Some Kind Of Help Is The Kind Of Help That Helping's All About

"And some kind of help is the help we can all do without." At least that's what Shel Silverstein wanted us to believe. I know what he meant. I had a moment on Christmas that reminded me of this assertion. Santa Claus brought us the new Rock Band game, with the keyboard controller. It was a calculated move to drag our son back into our virtual family jams. He would much rather spend his video game time blowing things up or moving as quickly as he can from left to right collecting coins or rings. The appeal of pantomiming with guitar and drum shaped controllers has diminished some over the past few years.
Who could blame him? He's a musician, after all. He plays piano in his school's jazz band. At thirteen, he's got a better ear than I ever did, and he has begun to transcribe some of his favorite songs for keyboard and saxophone for he and his buddy to play. That's why, when his dad was first sitting down with the keyboard controller and was muddling about trying to figure out how to sync up his fingers to the flashing lights on the screen, my son looked up from his Lego Lamborghini and asked, "Would you like some help, dad?"
I was suddenly transported back to a lecture in college where my professor was describing comedy as a father helping his son, while a tragedy is a son helping his father. Wanting to avoid the tragedy, I reminded my son that I had several years of piano lessons in my past long before he was even a glimmer in my eye. I would figure this thing out, thank you very much.
Happily for all of us, my son's interest was much more fixed on his Legos than on me, and so he didn't notice the bruise I had inflicted upon my ego. Ten minutes later, I was plunking out the chords for J. Geils' "Centerfold."
"Nice job, dad." He was sincere. That's when he got me: "Maybe you can show me how to do that next." Back from the brink of tragedy, we resumed our regularly scheduled comedy.