guilty displeasures

A premise: guilty pleasures no longer exist. In this age of ever-present irony and deep appreciation of camp, it's no longer necessary to hide your passion for tacky stuff.

Geeky 70s stuff has been out of fashion long enough that it can now be appreciated for its true worth (accept it, those ABBA guys had a brilliant way with harmonies) .

A passion for tacky 80s stuff can be passed off as an ironic nod to hipsterism. "Yes, David Chase, I too appreciate Journey for the camp value." (When secretly my love for Steve Perry burns with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns)*

I would posit that what is truly embarrassing now is to admit stuff that you *don't* like, particularly when it is part of the cool kids pantheon. But I will bravely go forth:

I don't like the Rolling Stones. I have a deep and abiding hatred for Fleetwood Mac. I don't like any of the Coen Brothers movies (ok, except for "Fargo.") And I never liked "The Catcher in the Rye," even when I was a disaffected youth.



* paraphrase of "Fairly Odd-Parents" The rise of Alternadads and hipster moms also makes it possible to acknowledge that you actually watch cartoons along with your kids, and have a favorite Wiggle (Greg, duh.)