Daily, I astound myself with my ability to repel bits of information that do not interest me. Just yesterday I was watching TV with Sabina when an ad for a very cheesy-looking movie came on. I said, thinking I was being clever, "Brought to you by the writer of The Notebook."
Sabina said, "Actually, it was. And so was Dear John, The Lucky One and Nights in Rodanthe." I didn't believe that one person was capable of being such a profound literary wrecking-ball, so Sabina showed me an article about this man (whose name I won't mention). It's true: one person thought of all that ick.
To paraphrase the Tin Man, "I should have felt it in my colon."
And to make it worse, he enjoys playing the picador by comparing himself to Hemingway. Isn't it pretty to think so!
I'm hoping I will forget this piece of information, much as I forgot that Jane Siberry now calls herself Issa.
Something else I learned recently against my will: a rule of football. I had always prided myself on having watched, conservatively, three hundred games (the ex was a football fan), yet having absolutely no understanding of the sport. Several weeks ago I watched the Stanford/Notre Dame game with LB and decided, inexplicably, to pay attention.
The quarterback snapped the ball, and instantly, several of his teammates ran way ahead of the line of play until they were almost in the opposing team's end zone. I waited patiently for "offsides" to be called, but it was not. LB explained that in football, you're allowed to do that -- just run on ahead and wait for the ball -- and that you aren't offside unless you run before the snap. He added that this rarely happens, because the players are told in advance what the nonsensical string of numbers preceding the snap will be.
LB has an enormous head and is capable of storing all sorts information, like where Sir Mix-a-Lot hails from, and the difference in the "offside(s)" rule in football and soccer without forgetting that if a giant piece of glass embeds itself in your brachial artery, you should not pull it out. I, however, am in danger of forgetting where Lebanon is because I now know that all those crappy movies were written by the same person.
What if by the time I learn the answer to Who is John Galt, I can't retain it because that spot of brain is occupied with, "Seattle. Sir Mix-a-Lot comes from Seattle?"