A Letter to "Rock Band"

Dear "Rock Band":

Thank you for bringing our family closer together. Before we had your awesome Fender Stratocaster electronic guitar shredding our TV's speakers, we spent many evenings fighting over who got out which toys, how many bites of vegetables we need to eat before being excused from the table, and whether going to bed at 7:30 qualifies as child abuse. Now we fight over much more meaningful things, such as "Whose turn is it to beat the electronic drum set into small plastic pieces?" and "Stop singing into the microphone when it's MY turn!" Your amazing ability to translate classics from The Smashing Pumpkins (the world's greatest band) and The Rolling Stones into a video-game-playing experience has meant that our children now gladly slurp up every last soggy cauliflower stem with nary a complaint, as long as it means they get a turn at the Radiohead solo. Before I finally relented and granted my wife's incessant demands that we buy you and, for some reason, call you a combined Father's Day/early birthday present, I was faced with a bleak existence in which my children will never learn the words to Weezer's seminal hit, "Say It Ain't So" -- and really, if you can't hear your kids belt out lines such as "Flip on the telly / And wrestle with Jimmy" you might as well be deaf. Which I will be shortly, at least as long as Liam keeps belting out Nirvana.

Sure, I give you six months tops before your awesome whammy bar is broken off and shoved into an electrical outlet by Rowan, but before we started playing with you, we seriously had to fear that our children would grow up wanting to listen to Hannah Montana--or worse, her derivatives who will be popular in a few years. And really, if you think the Jonas Brothers suck--which they kinda do, even though one of the kids sort of looks like a young stud with a poofy 'fro I once knew--just wait until their cousins hit it big. But now? Now I've got my kids pounding the skins to the Ramones. Sure, my 4-year-old daughter insists the Mountain hit "Mississippi Queen" is really called "Sippy Sippy Grain" but whatever, it's definitely a start. And let's not even get into the fact that now we've got our Family Home Evenings planned out for the next 10 years--or at least until one of the kids chews through the mic cord. You have redefined the term "jam band," as the kids usually have their pajamas on while shredding.

OK, sure, my fingers bleed after prolonged exposure to your replica Strat and I'm developing a weird cramp in my foot from the stupid bass drum, but that's what is so realistic about you. I mean, real musicians suffer for their craft, right? And hey, what's more real these days than strumming a toy guitar in unison with your 4-year-old on the toy drums? It's a lot more real than the Beijing Olympics, I'll tell you that much.

So thanks "Rock Band"--you've really brought us closer together.

Sincerely,

A Thankful Dad