The daily grind

Like the ability to make change and cursive writing, the fine art of driving a stick shift is rapidly disappearing.

As I mentioned in this post, most people couldn't name three kids who can drive a manual transmission. The real shame is because of that, they'll never get to experience the thrill of what I like to call "real driving." The speed at your beck and call. The precise control and coordination between foot and hand. The shame of being with your high school friends and stalling out on La Cienega just before Sunset and rolling into the car behind you.

Of course I made up that last one. Yeah, that's it. Made it up.

My first few cars were manual transmission, and I used to look for any excuse just to drive. At every red light, I felt like Andretti waiting for the green, revving the engine, giving the nod to the car next to me, ready to leave him in my dust.

Of course, it was a '71 Super Beetle so there wasn't a lot of dust. But you see where I'm going here.

Eventually, time takes it's toll in the form of children, and as any parent knows you always want to have one hand free to reach in the backseat and remind them where they come from. So inevitably the day comes for all of us where we give up the thrill of a stick shift for the convenience of an automatic transmission. We convince ourselves it feels almost as fast off the light. That's it's not so bad, which it's not (I'm good at fooling myself). Automatic really is a lot better at rush hour on the freeway, and that becomes sort of a mantra.

But if I'm ever stuck at a Hertz counter at a regional airport in farm country somewhere in the midwest at midnight - and why wouldn't I be - and all they have left is a beat up Ford Focus with a manual transmission, I'll be able to drive it.

Sadly, the 2015 graduating class of Driver's Ed can't say the same.

Let's leave Bruce Jenner alone

When I used to live in Santa Monica, in a rent-controlled corner apartment on the top floor of a seventeen-floor building that was a hundred yards from the beach, I used to somehow manage to get up in the pre-dawn hour and stagger half-awake over to the internationally famous Mecca of Bodybuilding, Gold's Gym in Venice to work out.

Now I know what you're thinking. You're saying to yourself, "But Jeff, why do you need to work out? You're already such a perfect physical specimen." First, thank you for noticing. Second, it takes work maintaining this physique. And third, unless this is a circus funhouse mirror - and I'm hoping it is - I probably should get back to it sooner rather than later. But I digress.

Did I mention my rent controlled apartment a hundred yards from the beach? Okay, digressing again.

Anyway, because it was Golds, I'd always see a lot of celebrities working out there. I've worked out with, well, worked out in the same room with Jeff Goldblum, Jennifer Connelly, Keanu Reeves and Laura Dern to name a few.

One person I also saw fairly regularly was Bruce Jenner. At the time, no one was talking about him transitioning to a woman. They were just whispering about his bad plastic surgery. But as the years went on, and his face took on more feminine features, the rumors started - privately at first, then publicly.

Eventually, he started take female hormone treatments, and his physical appearance began to become more feminine as well.

I recognize the fact Jenner has courted a lot of the publicity that surrounds him. He's been a public figure for over forty years, becoming a genuine American hero by winning the Olympic gold medal for the 1976 decathlon, a sport which until then had been dominated by the Soviets. He's also excelled in other sports, was talked about for the role of Superman in the 1978 film, and more recently has sold his soul to the devil by cavorting with the Kardashians on their reality show.

Throughout it all, his appearance has been gradually changing to the point where what is transpiring is now undeniable. Especially by Jenner. Apparently he has come out (no pun intended) and made public the fact he's transitioning to a woman.

From the procedures to the revelation that the rumors were true, none of it could've been an easy decision. In fact, Jenner is doing his own reality show about the entire transition, that will explain the process as it happens. Of course this is for money and ratings. But I suspect sharing it all with the world will be somewhat cathartic for him as well.

I feel if he's finally transforming into who he believes he really is, then let him. Leave him alone. Stop the tawdry press stories and harsh memes about him. Quit Photoshopping his pictures with grotesque and exaggerated feminine features where his face is.

What's so disturbing about it all is this misplaced logic people have about having a right to be disappointed in Jenner because he's making a decision he's probably wanted, needed, to make all his life. The cruelty of the comments surrounding his decision are nothing short of ignorant and evil. So is the sense of entitlement of the tabloid and some mainstream press.

From Olympic athlete to actor, game show celebrity to aviation businessman, race car driver to reality television star, Bruce Jenner has always been who we've wanted him to be.

It's time to let him be who he wants to be.

Let's keep this short

Today is Super Bowl Sunday, so it probably doesn't matter what I write since no one will be reading it (I know, why is this day different from any other?)?

I've written here a couple of times, here and here, about my futile, humiliating, nothing-can-make-me-feel-more- stupid-with-the-possible-exception-of-my-children attempts to become a contestant on Jeopardy.

However, as I was watching the show the other night, it hit me like a bolt of what is lightning (see what I did there?). I've been applying for the wrong position.

Instead of contestant, I should be going for Jeopardy category writer. It's not like I don't know how to bring the funny. Depending on who you ask, I do it for a living. And those category titles and answers are short. Nothing I like better than short copy, with the possible exception of the paycheck that comes with writing it.

I always think the categories reflect the writer's personal tastes. So it'll come as a surprise to no one that my first Jeopardy categories would be Springsteen, Breaking Bad, The Godfather, Sushi Bars, German cars, Helen Mirren and Potpourri (have to keep some traditions alive).

Moving on to the double Jeopardy round, which is always harder, I'd have Movie Palaces, Star Trek, Stand-Up Comics, Seinfeld (I know he's a stand-up, but really, a category unto himself), Is This Thing On and Star Wars Geography (This planet was destroyed by the Death Star super laser in Episode IV: A New Hope...).

Unfortunately you can't go online to apply for the category writer job, so I'll have to see who I know and how to get stuff to them.

Another great job for me would be lotto winner. Working on that one as well.

By the way, it was Alderaan.

Things I was wrong about: Remote control

So here it is - the second in my series of Things I Was Wrong About. By the way, if you missed the first and feel the need to catch up - and frankly, who could blame you - you'll find it here.

I'm kind of partial to this series more than some of the others I do (Guilty Pleasures, Don't Ask, Things I Don't Need To Know), because, as my wife, children, close friends, banker, work colleagues, doctor and complete strangers on the street keep reminding me, I'll never run out of topics to talk about.

The one I'm talking about today is an American cultural icon, companion of couch potatoes worldwide and best friend of the AA battery industry. The remote control.

I remember the first remote control TV my parents bought. It also happened to be the first color TV we owned. It was an RCA console television, and looked similar to this one, minus the statue collection of the mixed fox/bull terrier Nipper that was the RCA mascot for years (Impressive I know that, yes? My mind is a crowded place).

Besides being able to finally see the NBC "in living color" peacock in living color for the first time, now we didn't have to get up to change from one of the seven - count 'em seven - channels to the other (3 network, 4 local).

The remote controls then weren't the streamlined, digitally programed, colorful, button-laiden devices they are today. The were like little bricks, usually offering only four buttons: volume up and down, and channel up and down.

Still, not having to get up to change the channel was a revelation. It gave me the perfect excuse get even less physical activity than I was already getting. I know you wouldn't think it to look at me now, but I was a fat little kid (you know I can hear you laughing, right?). And this new, magical device wasn't going to help that.

As the years have gone by, we've been able to control more and more things by remote. Lights to drapes. Thermostats to DVRs. Cameras to ovens. Today, with the power we hold in our hands, there's virtually no reason to get off the couch to do anything. Except get the potato chips.

Even as I write this, it seems hard to believe there was a point in time where I thought, "How lazy do you have to be that you can't get your fat ass up and walk four or five feet to the TV and change the channel?" But that was before molded-to-your-hand grip remote controls. And Netflix.

So on the long, long list of things I was wrong about, let me add the modern day convenience I could now never live without. The remote control.

I think that just about wraps up this post. CLICK! Power off.

Guilty pleasures Part 8: Devil's Advocate

Continuing my wildly popular Guilty Pleasures series (if you missed any, you can catch up here, here, here, here, here, here and here), we turn up the heat with one of my favorite over-the-top Al Pacino performances - Devil's Advocate.

In this B-movie gem, Keanu Reeves plays a hot shot southern lawyer (do the words casting against type ring a bell?) who's never lost a case. When a big New York law firm recruits him, he can't resist even though his wife, Charlize Theron, is somewhat hesitant.

His new boss, John Milton (Pacino) is a master of the universe literally and figuratively, and is prone to making a lot of inside jokes about being able to relate to Keanu when he starts talking about how lousy his father was.That's because he may not be who he appears to be. DA DA DA!

Better than his courtroom speech in And Justice For All, louder than he was in Scent Of A Woman, Devil's Advocate has one of the best Pacino tearing it up speeches of his career. It comes towards the end of the film, where he finally reveals to Keanu who he really is. Here's a hint: It's similar to the relationship Darth Vader has to Luke, only Pacino is a lot more, shall we say, subterranean.

It goes a little something like this:

Throughout the film, Pacino gives his character a little reptilian quality by licking his lips quickly with his tongue. It's mighty clear how much fun he's having, even if he has to act his ass off against Keanu's monotone voice and limited expression.

I could tell you a lot more about the film, for example what happens to Pacino's law office partners who don't go along with him. Or how Keanu defends Craig T. Nelson against murdering his wife. The frosty exchange between Pacino and Keanu's mother in a New York elevator. Pacino's subway run in with gang members. There's also the part where Charlize is driven crazy because, well, you'll just have to see for yourself.

Hamming it up? Yes. Chewing the scenery? Definitely. A wild ride? Absolutely.

I'm going to take the high road here (just to see what it's like) and resist the temptation to say it's a devilishly good time. I'll just say it's definitely worth finding on cable, or renting on Netflix. You'll have just as much fun as Pacino's obviously having.

Sweet Baby James

I imagine every person on earth, or close to it, who has a son named James loves this song. Not that you need to have a kid to love it, but it only magnifies it.

Because I'm one of those people, I've heard many, many versions - both of James Taylor singing it and cover versions. This 1971 version from the Johnny Cash Show is my favorite. For starters, it was James Taylor's network television debut. And it's a powerful one, with just him, his guitar, his voice and one timeless song.

It's also a triumphant performance, with the audience jumping to their feet as if they were spring-loaded, and James Taylor walking off the stage to shouts of "More!"

Even though my son is named James, I never sang this song to him. Both he and his sister were sung to sleep with Springsteen's Thunder Road when they were babies (I know, I'm as shocked as you are).

Still, this is the song that just opens the floodgates thinking about my boy. It perfectly captures the love that all of us in the James Parents Club have for our boys.

The story is James Taylor wrote the song for his nephew who was named after him. He wanted it to be a cowboy lullaby, a buckaroo to bedtime melody.

That's his story, and he's sticking to it. But I know the truth.

He wrote it for my baby James.

Spaced out

What's the difference between a giant asteroid, comet and meteor hitting the earth? The answer is you're dead.

This Monday, an asteroid, which, I don't have to tell you, consists of metals and rocky material, is going to pass by earth fairly close in astronomical terms. It'll come within 745,000 miles of us, and should be visible with clear skies and an expensive pair of binoculars.

Just like Linkin Park at Greensboro Coliseum.

This particular asteroid has the unfortunate name of 2004 BL86, which only tells me that whoever names these things really needs to hire an agency do a naming exploration, as well as commercials for the fly by.

One agency might create an animated asteroid character along the lines of Mr. Mucinex or the RAID bugs. They could call it something clever that tests well, like Mr. Asteroid.

Another might use a D-list celebrity in an asteroid costume, warning us of the close proximity. Kathy Griffin, keep your phone line open.

I'm sure there's also any number of westside shops ready with a bearded hipster, deadpan, obscure reference-filled, dripping with irony spot where the only thing the wardrobe person has to worry about is which t-shirt goes with which pair of faded jeans and knit cap.

For all our sake, let's hope that asteroid isn't as far off course as I'm off topic.

At any given time, as the chart to the left frighteningly shows, there are hundreds of asteroids with bad aim trying to reunite us with the dinosaurs. And these are just the ones we know about.

Scientists refer to a potentially catastrophic asteroid strike as an EEE: earth extinction event. It could take a couple forms. It might hit us so hard it'd kick up a dust and dirt cloud blocking out the sun for centuries, making the air unbreathable and killing all life on earth. Or it might just hit the earth so hard it knocks it out of its orbit, and on a path straight towards the sun (stock up on SPF 1,000,000 now).

Maybe there's a scenario where it doesn't hit us at all, but just flies by super close. If the timing's right, it'd be a great way to open next year's Tournament of Roses parade. Followed by the stealth bomber of course.

I'm personally of the belief that if one were on course to wipe us out, the government wouldn't tell us for fear of panic in the streets. And really, the panic would be misplaced because unless you're Richard Branson, you really don't have a way off the planet in time to avoid it. I know there are a lot of secrets the government keeps that it shouldn't, but I'd be fine not knowing. One minute I'm sitting in my living room watching my 12th binge of Breaking Bad, the next minute I'm dust. Lights out. The really sad thing is the house probably wouldn't look much worse than it does now.

Fascination with our own demise is nothing new. Hollywood's had a great time of it for years, making movies like Armageddon where Bruce Willis and crew save earth from the asteroid. I've seen the movie. I think being wiped out by the asteroid would be more entertaining.

If you're looking for how popular keeping an eye on asteroids has become, you don't need a telescope to see it. NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) whose job is to keep an eye on these things has an asteroid watch page and Twitter feed (@AsteroidWatch). There's also an Asteroid Watch app , so while you're updating your Facebook status on your smartphone you can also check how long until you take the big dirtnap.

It's like my art director partner Pete Andress used to say: we hang by a thread. None of us know when the hit is coming. So I guess the point is to stop our petty fighting, get our priorities straight, love each other, and just enjoy it all while we're here.

Right after we up the homeowner's insurance.