There are some buttons even he’s not going to push

WE NOW HAVE a new big-screen TV, and my wife and I live in constant dread of hitting the wrong button on the remote control and disabling it forever. I guess it’s one of those love-fear relationships (is there any other kind?).

“Don’t hit that!” my wife screams.

“Hit what?”

“That!”

Like you, we have at least three remotes for the main TV, two of which are available at any given time, the third of which is usually missing. Why one TV needs three remotes is a question for bigger minds than mine. I guess it is a product of the different components involved: the cable box, the TV itself, the surround-sound system.

Yet, that is the typical ratio today. One TV, three remotes: one frustrated father looking for a remote. Cue the cussing, sharp and percussive. Sounds sort of like a car backfiring.

“What’s wrong, Dad?”

“I can’t find the frappin’ remote,” I say.

“Again?”

Here, in my experience, are some of the habitats where remote controls like to hide:

• Couches

• Blankets

• The folds of a flabby dog

• The car

• The silverware drawer

• Behind the cappuccino machine we never ever use

• Under the pasta machine we haven’t even opened

• Next to the toilet

• Under the bed

• Under the dad

I have found remotes in almost all those spots, usually after they’ve been accidentally hockey-pucked across the wood floor and into some dark recesses of the house.

I have never found it in the refrigerator, though that’s just a matter of time. A recent study found that the family fridge is one of the most common places in which to misplace the remote. Presumably, people go to grab something to eat and accidentally leave it next to the milk.

We haven’t done that yet, but when we do, I’m pretty sure one of the kids will eat the remote. Every time we want to change a channel, we’ll have to find the kid, burp him like a baby and hope we don’t accidentally squeeze the wrong button.

That’s because this is the Russian roulette we live in fear of now, hitting the wrong button, then not being able to get the signal back. There are a total of 90 buttons on our three remotes, 10 of which are deadly, the rest of which don’t seem to have any function whatsoever. The most dangerous buttons appear across the top: TV, Cable/Sat, Aux 1, Aux 2, Armageddon.

“Help desk!” I scream.

“What’d you do now, Dad?”

“Help desk!!!”

“OK, OK, here, gimme that,” the kid will say.

If I’m lucky, the older daughter answers the help desk request. She is our finest IT person: calm, logical, a little geeky and condescending. She’ll fiddle with the remote a minute or two before getting the signal back and handing the remote to me like I’m the dumbest goober who’s ever lived. It’s not great customer service. But it’s all we can afford.

“There,” she says.

“What’d you do?”

“I turned it off so it could reprogram itself,” she explains.

“I could’ve done that.”

“No, Dad,” she says, “you probably couldn’t.”

More and more, I find that I don’t like anyone under the age of 25. They are a smug bunch, and from what I read in magazines, not all that grateful or polite.

Used to be, punks like this angered us only with their sloppy clothing and lousy taste in music. Now they are separating themselves from us with some sort of innate techy acumen. They seem to be born knowing this stuff. Frankly, I find them a little creepy.

And I’m not just talking about my own kids. I’m talking about all of them. I see this alien generation in coffeehouses or in libraries, staring morosely into their laptops, not talking to one another, barely breathing.

They seem to have entered some sort of sleep mode -- not the computers, the kids themselves -- where their respiratory system and CPU sync up. Often, the only movement is a twitchy leg or foot. By the minute, their complexions grow paler and more waxen -- like raw chicken.

It’s a nice look, don’t get me wrong, though I prefer a face with a little blood in it, the slightest hint that they’ve ever been out of doors, felt the weather on their cheeks, the kiss of the midafternoon sun.

Some day -- sooner than you think -- they’ll be in charge, these kids. Life will be better than ever. TVs will be 10 feet wide and require 46 remotes. Toasters and toothbrushes will require a PhD. Occasionally, you’ll need to reboot the toilet.

Me, I can hardly wait.

“Help desk!” I’ll scream.

“What now, Dad?”

Help.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.