Bed check

I'm not a scientist. And I'm not particularly well versed in the theory of time and space. But after years working in them, I can definitely tell you that time in advertising agency creative departments is a relative thing.

One of the beauties of it is that it's not as structured as other occupations. Creatives usually roll into the office between 9 and 10, and roll out when their work is done—whenever that happens to be. Or not.

Creatives tend to have a tough time shutting down the production line when it comes to thinking of ideas. And even if we make a concerted effort, the ideas just have a way of breaking through.

At the stroke of midnight. In the shower. On weekends. During holidays. At weddings. In the middle of funerals. Almost anywhere, the wheels are always turning. That's because the wheels don't punch a time clock, and they don't always turn as well with all the distractions of the open floorplan office. Don't get me started.

Apparently management at the last agency I worked at wasn't quite in sync with the creative process and the irregular hours it involves. So they did bed check on our group in the morning and late afternoon. One or two people would casually stroll through the office, acting as inconspicuously as possible with their heads swiveling from side to side and a notepad in their hands. Without regard to whether people were at the client, in a meeting, at lunch, working from home or just in the bathroom, they'd tally up the empty desks and report back to headquarters.

My creative director made a point of bringing it up in one of the creative meetings we'd have every few weeks where all the teams would gather to, you know, catch up and be family. Agencies are very big on being family.

The way these meetings usually went is everyone would gather at a long table in the conference room, then be encouraged to talk about how their day was going. What they were working on. Or vent about anything that was bothering them.

What was bothering most of us were these damn meetings.

The creative director said he was taking a lot of heat about the empty desks the management spies saw during bed check. To which I say if you can't take the heat...

Anyway, he made a point of saying he didn't care if we were there or not, as long as the work got done. (Hear that buzzing sound? That's the needle on the lie detector going into the red).

The upshot of it all was that for about three days after, people dragged themselves in at the expected hours, the ones we were reminded were the regular business hours as listed in the employee handbook. But to no one's surprise, the handbook wasn't a bestseller in the creative department. Within days everyone was back on creative standard time.

I think as long as the work gets done, you're available somehow when people need you, it really doesn't matter where the magic happens. There are any number of technologies that make it easy to be on the job without being at the job. And any number of coffee shops with free wifi.

Plus no one's doing bed check at Starbucks.

About last night

When it comes to the Academy Awards, I'm like Charlie Brown with the football. Every year I think they'll get it right, and the show will move at a fast clip and be at least half as entertaining as movies they're honoring.

Needless to say, it never turns out that way.

The good news is last night's Oscars clocked in at only three and a half hours—a good fifty-three minutes shorter than the longest show ever, hosted by Whoopi Goldberg back in aught-two.

The bad news is it felt like it went on forever.

In no particular order, and even though absolutely no one asked for it, here are a few things I liked and didn't like about the show.

Liked Brad Pitt winning and his speech. Funny, humble, genuine. Plus he took a shot at the GOP, so always a plus in my book. And I loved the line about riding Leo's coattails.

Loved that Renee Zellweger won. From the minute I saw Judy, I knew the award was hers. She rambled on a bit too long in her acceptance speech, but the Texas twang she tried not-so-hard to hide was pretty charming.

Loved Steve Martin and Chris Rock. After the Kevin Hart debacle last year the producers started doing the show without a host of record, but Martin and Rock were very host like. And very funny. They'd be perfect non-hosts for next year.

Loved that Parasite swept the big categories. It's a great film and well deserved, even if it did beat out JoJo Rabbit—my personal favorite.

Speaking of JoJo Rabbit, loved that director Taika Waititi went home with an Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay. I hope that helped make up for his movie being nominated for Best Picture without him getting a Best Director nomination.

Without a doubt, for me the standout moment of the night was director Bong Joon Ho—in the middle of his acceptance speech for Best Director—paying tribute to Martin Scorsese. And then Scorcese getting a standing ovation. It was heartfelt, spontaneous and genuine. It brought me to tears, and almost did the same for Scorcese.

Hated Eminem performing Lose Yourself. Sure it won Best Original Song—seventeen years ago. It had no relevance at all to the proceedings, and seemed to cause more confusion than entertainment.

Still undecided about James Corden and Rebel Wilson in their Cats costumes to present the Best Visual Effects award. I like that they were trashing the movie in a funny way, but I thought it went on a bit too long.

Liked Joaquin Phoenix winning Best Actor. Didn't like that it was for Joker, which I thought was a terrible movie. Yes he was good, but he has so many great performances he could've won it for before this.

Didn't like the way it ended or how Jane Fonda wrapped it up. At least I think it was Jane Fonda. It looked more like Katherine Helmond in Brazil. Anyhow, it seemed awfully abrupt and not well thought out.

On the bright side, after three and a half hours there was no risk of leaving anyone wanting more.

Agency opening ceremonies

Next time someone at your agency starts yapping about team players, and trust me, someone always does, tell them to put their uniforms and flags where their mouth is.

In just a few months, the 2020 summer Olympics in Tokyo will be upon us. Because the Olympic committee didn't ask me when they should schedule the games, they happen to start around the same time I'll be in San Diego for this year's Comic Con, so you can let me know how many gold medals we won later.

Sitting here, eating onion rings and a tuna melt—as the best athletes do—and thinking about the upcoming Olympic opening ceremonies, it occurs to me what all those team player loving agency big wigs should do. Every morning, after their warmup stretches and carb-loading, they should lead their various agency delegations into the office in an inspiring, heartwarming, intricately choreographed display of unity called the Parade Of Work™.

Instead of flags, they'd have copies of agency work carried in on poles, blowing aimlessly in the wind—which coincidentally is where you find a lot of it anyway.

People in each department would be broken into teams: instead of luge, cross-country skiing and bobsled, there would be digital. Social. Brand. Retail. CRM. All marching proudly into their open office spaces.

Of course before any of this could happen, the agency would have to devote more than a few non-billable hours to coming up with team uniforms for each division. Not sure exactly what they'd come up with, but I imagine there wouldn't be any shortage of knit caps, torn jeans, off-brand sneakers and my personal favorite, black t-shirts with the agency logo front and center.

The good news is players wouldn't be bothered with oppressive rules like no beards, tattoos, open-toed shoes or friendship bracelets. There wouldn't be anyone left if they were.

And as they get ready to start each day, the team captains would make it a point to remind them about the importance of staying focused, working as a team and good sportsmanship. That and, contrary to what they may believe, it's just advertising.

Not the Hunger Games.

One is the loneliest number

He looks like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. What he has is a target on his back.

Mitt Romney did something today that will without a doubt have long lasting consequences for his political future. He voted to convict a sitting president in his own party.

I've never been a fan of Romney, but I'm filled with gratitude he had the character and bravery to look at the evidence, vote for witnesses (also against his party) and take seriously his oath to be an impartial juror in the shithole president's impeachment trial.

The Cult-Of-Trump backlash was immediate. Within seconds, literally seconds, of his vote, Trump PACS started running ads calling him a traitor, the leader of the Democratic resistance and a patsy for the opposition. Pre-printed fundraising flyers asking for money to fight Romney were in the mail before the final gavel.

I'm sure he's also getting threats to himself and his family by the fine people who want to make America great again.

In the current environment, the vote Romney cast today was nothing short of heroic. It's something he should be proud of. History will recall his bravery for decades to come—just as it will record the sniveling cowardice of all who enabled the unstable genius in his criminal activities, betraying the country and the constitution.

For all the wrong reasons, Romney's now Republican enemy number one. I believe he should become an independent, so he's free to vote his conscience without consequence. And also so the rest of the GOP asshats would have to sidle up to him for his vote whenever they wanted to pass one of their bills reversing the last fifty years of social progress.

I've never agreed with him on much of anything, and I don't imagine I will going forward. Mitt Romney is probably never going to earn my vote.

But today, he definitely earned my admiration.

Brother Trump's traveling salvation show

"So you say you want pre-existing coverage? You think women should be the ones to make decisions about their own bodies? Does healthcare for all sound like a scary, socialist plan? Are those criminal, diseased, ruthless immigrants gunning for your job and your family? And speaking of gunning, are you afraid you're not gonna be able to keep yours?"

Well step right up my gullible, naive, uneducated, frightened Republican brothers and sisters. Brother Trump's traveling salvation show has rolled into the capital to deliver the sweet, magical elixir and oppressive, progress-reversing legislation that's will cure what ails you.

If you saw the shithole president's speech tonight, you know he reached new heights (lows?) of deception and dishonesty, throwing falsehoods and lies to his base like they were paper towels in Puerto Rico.

Everything he said he would do is a lie. Everything he said he has done is a lie. Everytime he said he cared he lied. But of course, his base ate it up—after all, the whole show was for them. Never before (and hopefully never again) has the SOTU speech been turned into a reality show like it was tonight.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for cancer-ridden Rush Limbaugh. You're getting this Presidential Medal of Freedom not for being the racist, misogynist, Parkinson-victim mocking tub of human waste you are, but as a sympathy play because you'll be taking the big dirtnap soon."

Cue Republican toadie senator applause.

"You say you want to see black voter support? Step right up and let me give a 14-year old black child a school scholarship (I'm glad she got it - that's not the point). Need more proof do ya? Let me direct your attention to the 100-year old Tuskeegee airman who just this very day I promoted to brigadier general (I'm glad he got it - that's not the point). But I'm just getting started."

"Sure I've disrespected veterans, trashed gold star families and mocked generals, but that's all yesterday's news. Just to show I mean it, let me surprise this wife and child with their husband and father who they think is on a tour of duty, but he's right here! How about that?!"

All that was missing were keys to new Pontiacs under all the seats.

The con was on full display tonight. Nancy Pelosi, usually calm and composed without showing her cards was clearly pissed at the sheer volume of lies coming out of the unstable genius. So much so she ripped up her advanced copy of his speech the moment it was over. Definitely one of the high points of the evening.

It's been a dark three years, and it's going to be an even darker few months til the election. But the good news is come November, this traveling snake oil show will be doing what they all do eventually. Leave town.

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!"