MetroDad

Spanking the Monkey

Sorry, I've been remiss in my postings lately, friends.  I appreciate your concerned e-mails, letters, cards and certified checks. What with the flu and the non-stop prank phone calls resulting from my private number being in Paris Hilton's Sidekick, I've barely had a moment's rest lately.   Also, I've been quite occupied with my various inventions.  The latest one is coming along nicely.  Thank you.

Anyway, like most of you, the BossLady and I watched the Oscars last night.  Being parents of a newborn baby, we hadn't actually seen all of this year's films because we've understandably been a little busy with the Peanut.  This has been a big change for us from previous years as we normally used to average about a movie per week.  Parenthood has put a mild crimp in our movie-going schedule.  But anyway, as usual, I'm digressing.  My point is that I've always had a life-long love affair with the movies. And despite my cynical attitude towards Hollywood and the putrid crap that they generally regurgitate, I've also always been a big fan of the Oscars.  And this year was no different.  I loved the pre-game hype, the red carpet interviews, the sexy outfits, the cheesy speeches and the emotional outbursts. 

During this year's Oscars, I was wildly rooting for Don Cheadle to win Best Actor for his role in Hotel Rwanda. Though I was disappointed when he didn't win, I found myself pleasantly surprised at Jamie Foxx's speech when he won instead.  For those of you who didn't hear the acceptance speech, Mr. Foxx gave much praise and credit to his deceased grandmother for raising him right and instilling him with the correct moral values.  Towards the end of his speech, he said, "when I would act the fool, she would beat me. She would whup me hard. And she could get an Oscar for the way she whupped me because she was great at it. And after she whipped me, she would talk to me and tell me why she whipped me."

When I heard this, I couldn't help but laugh out loud.  I could only imagine the indignation and uproar that this would cause among irate mothers, incensed parenting groups and the American Family Association.  I'm sure the ones who weren't cringing were getting their panties all tied up in a bunch.  Because as the Politically Correct (P.C.) Police have mandated, spanking your child is now akin to child abuse.  The P.C. Police equate corporal punishment with assault and battery.  Some states have even legally mandated the prohibition of spanking in the name of disciplining one's child. 

Now don't get me wrong.  I personally don't think that I could ever raise my hand in anger at my beautiful little daughter.  But if I had a son, I think that might be a different story.  Is that sexist?  Maybe.  But I've always thought that our society would be a little better off if we didn't pretend that there weren't any differences between the sexes. 

Anyway, speaking from personal experience, I never saw anything wrong with getting a good old-fashioned whupping when it was well-deserved.  My father was a big fan of the belt.  Of course, he was a terrible communicator and never really had any sort of open dialog with me or my brother.  In fact, he was never a very emotional man. But one of his better emotions happened to be anger.  The man had (and to a certain extent, still does have) a very short fuse.  He was most definitely from the "old school" and it never took much to piss him off.  But if you really wanted to push his buttons, there was no better way than to question his authority or curse in his presence.  I'll never forget the first time I told him to shut up.  Man, that belt flew off so fast, it must have been on auto-pilot.  As a firm believer in education, he felt teachers also demanded the utmost respect. The one time he found out that I had mouthed off to one of my teachers, that belt struck my ass like the blade of Zorro.  I'm talking lighting fast. 

But I'll be the first to admit that my whuppings were generally well-deserved.  And to tell you the truth, they were pretty effective in the sense that the mere threat of the belt was often a more powerful motivator than the actual belt.  And at no time did these whuppings ever cross into the realm of child abuse.  No marks were left on my body.  I never got hit in the face or with a closed fist. My whuppings were more like enhanced spankings.  And they really did enforce discipline in me.  It was made very clear to me what lines could and couldn't be crossed.  And though I may have wandered over that line from time to time like Icarus testing the limits of his wings, I knew very well that my actions were going to have consequences. 

So in thinking about about all this, I ask all of you...is there really anything wrong with a good old-fashioned spanking?  After all, the belt has stood the time-honored test of time.  And though I'm not entirely in favor of this method as the primary means of disciplining your children, I'm not quite sure where I stand on this issue.  Since I have a daughter, the point is pretty moot.  My respect for women would never allow me to raise my hand in anger against them. However, I'm curious to see what other parents think.  Is the belt an anachronistic tool of discipline that's better left in the past?  Or do some of you still resort to spanking in order to enforce discipline?  On the one hand, I obviously want to have a clear and open dialog with my child so that he knows what levels of behavior are acceptable.  When it comes time to discipline or punish my child, I'm sure I'll employ time-outs, groundings, loss of privileges, and sensory deprivation (that last ones a joke, people!)

But in all seriousness, I think there's something to be said for a good old-fashioned spanking.  I know we're all sensitive parents of the new millenium but I see a lot of kids out there being given completely free rein by their parents.  Go to any restaurant or Broadway show these days and you'll know what I'm talking about.  So many parents are letting their kids run roughshod all over the place that it sometimes seems like they're raising buffalo, not children.  And aside from raising a generation of children without any manners, I often wonder whether some of these parents, in their misguided hopes to be their child's best friend, are raising a bunch of spoiled kids who don't understand that actions DO have consequences.  I see so many kids in public who I think would really benefit from a good old-fashioned spanking. In a related way, I wonder whether today's kids are so coddled that they never develop the emotional toughness needed to become a fully-functioning adult.  In a way, do you think that all the coddling has contributed to our society's culture of entitlement and victimization?  Are we raising a generation of wusses? 

I'm just thinking aloud here, my friends.  What do you think?  Let's hear from the peanut gallery and open the floor for some discussion. 

To spank or not to spank, that is the question
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous children,
Or to take paddles against a sea of misbehavior,
And by opposing end them? To spank: to whup;
No more; and by a spank to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To spank, to whup;

To spank or not to spank, that is the question

The Good Doctor

Earth receive an honored guest;
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie,
Emptied of its poetry.

Time that is intolerant
Of the brave and innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful physique,

Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whom it lives;
Pardons cowardice, conceit,
Lays its honors at their feet.

Time that with this strange excuse
Pardoned Kipling and his views,
And will pardon Paul Claudel,
Pardons him for writing well.

-- W. H. Auden, from "In Memory of W.B. Yeats"

When George Plimpton, the elegant gentleman and participatory journalist, passed away a little over a year ago, I was greatly saddened by America's loss.  If the goal of life is to leave no stone unturned, then George lived as rich a life as any one of us could ever dream of.  Here was a man who read Plato in the original Greek, sparred with Muhammad Ali, sailed with John F. Kennedy, went to training camp with the Detroit Lions and, in his spare time, founded The Paris Review.  As a man and as a journalist, Plimpton was a lion. 

And now we've lost Hunter S. Thompson. 

Best known for his hard-living lifestyle and gonzo journalism, Thompson was more than just a cultural icon.  He was the spirited voice of the counter-culture that questioned authority.  As a writer, he was a trailblazer and a literary legend.  Following Plimpton's lead, he not only was one of the so-called fathers of the New Journalism but he was also one of the first journalists to impart himself into his stories.  In many instances, it was hard to tell where the fiction ended and the reality began. 

I first discovered Hunter S. Thompson when I was 14 years old.  I'll never forget reading "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas."  I didn't know what to make of it but I certainly knew that I'd never read anything like it.  And I was hooked.  From there on, I devoured the rest of his writings and became an ardent and life-long fan.  As a young boy, I'd wait eagerly for the latest issue of Rolling Stone or Esquire to arrive, hoping that Thompson would have a new piece in that month's issue.  But though his flame was bright and constant, his writing was often sporadic.  And though it may have driven his fans and editors crazy, the wait was always worth it.  Even today, I still have clippings of articles he'd written more than 20 years ago. 

Mourning the loss of this great American writer, I've been perusing many of the vast homages, tributes and obituaries that are circulating online.  However, of all of them, I think one of the most poignant happens to be written by Tom Wolfe.  His remembrance of Thompson sums up all that will be missed about America's misanthropic man of letters.      

Rest in peace, Doctor.  We'll have some Wild Turkey tonight and fire off the shotguns in your honor.  Don't take shit from anyone. 

Long live the high priest of Gonzo. 

President's Day Trivia

In honor of President's Day and the fact that everyone except me seems to have the day off, I thought I'd pay homage in a completely non-sequitur manner. And since MetroDad is somewhat of a parenting blog, I thought it would be appropriate to provide you with some completely useless information about our nation's presidents and their families. Because though I have enough issues with my father, I can't imagine what it would be like having the Leader of the Free World in my family. That being said, did any of you know that...?

Though Eisenhower was supreme commander of the allied forces during WWII, his mother Ida was a well-known pacifist.

When visiting the White House, Martha Truman, upon being offered the Lincoln Bedroom, said "You tell my son if he tries to put me in Lincoln's bed, I'll sleep on the floor."

Gerald Ford's mother, Dorothy, took her 16-day old son and left her abusive husband to raise Gerald on her own.

George Washington and his wife, Martha, never had children of their own. However, Martha did have both a boy and a girl from a prior marriage.

John F. Kennedy and Warren Harding were the only presidents survived by their fathers.

Mary Truman, daughter of President Truman, had a brief career as a concert soprano. President Truman often referred to his wife and daughter as "the bosses."

President Lyndon B. Johnson's daughter, Lynda, got married at the White House in 1967. She was the only child of a president to get married at the White House.

Grover Cleveland was the first president to get married while in office...after the embarassment of having previously fathered an illegitimate child.

President John Tyler had 15 children, the most of any president.

George Bush has the longest marriage of any U.S. president. He has been married to Barbara for 59 years.

Ronald Reagan is the only president to have been divorced.

Andrew Johnson was the youngest president to be married. He married at the age of 18. Benjamin Harris was the oldest at 62. James Buchanan is the only U.S. president to never have been married.

(We'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming tomorrow. Have a nice holiday. Your Hallmark card's in the mail.)

Dante's 10th Circle of Hell

In case I hadn't mentioned it, BossLady and I enrolled the Peanut in daycare about a month ago. And not entirely unsurprisingly, the Peanut is flourishing there. She's extremely well-socialized, sleeps great and has the happiest disposition one could ever hope for. The kid is literally all smiles, all the time. But of course, there's a downside. And right now, that downside is kicking my ass.

The problem, my friends, is that the Peanut has become a living repository for every airborne germ floating in the Tri-State Metropolitan region. Protected and immunized by her mother's breast milk, the Peanut instead throws viral bacteria around like used pacifiers. Seriously, I think someone needs to take a look at her. She's a living Petri dish. As much as it pains me to say this, I think her kisses might be laced with botulism.

The BossLady and I are caught up in this vicious cycle right now where we're alternating being sick. Her turn was last week. But then by Friday evening, she finally started feeling better. Over the weekend, we had dinner with friends, went out for brunch, saw Christo's Gates in Central Park, and had a beautifully romantic Valentine's dinner at our favorite restaurant. We came home, kissed the Peanut while she slept, and hit the sack...only to both wake up feeling like hell warmed over.

It's like a cruel joke, people. If it weren't so unbelievable, we probably wouldn't believe it ourselves. For the past 4 weeks, either BossLady or I have been sick. This hellish cycle is like Wagner's Nibelungen! We're in tortuous misery and we have no idea when it's going to end. Meanwhile, the Peanut just looks at us and smiles.

Now, I'm not one of those guys who turns into a whimpering baby when he gets sick. No, not me. Years of watching Dr. Marcus Welby, Dr. Doogie Howser and Dr. Mark Green have convinced me that I already know everything I need to know about modern medicine. Besides, it's a well-known fact that one need not ever go to a doctor now because WebMD is just as good. So when it comes to the common cold, I just self-medicate myself and create my own old wive's tales on how I can make myself feel better. How, you may ask? Well, my thought process usually goes something like this...

Well, alcohol kills bacteria, right? If so, then a good shot of scotch should help me feel better. It'll also probably help me get to sleep. Double bonus. Hmm..the Nyquil package says I should take 2 doses? Well, inductive reasoning states that if 2 doses are good, then 4 doses must be twice as good, right? Down the hatch! But ughh..this cough is killing me. I need to get all this phlegm out of my chest. Hmm...a cigarette would probably loosen that up. The smoke should be a natural expectorent and clear up my chest in no time. I'm a genius! Who needs doctors?

Unfortunately, I haven't been able to put my self-realized action plan into effect yet. So I'm still feeling like a stuffed-up turd. I won't complain but I am going to be in a seriously convalescent state for the next few days so you might not hear from me for a little while.

But today is Valentine's Day. And though I like to think that I'm a pretty tough guy, at heart I will always and forever be a hopeless romantic. So despite my current state of decrepitude, I want to wish my lovely wife, the BossLady, a very happy (and healthy) Valentine's Day. Thanks for saying "yes" four years ago, honey. You're my best friend, lover and soulmate. I look forward to watching the grass grow with you over the years.

And also, a special Valentine's Day wish to my little 18 week-old daughter, the Peanut. What can I say, kiddo. You've been hanging around for a little over 4 months now and you've captured my heart in ways that I never imagined. I think we're going to keep you. Seriously, you're the greatest little bundle of joy I could ever ask for. I know you didn't meant to inflict me with Legionnaire's Disease. I probably shouldn't have been kissing your face non-stop while boogers were flowing from your nose. But what can I say? I've always been a sucker for a pretty face. Ask your mama.

And from all of us to all of you...Happy Valentine's Day. May you celebrate this Hallmark-created holiday with grotesque displays of commercialism and indulgence like the rest of us.

Pater familias

As you can probably tell from this website's design (which may best be described as a pumpkin tossed onto a pile of shit), I'm relatively new at this blogging thing. I've only really been blogging for a few months. Before that, I didn't even know what a blog was. I discovered them by accident when my lovely wife, the BossLady, became pregnant and I wanted to find a community of like-minded fathers and fathers-to-be.

Now don't get me wrong. Although I bought my wives off the Internet, I've never really had much desire to meet my fellow citizens on-line in the much-talked about "internet community." I'm usually more of a face-to-face kind of guy. I like seeing whether people shake hands firmly and look you straight in the eye or whether they have one of those sweaty, limp handshakes and can only stare at their own feet. Being a stickler for good manners, I also like to meet people in person to see whether they have decent social graces. Do they hold the door open for women? Will they say "bless you" when I sneeze? Do they have the decency to understand the merits of a courtesy flush? Nothing pisses me off more than rude people.

Anyway, what the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah...my search for a community of like-minded fathers. Well, at first, it didn't quite work out as planned. Everyone told me that I'd meet people at Lamaze class, Infant CPR or at Baby Care & Feeding.  Maybe even in Fatherhood 101. Since I was taking so many parenting classes, everyone figured I was sure to meet some like-minded fathers somewhere!  But unfortunately I didn't. Maybe it was karma. Maybe it was bad luck. But, for whatever reason, I ended up meeting the most random group of fathers-to-be that you could ever imagine. First, half the guys were completely uninterested in any of the classes and were clearly only there because their wives had threatened them. Second, more than a few of the other guys seemed generally interested in being fathers but were so mild-mannered that you could barely hear them. Anyway, those were generally not my kind of guys.

From there, things tended to get even stranger. I met one guy in Lamaze whose parents were 60's radicals. He had spent most of his life as a fugitive from the law. I thought he was really cool but then he overheard me calling him Little Nikita and our friendship was over before it began. Another guy I thought was cool was an actor/bartender/contractor. For those of you living outside of Manhattan, this means that he was a bartender. Locally, we call people like this "/slashes/" and I didn't think it would be a very good idea for me to befriend a bartender while my wife was pregnant. You know. That whole "lead me not into temptation" thing. The only other guy who had friend potential was this really cool tattooed and multi-pierced lighting designer of Off-Broadway shows. We hung out for awhile but I don't think I was cool or hip enough for him (and you have no idea how much it pains me to say that.)

Anyway, for the most part, the only thing that I seemed to have in common with most of these guys was that we'd impregnated our wives somewhere around December 31, 2003. Not much of a bonding connection.

So it was in search of a more like-minded community of fathers and fathers-to-be that I discovered blogs. I was searching for guys who, at first glance, might never have been mistaken for dedicated and committed fathers but yet were guys who were serious about being truly great fathers and, most importantly, still retained a sense of humor about their lives. I was seeking guys who had enjoyed the freedom of not being a parent but were now ready to embark on a new journey and most of all, were guys who I could either learn from or share common experiences with.

So turning to the Internet, I began my search. And did I find the kind of guys I was looking for? In short...absolutely not! What I found was an avalanche of mommy blogs, one after the other. The number of mommy blogs actually seemed endless. It didn't matter whether you could spell correctly or understood even the most basic nuances of proper grammar, every mother in the world seemed to have their own blog. Sometimes, the minutiae of it all could choke a horse. But you know what? I literally (ok..maybe just figuratively) read EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM.  (Here, the casual reader may very well ask, "Well really, MetroDad. Surely you jest.  In actuality, just how many mommy blogs did you truly read?" To which this author humbly replies, "Let's just say this, my friends. I even read the fucking knitting ones.")

But eventually, some great mommy blogs turned me on to some cool fathering blogs. Like the red-headed step-children of the internet, the community of fathers who blog about fatherhood as a theme is disquietingly near extinction. In comparison to the number of mommy bloggers out there, the number of fathers doing the same is so paltry that they're actually difficult to locate. But, like wild boars sniffing in shit for black truffles, if you look hard enough, you'll find real treasures.  And so it was in my quest to find my own Fathers of the Round Table.

By looking around incessantly, I discovered a group of really cool and GREAT fathers...guys like the Zero Boss, Laid-Off Dad, DaddyTypes, and Human Writes.  From there, I met guys like Genuine, modern day dad and Daily Yak.  And though I'd never met any of them, I could surmise from their writing that these were my kinds of guys. They talked openly and honestly about what it meant for them to be fathers. They wrote of the highs and, equally important, they didn't shy away from discussing the lows.

So I started this blog to join in the conversation with these gentlemen. And in a Haley Joel Osmet, Pay It Forward sort of way, I seem to have similarly been discovered by a great group of future like-minded fathers. For example, I've recently "met" Brandon over at Brain Dump, who I'm sure I know from a past life one way or the other and whose wife is pregnant for the first time.  Short Story Dude is an expectant father who continues to crack me up on daily basis. Then, there's my long-lost, hip-hop loving, Asian step-brother Oliver over at O-Dub, whose wife just gave birth to a beautiful new daughter this week. And similarly, I've also met a few new dads who have entered the blogging world recently to document their own journeys into fatherhood; guys like fellow New Yorker Ideashak, more diapers, and F-Bomb. 

More than anything, I wish them all the best and look forward to having them joining in the conversation.  So whether you're a new dad, a dad-to-be or a slightly-used dad, go check these guys out.  We need more guys writing about fatherhood out there.   

And while you're at it, guys?  Leave me a comment so I know you're out there.  Otherwise, I might feel like I'm talking to myself again and my therapist will have to up the dosage.

The MetroDad Mailbag

I've only been a father for 17 weeks.  Really.  Hard to believe but, thus far, the sum total of my parenting experience has been the short time I've spent with my beautiful, little infant daughter.  Yet apparently I've become some sort of repository (or perhaps suppository) of parenting information.  I literally get dozens of e-mails a day asking me for parenting advice.  This is either evidence of the true dearth of adequate parenting literature available or further proof that some people will do absolutely anything to avoid reading a book.  Regardless, I've decided to publish the answers to your questions in what will now become a regular part of the blog.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to The MetroDad Mailbag.

Dear MetroDad...I generally like my kids and want to bond with them.  However, my problem is that I have no idea what they're saying.  Even though we're white and live on a farm in Ohio, they speak like rappers from Compton!  All they want to do is wear baggy Rocawear jeans, smoke blunts and bust caps.  I can't relate!  Can you help me? 
-Bobby Joe. Greenville, Ohio

Bobby Joe...Out of the panoply of annoying things that irk my soul, I have to say that white kids talking like rappers is probably number one on my list.  However, it's clear that your kids feel opressed to the point where they've co-opted African-American culture as their own.   Whereas most rappers are rebelling against the socio-economic inequities prevalent in an America that they deem racist, your children are most likely rebelling against having to milk the cow at 4:00 in the morning.  So what can you do?  Join 'em.  Dress like Wu Tang, walk like Ja Rule, and talk like Snoop. Take that Dodge Caravan minivan and pimp the shit out of it. Go low rider or bust out for the 22" rims.  And when your kids ask you what you're doing?  Tell them "Yo dog, Big Baby is droppin' bombs in the hizzouse, kids. Damn, he stupid fly when he gets bizzle at the grizzle."  Because the only thing more annoying than a white kid acting ghetto is a grown man acting ghetto.  You'll make them see the folly of their ways.  Trust me on this one. 

Dear Metro...I'm a new father and I haven't quite figured out what kind of parent I want to be for my daughter Nicole.  I think the best way to explain my philosophical conundrum in regard to parenting is by way of making an analogy to my favorite 80's TV show, "My Two Dads."  Part of me wants to be a protective, overbearing father like Paul Reiser.  But another part of me yearns to be an open, free-spirited parent like Greg Evigan.  Is there any way I can achieve this balance?  What do you think? 
-Joey. Tiburon, Ca.

Joey...Are you fucking trying to piss me off?  Did one of my friends from 6th grade put you up to this? Because nobody (and I mean NOBODY) was more pissed off than I was when NBC cancelled "Gimme a Break" in favor of "My Two Dads".  Nell Carter was the pure embodiment of household love and harmony.  Just when you thought she was going to go ballistic on you, she'd do something sweeter than sugar and make you fall in love with her all over again.   Many a life lesson was learned from dear old Nell.  Tough love, baby. Tough love.

Anyway, on the off chance that you're actually serious, I'll answer your question.   It's actually interesting because there seems to be a trend whereby parents are desiring to be their child's best friend.  Personally, I'm against this.  Children need structure and guidelines.  The parental boundaries must be clearly delineated.  Though you may feel uncomfortable in the role, I think you'd be wise to follow the parenting philosophy of Paul Reiser.  In the long run, I firmly believe that a protective parent works out best for everyone.  After all...where the fuck is Greg Evigan now? 

Dear MetroDad...I grew up in a non-violent Buddhist family that practiced passive resistance and empathy for all living creatures.  However, my children are the offspring of Satan.  My spouse and I have tried time outs, grounding, counseling, pleading and reasoning.  But nothing seems to be working.  I think we're going to resort to some good old-fashioned spanking.  Any suggestions or tips regarding this matter?
-MoonUnit.  Sherman Oaks, CA.

Dear MoonUnit...modern society dictates that corporal punishment is politically incorrect.  I only wish someone had mentioned this to my dad this when I was 9 years old and I spraypainted his brand-new car to make it look like General Lee, the fastest car in all of Hazzard County.  Dad was a tennis player so he preferred to use the backhanded slap.  But whether you're a golfer, tennis player or baseball player, I think the key elements remain the same.  The most important part of a good old-fashioned beating or spanking remains the follow-through.  (An excellent reference source that has passed the test of time is Ted Williams, "The Art of Hitting.")

MetroDad...I'm a SAHD.  Not only does my wife work full-time but she's also extremely successful and earns over $1 million per annum.  To make things easier for her, I do a lot around the house.  I clean the house.  I do all the errands.  I send the kids off to school.  I even have dinner ready for her every night.  But lately, she's been doing things that I can't stop thinking about.  The other day, she bought me a pink apron with the word "mom" embroidered on it.  And last weekend?  After we made love, she slapped me on the ass, turned her back on me and fell asleep.  No cudding or anything!  I was so hurt, I whimpered and cried myself to sleep that night.  I feel so unappreciated.  All I want to do is keep a happy home for her.  But what can I do to let her know that I'm a living, breathing human being with real feelings? 
-Mr. Mom.  Bethesda, Maryland.

Dear Mr. Mom...Remember the movie "Indecent Proposal", where Robert Redford offered Woody Harrelson $1 million to sleep with Demi Moore for a weekend?  Well, I hate to say this but you're Woody and Demi.  On the one hand, you've been objectified and stripped of your sexual freedom.  But on the other hand, you're getting some serious coin.  Personally, you might want to reconsider your situation.  I know the grass is always greener but I'm sure that there are a ton of guys who would switch places with you.  I've lived in Bethesda and I know that $1 million per year goes pretty damn far there.  My suggestion to you is that whenever you're feeling unappreciated, go to the mall in Chevy Chase and buy yourself something pretty...like a big fucking pink Porsche!  And as for your wife falling asleep on you after sex?  My God, man!  That's why ESPN shows Sportsccenter at 11:00!

Dear MD...With all the Michael Jackson coverage on the news, I thought it would be a good time to speak to my children about the dangers of pedophilia.  I've warned them about speaking to strangers or getting into cars with people that they don't know.  So far, the kids have taken my lessons well.  They're good kids and we generally live in a pretty safe area.  But tonight, we were all watching television again and, as part of the Jacko trial, the local news showed part of the video for "We Are the World."  I had a beer at dinner but I could have sworn that I saw Dan Akroyd singing in the background!  Are my eyes deceiving me?  What the hell is Dr. Detroit doing in that video?  And as if it wasn't bad enough, I think he was standing next to Dylan!
-Pissed off in Philly!

Dear Pissed off in Philly...I hear you, man.  43 of the world's greatest musicians and Dan Akroyd?  Apparently, he was sleeping with Anne Murray and snuck in a side door.   Seriously, man.  Nobody knows how this happened.  There's a rumor that Stevie Wonder thought the Blues Brothers were a real band but there's been no confirmation.  And as my good friend Bill Simmons has said, the sports equivalent of this was Jimmy Fallon kissing Drew Barrymore -- on the field, on live TV -- right after the Red Sox won their first World Series in 86 years.  In fact, they were shown in a close-up within 60 seconds of the final out!  And as disgusting as that was to witness, true Red Sox fans try not to let that one disturbing image taint the moment.  I suggest you do the same in regard to Mr. Akroyd.  (In a side note, BossLady and I were at dinner a few months ago at a trendy Vietnamese restaurant in Tribeca.  Dan Akroyd was at the table next to us.  He looked like a bloated version of my grandmother...and she's been dead for 20 years.)

Ok, friends.  That's the inaugural edition of the MetroDad mailbag.  For the next edition, feel free to leave a comment or send me an e-mail.  As always, MetroDad is here to answer those parenting questions that you can't get answered anywhere else.