Why my son is doomed - DOOMED, I tell you!

Xan and I were happily listening to NPR's Fresh Air this afternoon, merrily listening to John McCain talking seriously about the world we live in and how he isn't still smarting about what happened in South Carolina and how we should still stay in Iraq and the like. We both felt rather up to date and I was multitasking by making dinner, getting informed and watching the baby, all at once.

And then, they had to go and review Madonna's new album, Confessions on a Dance Floor. And they played a snippet of her new single, "Hung Up," which re-envisions the hook from ABBA's "Gimme Gimme Gimme" even better than Erasure.

That switch that was triggered at an early age by watching too much Solid Gold was suddenly flipped.

The next thing you know, I run downstairs to find the CD of dance music purchased long ago at the New Orleans Virgin Megastore. (The CD was sold to raise money for AIDS research and features remixes of Erasure's "Oh L'Amour," Depeche Mode's "Everything Counts," Bedrock's "Heaven Scent" and a really cranked up version of Yaz's "Separation." Thank God for gay men.) I pop it in the kitchen CD player, turn the Christmas tree lights blinker setting from "slow fade" to "supa-dupa disco funkay!!" and grab my son. We then proceed to dance, dance, dance all over the house, much to his utter joy. Baby screams of laughter and delight. For almost an hour.

Naturally, this is how my wife found us when she got home.