Lots of annoying things have forced themselves onto my radar. Michael Bolton, Yanni, Kenny G, and Cher for example. Knowledge of the existence of Sylvester Stallone (he of the third testicle) is lodged in my brain, and I know of the oeuvre of Pauly Shore. I am also aware of lesser mediocrities like Adam Sandler, Mandy Patinkin, and the perpetually-overrated Garth Brooks. I have been dragged, kicking and screaming, to a Stevie Nicks concert, and I lived.
On the other hand, I’ve expended lots of effort to avoid knowing who Hannah Montana is - until the Vanity Fair kerfuffle, I didn’t know the name Miley Cyrus. I had never heard her speak nor had I heard her sing. I was blissfully unaware that Hannah was the spawn of the bathetically awful Billy Ray Cyrus. If pressed, I could not have picked her out of a lineup.
But no more.