“Man,” I thought. “What cool kids I've got.” They were sitting in the living room engrossed in what I thought was a rock-u-mentary chronicling the storied punk rock band, The Ramones. I could hear them chanting—Gabba, gabba.

Cool! I sat down to catch the program myself. Granted, I'm not a huge Ramones fan but I appreciate their music and I figured a documentary about them would surely be pretty interesting.

“That's not Joey Ramone,” I said to no one in particular and everyone just the same.

“Who's Joe? Dad, that's DJ Lance.”

“What in the world are you guys watching?” I asked a little heartbroken, my pride bubble having just been exploded with the visage of my kids engrossed with a group of fuzzy puppets gett'n jiggy wit a DJ in a furry orange fez.

“Dad!! It's Yo Gabba Gabba!” they collectively shouted at me, insinuating “be quiet and let us watch the show!”

I sat. I watched. In silence. In stunned disbelief.

Halfway through the show I felt as if I had just dropped acid and it was starting to kick in. Or maybe the shrooms were turning on me. Either way, this trip was getting freaky!

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