A deep, dark secret in your menu of pop culture consumption. You have Schopenhauer and Wittgenstein on your bookshelves, and Jackie Collins by your bedside. You stop channel surfing for an inordinately long time to watch the last 11 minutes of a Felicity rerun, forgetting the Noam Chomsky lecture on C-SPAN. You check the boxscores first, rather than zip over to Frank Rich's column. You put disclaimers before your defense of Milli Vanilli. And you smell what The Rock is cookin'.