The "American Father" was NEVER an unbreachable tower of confidence and infallible wisdom; more often than not, he was a denim-overalled mule burning the dawn-and-dusk candles in the ankle-deep mud of a Podunk field. With the "hopscotch" progression from agricultural to industrial to informational, we've added the beer-pounding, blue-collar factory meathead and the ulcer-ridden, martini-swilling junior executive to the ranks. The media conglomerates do what they're DESIGNED to do: fixate upon whatever aspect the others aren't bothering with, and bookend it with commercial time (and thrash it to death until the mood rings fog up). The results are "designer Dads" that seize upon facets of the "real things", which Madison Avenue's study groups hope will keep specific demographics tuned in long enough for integrated product pitches (their interest in your dignity extends only as far as your adjusted income). Historically, you've always gotten what you've paid for, entertainment-wise; with the expansion of outlets underway, you now have more choices (and chances) than ever to support whatever patriarchal portrayals the marketeers "invent" next. There's a stylized Pop out there for all of us; they're just waiting for the card swipe to activate 'em.
