Taking a stand

I've been a season subscriber to the Ahmanson Theater for many, many years. Before that, for over ten years I had fourth-row center season seats at the late, great Shubert Theater in Century City. I tried on the Pantages for a few seasons, and I took a couple seasons of the Geffen for a spin when I lived in Santa Monica.

There's a phenomenon I've noticed increasingly over the years, and while it happens in New York too, it seems particularly native to Los Angeles. After every performance, regardless of whether it merits it or not, the audience rewards the cast with a standing ovation. Instead of standing because a play has been filled with brilliant performances that moved you, or were cast with the perfect actors to play the roles, sometimes it feels like standing ovations have become the theater equivalent of participation trophies.

Now you might think you're way ahead of me here—and God knows it doesn't take much—in thinking I'm against the practice. The fact is I'm not.

Here's the thing: I was a theater arts major, and no one appreciates the blood, sweat and tears that go into getting a production off the ground more than I do. And while I realize not every play and performance is worthy of a standing ovation, I believe every performer is.

Actors aren't responsible for the material they're given. Their job is to commit to it, and bring the characters to life as best they can. For all the talk about what an easy job it is, it's incredibly difficult, and they don't always succeed. Remember the last time you tried to convince someone of something?

Admittedly sometimes it's gotten to the point where it feels like the seats are spring loaded. It'd be easy to think doing it for every play across the board cheapens the currency of genuine appreciation for the craft. But the thing about actors is they know in real time if something is working or not. They sense the room tone, they hear the feedback and they see the faces looking back at them. Yet even when it's going south, they're giving it their all.

If I'm being honest, and really, where's the percentage in that, I've given standing ovations to more productions that didn't deserve it than I care to admit. I also tip more than I should for mediocre service at restaurants, clean up for the housekeeper and rinse dishes before I put them in the dishwasher. I may have deeper issues, but that's not the point.

The truth is when the curtain comes down and the cast comes out, I want them to know I appreciate the effort they've made in the name of entertaining me.

That's what I stand for.

Comedy central

It'll be one of those questions: where were you when democracy died?

It's all over but the shouting. On the heels of Jeffrey Epstein's party pal—Mr. Underwear—Alan Dershowitz making the absurd argument the liar-in-chief can do anything he wants as long as he believes it's for the good of the country, today 51 chickenshit, spineless, ball-less GOP senators united against the country and constitution they took an oath to defend by voting not to allow first-hand witnesses and documents in the unstable genius' impeachment trial.

So now it's Trump unplugged and unleashed. He now knows—although I think he's known it all along—he can initiate any level of corruption, destruction, chaos and havoc, and he won't be checked on it. It's the saddest day in American politics since the Kennedy assassination.

But if you know anything about me—and if you don't by now then I don't even know where to go with that—you know that, gosh darn it, I'm a cockeyed optimist. The silver lining to all this is at least comic relief is on the way.

This Tuesday night is Trump's annual Hate of the Union Speech before congress. He'll open with the line presidents always open with: The state of the union is strong. He'll then ramble off script about the impeachment hoax, call Adam Schiff names, blame Obama for it all and say how he'll investigate Hillary.

Applause applause applause.

Then he'll slur on about evil immigrants, how he'll finish getting the wall built (right after he repairs the chunk of it that blew over in the wind), how climate change is a hoax and how he's demolished all those pesky regulations that guaranteed things nobody needs, like clean air and water.

The Republican sheep—I'd say snowflakes except snow is clean—will applaud every laugh line, knowing if they don't they run the risk of having bad things said about them in a tweet. That and losing Trump charity donations backchanneled to their re-election campaigns.

He'll wrap up his set with something about how he's just getting started, and needs four more years to get the job done. Or eight, because why the hell not? He's heard many people are saying that would be a good idea.

Like every comedian's set, eventually the red light will cue him his time is up. I'm pretty sure I know how he'll wrap it up.

"Well everybody, looks like my time is up. You've been a great democracy. Don't forget to tip your senator. Goodnight!"

WYSIWYG

There's a great line in John Prine's song Dear Abby that goes "You are what you are and you ain't what you ain't..." Nowhere is there a more crystal clear embodiment of that sentiment than the unstable genius himself.

From the second he descended on the escalator in Trump tower with Malaria at his side, we knew Donald Trump was a festering, racist piece of shit. He didn't tell us we were mistaken. He didn't try to hide it. He based his campaign on it. And he's basing his presidency on it.

So I guess the question I have is why is everyone still waiting for him to change? Talking heads, pundits, commentators and journalists all make it a point to mention when he's not acting presidential. SPOILER ALERT: he's never going to.

It's like asking an old man to walk faster. Even if he wanted to he can't do it.

And of course the shithole president doesn't want to.

For some reason there's this rating scale where every time he accidentally stumbles into doing or saying something that remotely resembles anything presidential (which does not include boarding Air Force One with toilet paper on your shoe), it gets mentioned and he gets points for it. It's the equivalent of giving a potty-mouthed child a cookie as a reward for good behavior. A participation trophy at a kids' soccer game.

The other thing I hear a lot coming out of cable commentators is how history is going to judge him harshly, along with his GOP henchmen. Like they give a shit. They'll have robbed the piggy bank, cashed out and stolen history's Rolex long before it has a chance to judge anything. Besides, I hear from many people that history is just fake news.

The more I have to listen to that awful, eight-grade vocabulary, mobster wannabe droning on, the more I realize the problem with the traitor-in-chief isn't that he's hiding something.

It's that he isn't hiding anything.

The One About the Theme Song

I know this probably won't come as a shock to you, but I've been bingeing a TV show. The only surprise is that it isn't Breaking Bad. This time it's Friends.

Like everyone, I was a fan of the show the first time around. But now, with my newly discovered insomnia, I stumbled onto Nick At Nite, which apparently is the all-Friends-all-the-time channel late into the night. Which means I hear I'll Be There For You—the show's theme song—in all its poppy, catchy, AM-friendly glory several times a night.

And it got me to thinking about the Rembrandts, the group who sings it. The song originally appeared as a hidden bonus track on their third album when the Friends producers decided it'd be the perfect song for the show.

Could the song have BEEN any bigger? The first year it was the top selling single in the country, and suddenly a little-known group skyrocketed to stardom.

Just to refresh your memory about how big it was, have a look at the official Friends theme song video, starring the Rembrandts and the entire cast. (Fun fact: Courtney Cox is really playing the drums):

I also found a more recent video of the band playing their hit song. It's a more stripped down, acoustic version. A little less frantic, a lot less star power. Oddly enough, the song—and their voices—hold up well. I find myself thinking it actually has a subtle poignancy overlaying its hopeful and optimistic message.

But then again, I haven't been getting a lot of sleep.

The recline of western civilization

Who says there are no surprises left? I can't even believe I'm saying this, but I want one.

First of all, it's a chair that's named after me: La-Z-Boy. BAM! Thanks, I'll be here all week. Tip your waitress.

Actually here's what happened. My mother-in-law desperately wanted a recliner so she could fall asleep comfortably while watching either golf or Wheel of Fortune. In a completely unselfish act of kindness and a blatant attempt to score marriage points, I told her I'd be happy to take her recliner shopping. I promptly proceeded to put it off for weeks, but we finally went this past weekend.

I'll swear I heard the angel's choir as I opened the showroom door.

Entering the store was like walking into a room filled with clouds I could just float away on. Seriously, I must've tried at least fifteen more chairs than she did. Granted she's 92-years old, but I don't know how you can resist those chairs.

And just so you know, these aren't your father's recliners. They have power everything. They're heated. They give you a relaxing massage. And that's just the salesperson! (You've been a great crowd...)

My mother-in-law finally landed on a nice burgundy number that'll look just swell in her room. So basically she's about 6-8 weeks out from me visiting her a lot more often.

In a conversation with the wife I casually brought up the idea of getting a recliner. She casually brought up the idea of me getting a second wife.

So for now, I'll just have to be content to fall asleep in our comfy reading chairs, neither of which have a footrest or recline. But don't worry. I have a choose-the-lesser-evil strategy to get what I want, and I'll be taking a second run at the wife soon.

I don't want to give everything away here, but let's just say it involves the word "minivan".

Goodbye Kobe

I was never a sports guy or the sports dad. Even though I was born and raised in L.A., I've only been to a handful of Dodger games and even fewer Laker games. But sports guy or not, I couldn't help but love Kobe Bryant.

His fierce competitiveness, his contributions to the city, his appreciation of the arts, and, as a dad, his love of his daughters were all qualities that I respected and resonated with me.

The last time I saw Kobe was a couple years ago at John Williams night at the Hollywood Bowl. Williams had composed the score for an animated film called Dear Basketball, based on a poem Kobe had written. He introduced him and brought him onstage to narrate his film live. When Kobe walked out, the roar was deafening. His celebrity transcended the court. He belonged to that audience. He belonged to the city.

Pete Andress, an art director partner of mine I worked with used to say we hang by a thread. We never know when it's going to be closing time, as Kobe's family and the other families of passengers who were on that helicopter know all too well today.

I've been unable to stop myself from crying about it all afternoon, and it goes way beyond just the sadness of a public figure passing. It feels like more than that. It feels like family.

Kobe was ours. And now he belongs to the ages. Rest in peace.

The view from the peer

Round and round it goes, what it'll say nobody knows.

There's a new trend in town, and its name is 360° Performance Review. Here's how it works: everyone walks around the chairs, and when the music stops whoever is standing...no, wait a minute, that's something else.

Ok, I got it now. You're volunteered by an email that shows up to sign up for a performance evaluation app. Then, you're asked to select between three and five of your teammates (post on the term "Team player" coming soon) to request feedback about your performance. The feedback comes in the form of pre-determined questions they receive once your supervisor has approved your choices.

So a few things can happen here.

First, I could give $20 each to the people I choose and say write something nice about me. $50 for something really nice. I could do a quid pro quo—if they write a nice review of me, I'll write a nice one for them. Or everyone can just let the evaluations fall where they may.

It's not exactly crowdsourcing my review, but it seems somewhat adjacent. And I'm not sure how I feel about it.

Time was when your supervisor would call you into an office (when there were offices—don't get me started) and tell you what they thought of the job you were doing. Where you needed to improve. What your strengths were. What they expected of you going forward. Now they get to aggregate the information about my performance from several people who

1) I may have pissed off intentionally or not (probably intentionally knowing me)

2) May or may not have any idea about what it is I actually do day to day

3) Did I mention people I might've pissed off?

Ask anyone who knows me, and they'll tell you I'm always first in line as a cheerleader for forward progress. I fully support indoor plumbing, color television, jet airplanes, rural electrification and the interwebs. Be that as it may, the idea of treating performance reviews—which are highly influential in determining raises, promotions and assignments—as some kind of Kickstarter or Indie Go-Go platform doesn't quite make sense to me.

But then I'm in advertising. Very little of it makes sense to me.