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.

Under inflated balls

In the last few days we've been hearing a lot about under inflated footballs. Allegedly, the New England Patriots used them to help win their AFC Championship game against the Colts last Sunday.

Let's pause for a minute and congratulate me on the fact I actually know the names of two teams and what they were playing for. I'm as surprised as you are.

The reason under inflated balls (I'll never get tired of that phrase) make a difference is that they're easier to grip and throw.

Here's the thing: while the issue of under inflated balls is a relatively new discussion for the NFL, it's been rampant in ad agencies ever since the very first "new and improved." Many have suffered the affliction for years. Surprisingly, the condition is anatomically agnostic. It affects both men and women in the business.

The symptoms are readily apparent, although they do vary. They can run anywhere from letting the client write the copy, to telling the creative team, "I could present this but I know you can do better." Other symptoms include run-on meetings, not challenging client mandates, letting the work go down in flames without so much as a whimper, insisting the bulk of the budget be shifted to digital and reading the brief word for word.

If you find yourself in a completely ridiculous argument lasting four hours or more with someone who has never created a thing in their life, yet continues to criticize your work, they most likely have an untreated case of under inflated balls.

Try to be understanding and not judgmental. Give them the same reassuring, constructive advice their doctor would.

Grow a pair.

Born to be mild

Usually when you see a member of a biker gang the reaction is to give them a wide berth, accelerate quickly past them and hope they're not going to rev their engines to deafening levels next to you at the red light.

My reaction to this guy, who was in front of me today, was gratitude. I was grateful he cleaned and sobered up. Grateful he was telling the world about it. Grateful for the can't-judge-a-book-by-its-cover lesson that I continue to learn over and over, seemingly right when I need to.

It's like when the Hell's Angels descend on Daly City every year for the annual blood drive. Hundreds of bikers take over the main drag on their Harleys, roaring into town ready to do nothing but good (something I'm aware not all Hells Angels chapters do).

Anyway, to the guy on the bike in front of me, thanks for the reminder.

That what makes you badass isn't where you start. It's where you finish.

Call time

I guess I haven't been paying attention, which will come as absolutely no shock to anyone who's ever been in a status meeting with me. But as I was barreling up the carpool lane of the 110, alone, thanks to my FasTrak transponder that charges me to use a lane my taxes have already paid for, I was genuinely surprised to see there are still freeway call boxes lining the four-lane.

These intermittently spaced call boxes, with their reassuring blue signs, are a throw back to my childhood. Which, if you ask anyone who knows me, I'm still in.

When I was a kid, my parents would take us to Gilman Hot Springs. Or Murrieta Hot Springs. Or Desert Hot Springs. Apparently Jews are attracted to hot springs like moths to canasta. I remember the drive always seemed like it took hours to get there. It was just in Riverside county, but it may as well have been another world.

I mean, have you been to Riverside county?

It didn't help that I was a worried little kid and always thought our dark blue Dodge Coronet would breakdown on the way. Actually, the only time I remember it breaking down was when I stole it one day to take it for a drive to the valley to see some girl before I had my license. I wound up at a Union Oil station on Van Nuys and Riverside, and called my parents to come pick me up. They said they'd be happy to drive out and get me, to which I said, "Yeah, about the driving out part..." They had to call friends of the family to drive them out.

It was a very long, quiet ride home. But I digress.

Anyway, my parents would always tell me we were fine, and that even if the car did break down, we'd just use the call box and, like magic, help would be on the way. It was very comforting. A lot more comforting than being the only person under 75 at whichever hot springs we were going to.

It's easy to think of call boxes as old technology. The truth is they're now equipped with the latest digital whammy-jammies, and probably have fewer dropped calls than AT&T. I always thought they were a little Jetson-y because they were the first things I remember that used solar panels to power the lights that made them visible at night.

You don't see very many people using them, because standing on the side of the freeway isn't the brightest idea, and almost everyone has a cell phone now.

But I still find knowing they're there very comforting.

It may be the only thing on the 110 that is.