Every so often, I’d say about three or four times a week, a relic from popular culture rises from the detritus of my mind and becomes, without warning, something I am thinking about. For example, the other day, while walking my dog, I found myself haunted by the melody of “Strut” by Sheena Easton. Then, a couple of days later, I woke up thinking of Judd Hirsch.
What type of neurological sequences lead to these events? I have no idea. Do I find it disturbing that my subconscious is a wasteland of trite pop culture leftovers? A little. But when you grow up on a steady diet of cable TV and pop radio, you can’t very well expect a few semesters of reading Shakespeare and Whitman in college to override years of “Who’s The Boss” and “Charles In Charge” episodes. (What was with the trend of sitcoms about male housekeepers and/or babysitters in the ’80s anyway? Was the reversal of gender roles really such a bizarre idea back then? )
The point is, I’m afraid I may find myself on my deathbed suddenly wondering who played Vinnie in “Doogie Howser MD.” But then again, by then, whatever wireless device we’ll be using to answer those kinds of questions will likely be hardwired into our circuitry. I may even be able to drift off to eternal sleep while watching the 24-minute pilot where Doogie kisses his first girl and loses his first patient — all in the same week.
Posted by Matt Gonzales 
Consumat 