Years ago, as a petulant teenager coming to terms with my inner self (i.e. a total prick), I found myself a participant in a heated debate (i.e. a word brawl). My uncle Mick and I spent a large portion of an evening mercilessly mocking the music of Andrew Gold, much to the dismay of his wife and my mother. For hours, we ridiculed the 70's AM piano pop of "Lonely Boy" and "Thank You For Being A Friend." Awful things were said, by my uncle and I. Terrible, spiteful things.
I loved "Lonely Boy."
I couldn't admit it at the time, as it would have led to snap after burn after mockery at my expense. It was easier to lie and take my own turn poking fun at how "lame" the tune was. "Lonely Boy" was my very first guilty pleasure. It would not be my last. Examples include, but are not limited to:
Toto (the session musician collective, not the overgrown rat who hates irascible townswoman Almira Gulch). The song "Africa" remains one of the greatest non-African songs about the Motherland in existence. Also, Lukather.
Congo (the 1995 action disaster with the black Ghostbuster, not the war torn, jungle engulfed African country). When a movie brings together cult stars Bruce Campbell, Joe Don Baker and Joey Pants, it wins. Period.
JCVD (the movie, the man, the myth and the legend). I dare you to find a late-80's to mid-90's action hero who can kick higher, split further and pronounce "black silk underwear" better. You can't. Also, "Lionheart" starts in Africa.
Tied that shit together right good.
The only problem I have with the phrase "guilty pleasure" is the connotation that we should be ashamed of loving this trash. Quite the opposite, I proudly embrace my love of utter garbage. I don't care who knows Dragon: The Bruce Lee Story keeps me awake whenever it's on. It doesn't bother me that people question my unconditional love of Pool of Radiance, an ancient AD&D PC game. Nothing will deter me from eating poutine, that delectable Canadian ensemble of fries, cheese curds and gravy.
The only thing I am guilty of is loving these pop culture train wrecks too much. On a daily basis, it's a good bet that I will try and push my guilty pleasure agenda on people like an overzealous Pop Culture Jehovah's Witness. I spent the entire winter and spring of 2002 trying to bring back "Your Woman" by White Town. Anyone who asks for a food recommendation is immediately referred to "White Castle" or "Popeye's." Just last year, I went on a week long sojourn to procure Wings of Tomorrow, the Europe album that doesn't have "Final Countdown" on it.
A truly impressive guilty pleasure is like getting a movie theater handy. It's amazing, if a little immature, and when it's over, you feel fantastic, if a little embarrassed. Don't be embarrassed. At least you don't own a copy of the Sinbad/Phil Hartman classic "Houseguest" on VHS. And if you do, you can be the Tango to my Cash.
EPILOGUE: Let me take a brief moment and explain that despite my undeterred love of cheese, I have great affection for quality music/film/food/etc as well. Although, to be fair, as I write this, I am listening to "Alone" by Heart. Draw your own conclusion. Stay tuned for more (UN)Cool musings...
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