If I felt pangs of homesickness on occasion—for the frozen dew dancing, diamond-like, on the tips of the wild grass; for the tawny spring fawns, tripping down to our pond; for the smell of woodsmoke in my father’s hair, his hand on my shoulder—I buried these feelings under an avalanche of pop culture. Toy Story. “Macarena.” Smashing Pumpkins. Scream. SimCity. O. J. Simpson. Frappuccino. Paul Frank. “Wannabe.” People’s Sexiest Man Alive.
