Today, I’ll be discussing guilty pleasures (not my strongest opening, but there’s a time and a place for subtlety, and subtlety comes by virtue of patience, which is not my best trait). Guilty pleasures are in a unique position in that a) everybody seems to have them and b) everybody seems to hate them. There are those who would argue that they don’t exist, one of which being one of my biggest influences, Chuck Klosterman (for those of you who may not have heard of him, give Fargo Rock City a read; it is memoir validating his love of ’80s hair metal – which, to his credit, he never treats as a truly “guilty pleasure”). Chuck Klosterman argues that those who feel guilt in that in which they take pleasure are “embarrassed about being engaged in life” and “it never matters what you like; what matters is why you like it.” Well, perhaps that is true, but that doesn’t entirely discredit guilty pleasures, either.
To my estimation, there are four types of guilty pleasures:
- things you feel ashamed of liking
- things you feel you should feel ashamed of liking
- things general consensus dictates you should feel ashamed of liking
- things you like ironically
First, things you feel ashamed of liking. You can’t even argue its existence. I would argue that everyone likes at least thing of which they ashamed. I refused to watch Paul Blart: Mall Cop for a couple of years, because I thought it looked horrible. By the time I watched, I found myself laughing out loud at it, and hating myself for it. But something about self-loathing manifested in pie and peanut butter appeals to my sense of humor.
Then, things you feel you should feel ashamed of liking. I love Iggy Azalea, but at the same time, I think she’s trashy and I feel trashy for liking her (on the off-chance that Iggy Azalea ends up reading this, I’m sorry, but it gets worse). She’s as Australian as didjeridus and vegemite, but when she starts rapping, she sounds as country-fried as Lynyrd Skynyrd and General Lee (it doesn’t help that she feels free to use the word “nigga”).
Next, things general consensus dictates you should feel ashamed of liking. I love professional wrestling. A lot of people do. But you would never know that, because a lot of these people don’t talk about it. Even in the popularity boom of the late ’90s, there was a bit of a stigma attached to watching it. I think that’s because the relative popularity of Stone Cold Steve Austin and the nWo was connected to the Jerry Springer-level dysfunction they put on television. But storylines are only part of the equation. The true storytelling is in the ring. Professional wrestling is dismissed as “fake,” but the truth is that professional wrestlers are real athletes who risk real injuries. There’s more to it than “knowing how to land.” Watch Mankind fall off a steel cage – not once, but twice – and then land on thumbtacks, and tell me how to land. But I take the most pleasure in ’80s wrestling, along with all its absurdity. Many people are familiar with “Macho Man” Randy Savage, “Rowdy” Roddy Piper, Jake “The Snake” Roberts, and the immortal Hulk Hogan (who revolutionized, popularized, and legitimized professional wrestling as a genuine source of entertainment, and no amount of “n-words” can take that away from him – I still love you, Hulk!), but some of the fun is with the over-the-top characters they put on television; Honky Tonk Man (an Elvis impersonator), The Nasty Boys (gross, mullet-hawked street fighters who rubbed their opponents faces in their armpits), and Akeem the African Dream (a white guy “reborn” as a black guy – sure, it seems racist, but it’s a lot less offensive to me than Rachel Dolezal).
Last, things you like ironically. This is less “guilty” pleasure and more “hipster” pleasure, but it deserves an honorable mention, simply because it represents a part of yourself that lives within your subconscious. This is why people who listen to Neil Diamond and Johnny Cash (and, yes, Iggy Azalea), who would never under any circumstances listen to Insane Clown Posse (whose fans, called “juggalos” – an amalgamation of “juggler” and “gigolo” – are considered both a cult and a gang) can find joy in wildly profane and cartoonishly violent ICP albums like Riddle Box and The Great Milenko.
That’s all of them, but that’s not all. One form of pleasure can become another.
When I was a kid, I remember watching reruns of The Super Mario Bros. Super Show! on television, loosely (very loosely) based on the Super Mario Bros. video game franchise. I sincerely loved that show. But when I saw it on Netflix, nostalgia forced me to watch it against better judgment. I have to admit, it’s not very good. It was shoddily animated out of South Korea and horribly acted by Captain Lou Albano and several celebrity guest stars. But I still love it ironically.
The first time I watched Bio-Dome, I hated it. I hated it with an intense and occupying hate. I was angry by how bad it was. I thought no movie that bad should legally be allowed to exist. The second time I watched it. I started to see some charm in the stupidity. I liked it irionically. By the third time I watched it, I sincerely enjoyed it. Now, I love it to the point that I don’t even feel guilty about it anymore.
Like what you like. There’s no shame in having guilty pleasures.
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