with him, and asked basic questions,
never putting through the listeners who telephoned the program while he was on. That was to his benefit.

“James is a RINO, Stan, a Republican In Name Only. We don't need another Arlen Specter,” said the first caller I took after cutting James loose.

The listeners were merciless in condemning the one candidate who I thought had the broadest appeal. But of course, this was primary season where there are no words dirtier than “moderate” or “compromise.”

None of the interviews I did with the Republican candidates made any real news, but each was important in reinforcing my bona fides with both the candidates and the audience. I knew they'd all be looking for more airtime as the Florida primary drew near which would be good for everyone, including me. If I wanted to achieve syndication, it was important for me to cement
Morning Power
as the hub of political discourse in the Tampa/St. Petersburg area leading up to the election. Which is why, despite the fact that I spent most of my time trashing all things Democrat, I said I'd be happy to speak with Governor Vic Baron when one of his people asked Alex for some airtime.

“You better rip his fucking head off,” was Phil's angry advice when I told him about the booking.

“But then he'll never come back.”

“You don't want him back. You will ruin your credibility if you kiss his nuts, Stan.”

But I didn't follow that advice, much to Phil's fury. I pretty much treated the Democratic governor of New York with dignity and respect, and in Tallahassee they'd taken note. Now Governor Bob Tobias was asking for equal air time.

Like me, Governor Bob Tobias was a Florida native. But that wasn't all we had in common. A shrink might even say he was partly responsible for my coming to Tampa to do morning drive.
Yakkers Magazine
once wrote about me: “Such were Stan Powers' political convictions that he was willing to risk an established persona in classic rock just to make his imprint on the dialogue of the day.” My ass. If they only knew that instead it was a story as old as time: Another guy looking for fame and fortune, and hoping to catch the eye of a woman.

If they'd taken a vote at Fort Myers High School back in the 1980s, I would have been voted least likely to end up as a talk radio host, or least likely to do anything productive for that matter. Truth is, I was a bit of a stoner and played soccer before the sport got cool. I was into three things: trying to get laid, music, and trying harder to get laid. I had a few close buddies and not much of a career plan. My grades were average, which only deepened the mystery as to how I finished in the 85th percentile on the SATs.

“Stan, you have either been purposely shitting the bed throughout your school years, or you just got damn lucky,” my father said at the time. I'm sure my Mom knew which it was; Dad, however, was content to wonder if the stars had aligned for just one Saturday morning.

I'd taken the test only because I told my parents I would. I never promised them I'd go to college, and I never did. The idea of compounding my lack of a plan by sitting in two or four more years of classrooms was just not something Stanislaw Pawlowsky was prepared to do. Stan Powers probably would have taken a different path. But that go-getter wouldn't be born for another quarter century. This I can tell you: Powers would have had little regard for Pawlowsky. Probably would have called him a “pothead liberal destined to suck on the social tit of America.”

Stan Pawlowsky got a tattoo of a pirate on his left butt cheek on a road trip to New Orleans with his high school buddies, and later, one of a tiny cannabis leaf on his left forearm. Nowadays, the first stays hidden under Brooks Brothers boxer shorts, the other behind a long-sleeved blue or white Oxford, at least when I am working. Even in Florida, long sleeves are a must for me unless I'm truly among friends because of that indiscretion of my youth. The country has become far more accepting of smoking pot, but there is still no way my P1s could handle the sight of a drug reference unless they were convinced it was a Ron Paul-style libertarian protest in the name of God's green earth.

Needless to say, I didn't grow up wishing or intending to be a talk radio host. The people who do are the board ops who end up on the other side of the glass. Seems we hosts all get here after lots of twists and turns in the career path. But if my career was a roadway, then it had taken a hairpin curve to put me here.

The short version is that I graduated from high school without ambition or a clue. For a while I did nothing, until my dad had finally had enough of me sleeping late on his dime. What started as a weekend job clearing tables became a fulltime gig bartending at a joint called Shooter's, located in a strip center along a commercial stretch of I-41. The place was totally no frills, and the décor consisted of a Confederate flag behind the bar and a sawdust dance floor. The most notable feature, however, was the trough-style urinal in the men's room where guys stood and took a piss next to each other. The thing was about eight feet long and inevitably had a couple of beer mugs in it left by guys who had walked into the head carrying their brew, then drained the glasses and themselves. Of course, guys being pigs, the empty mugs didn't stay that way for long. It was the ultimate dissociative experience: somehow when you were standing there tying a load on, playing target practice with a partially empty mug, you didn't get spooked by the idea that you might see that mug again the next time you came to Shooter's, sitting on a coaster, filled with the latest draft.

The crowd was strictly local and all cracker. They were mostly blue-collar types and a rough class of women. Lots of ink and ankle bracelets. But no matter the gender, they all came to drink beers and do shots and listen to music, much of it live. The live stuff was supplied by local cover bands with names like Image or Dionysus that played Bob Seger-style rock and roll, interspersed with a Kid Rock-type of rebel country.

My hours were long and ended late but there were some perks. For starters, there was no shortage of easy ass from chicks who were sauced. And the pay was decent, mostly from tips. But they came with a catch: Every time somebody tipped, I was supposed to put the loot into a bigger-than-life holster over the bar, and fire a starter's pistol to signify that somebody had
ponied up at Shooter's. I felt ridiculous, but every once in a while we'd get some newbie who didn't know the drill and, upon hearing a gunshot in redneck bar, would hit the deck. That was funny.

Shooter's was owned by Willy Blake, a retired local cop who had gone out on a disability. Local legend had it that Willy had taken a couple of druggies out during a bust in Sarasota where he shot first and asked questions later, but not before one of the bad guys managed to get off a shot of his own which hit Willy in his left leg. That incident was the origin of both his limp and the name of the bar. Willy had a son who was a year ahead of me in high school and a fellow stoner, which is the only reason I got hired. Today, whenever reporters for the radio trades ask me about mentors who have been instrumental in my success, Willy Blake is always the first person I mention. (“What station did he program?” is usually some shithead's reply.)

The live music was Wednesday through Saturday nights, and after I'd worked there a few months, Willy asked me to cover the house sound. In other words, on those nights, I would not only serve ‘em up, but also supply the piped-in music whenever the bands took a break.

“Play some music, Stanley,” he'd said, misstating my given name but addressing me more like a son than an employer. “I don't so much as care what you play, so long as you play something. The one thing you can never permit is silence. Silence is death in my business.”