When I was three years old, one of the most pivotal television shows of my childhood debuted, one that dominated my life and fueled my imagination and interest in action figures and accessories (until the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoon showed up in ’87, at least): He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. It seemed like some sort of cosmic poetry that this year, when my own son is three years old, Masters of the Universe returned in a series from Kevin Smith, of all people. And wonder of wonders, it dropped on a day when I was off work and Miles was home sick.
We watched four of the five episodes in one sitting. After the fourth, I looked at Miles and said, “Want to watch the last one?”
“No,” he replied. “I’m tired of watching Masters of the Universe.”
He was not, however, tired of assembling the couch pillows into a “train.”
“Can I have a pillow at least?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “You’re fine.”
Miles insists that he enjoyed Masters of the Universe: Revelation, but I’m not so sure…
The Perils (& Pride) of Paternity 