Murder, She Wrote
I have a soft spot for Murder, She Wrote. There, I said it. It's my pop culture guilty pleasure. I'm resigning any pretense I ever had at hipster chic.
Except that you have them too, these pop culture guilty pleasures, sneaky little bastards that your otherwise impeccable taste assures you are dreadful, drecky remnants of your past, of the things you liked before you knew what you were and weren't supposed to like. They may be the things your mother liked (and still likes). In fact if your guilty pleasure is Murder, She Wrote, it's a good bet that your mom likes it too.
Meredith told us yesterday that she went to see Vanilla Ice, not when she was fourteen and too young to know any better and going to see Dave Matthews, but a mere three and a half years ago, in her freshman year of college. Maybe the instinct was ironic and retro dork cool. Maybe she just wanted to see Vanilla Ice.
Come on, you can admit it. You can tell me. Debbie Gibson? The A-Team? Condor Man? It's Condor Man, isn't it?