In magazine interviews from time to time, the question is handed, “What’s your guilty pleasure?” to which the person usually replies, “Dan Brown novels”, or “cashmere sweaters”. Which begs the question- have these people never heard of pornography?
In the late Nineteenth Century, paperbacks surely filled the satchels of women about town, and the stuff inscribed on their pages- sultry tales of ankle-flashing and eye-winking society folk- was enough to get a woman hot and bothered. The five-skirts-at-a-time thing probably helped, too.
And by the end of the Second World War, the middle class had risen to the point where expensive wool was an attainable luxury for many Americans. Of course, pornography existed by then, but it was the kind of thing you had to dig for, deep in the trash can of your crazy neighbor who wore a tan bathrobe and got his milk from a goat he kept in the backyard. And besides, reaching down in that garbage bin wasn’t good for the cashmere. So you sat inside and just rubbed your sleeves, and that was enough of a sensation to mention in a magazine interview.
But now? Guilty pleasure? I’m not saying it has to be footage of a committed couple making sensual love to each other (I don’t know what kind of sick stuff you had in mind), but it’s got to be better than finding out what secrets lie in the Vatican basement. Five thousands professors didn’t get PhD’s in Post-Modern Studies to critique your cardigan fetish. And thus, for them, I’ll suggest these guilty pleasures for the 21st Century:
v Fishing. And by fishing, I mean drinking a case of beer while sitting on a dock.
v Going to Las Vegas, but getting stuck at that place you pass half-an-hour before, the one with the roller coaster. And the buffet of strippers (it’s in the back).
v Hinting to your Grandparents what cool vintage stuff you’d like to inherit from them when they die.
v Watching Mary Kate and Ashley’s Passport to Paris. While fishing (see above).
v Inviting Mormon Missionaries in for a cup of coffee, and insisting you’ll convert if they’d just have a cup.
v Blaming farts on fat people. Especially when it wasn’t even you who farted.
v Eating a KFC Double Down™ in front of the fat person you blamed for farting.
v Running around in an attic with walls of pink insulation and pretending you’re in a circus. (Having written this down, I realize it may be a niche pastime, exclusive to me and my little sister. If you have any nostalgic regard for the aforementioned activity, I nod to you).
v Uppers.
v Taking uppers on that roller coaster out front of the casino thirty minutes before Las Vegas.
v Taking uppers and pretending you’re in a circus.
v Taking the Mormon Missionaries fishing (see above).
Well, I’ve been racking my brain really hard for the past five minutes, and this is the list I’ve managed to conjure. If there’s anything missing that you feel constitutes a true guilty pleasure, then by all means, indulge. And if none of this appeals, there’s always the old standby, just a few clicks away.
