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To properly immortalize our bizarre obsession with things that we know are neither good for our minds or our reputations, we've chronicled some of the main offenders, for a sort of guilty pleasure "Hall of Shame." Don't even try to deny these.

Sure, tough guy, we know: Sunday night football is mandatory fall viewing in your household. That is, until 9 p.m., when you're suddenly all about Desperate Housewives
Howard Hughes  |  by www.longislandpress.com. All rights reserved. 13.03 | 6:15


Sure, tough guy, we know: Sunday night football is mandatory fall viewing in your household. That is, until 9 p.m.

, when you're suddenly all about Desperate Housewives. Leave us 50 bucks each week in a plain brown envelope, and we promise your friends won't find out. And ladies, don't think you're off the hook, either—we know that many of you secretly tune in to Howard Stern each day, even though he can be the epitome of everything you hate about men, because you can't help but laugh, like when he pushes the envelope with celebrity guests.

Don't worry; we don't think any less of you.
The fact is, everyone has their guilty pleasures, whether it's a TV show, movie, book or favorite celebrity. These are the things that you're not likely to bring up in conversation or recommend to friends—those little joys you savor in absolute secrecy, like your Bon Jovi record collection, or your still-burning love for Deborah Gibson.

(Don't believe us? See our interview with her on page 60.)
To properly immortalize our bizarre obsession with things that we know are neither good for our minds or our reputations, we've chronicled some of the main offenders, for a sort of guilty pleasure "Hall of Shame.

" Don't even try to deny these.
There's something about those gals and guys of Wisteria Lane that's simply engrossing (not to mention, they're all easy on the eyes), and the story arcs can be nuttier than your uncle Fred. And once you're hooked, there's no fighting it.

For many women, the show's a staple; but were the cable to go out at 9:15 on a Sunday, their men would be none too pleased either.

Beverly Hills, 90210 If you want to lay blame for the outbreak of primetime soaps centered on beautiful trust-fund teens (The OC, Laguna Beach, etc.), consider 90210 the godfather.

Guys spent the '90s trying to emulate Dylan's cool (Luke Perry) or Brandon's nice-guy charm (Jason Priestley), particularly via some questionable hair styles, while gals mirrored teen archetypes like spunky brunette Brenda (Shannon Doherty) or pristine blonde Kelly (Jennie Garth). And man, some heavy stuff went down at the Peach Pit.
As the 1990s' 20-something companion to 90210, Melrose Place soon found ratings gold thanks to increasingly ridiculous plot twists, spiked with characters returning from the dead, schizos running rampant and ladies slapping each other silly.

Plus, eye candy abounded, whether you were into Amanda (Heather Locklear) and Jo (Daphne Zuniga) or Billy (Andrew Shue) and Jake (Grant Show). Seinfeld even featured an episode that revolved around Melrose being a guilty pleasure.
You've got wrestling, which is really more redneck theater than sport, and NASCAR, which still gets a bum rap in these parts.

Then there are those things guys watch, and end up enjoying, thanks to their significant others—namely figure skating and gymnastics. Fun to watch, but not generally a topic of male water-cooler conversation. Fishing shows are fun, too, yet once the soundtracks kick in, complete with a banjo playing in the background, you feel like a character out of Deliverance.


We suspect that one of the reasons why Lost is such a huge hit is the legions of closet Matthew Fox fans out there, who know him best as Charlie Salinger. It's the same reason you loved Scott Wolf's appearance in Go. And let's not forget the show also gave us Neve Campbell (Julia) and Jennifer Love Hewitt (Sarah), who we all watched grow up to become the curvy knockout she is today, like Generation X's own Annette Funicello.


We don't watch American Idol because we haven't heard "Isn't She Lovely" or "Because You Loved Me" enough already. We love laughing at the many talentless, utterly delusional jokers in the early rounds, we love Simon's biting candor and abhorrence for Paula Abdul, and when the voting begins, we're obsessed with seeing our favorites prevail, like Kelly Clarkson, who everyone in America now adores, making her one of the few guilty pleasures to go legit. Then someone like William Hung comes along, like a dorky, tone-deaf cherry atop a giant karaoke sundae.


Whether it's a gang of obnoxious kids tearing one another apart in a giant Machiavellian, Lord of the Flies-esque melee à la The Real World, or if it's celebrity-driven pap like Newlyweds: Nick Jessica, The Osbournes, Meet the Barkers, the appropriately titled The Surreal Life or Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie's The Simple Life, we can't turn away from reality TV, thanks to its vicarious, voyeuristic pleasures. We all knew Ozzy was toast and that Jessica was no Rhodes Scholar, but that doesn't make watching any less gripping.
Long before the Bush clan ruled the White House, the shady machinations of wealthy oil families were merely a source of cheese-slathered primetime drama.

With Dallas (which also provided the spin-off Knots Landing), viewers pondered who shot J.R. (Larry Hagman), while dudes lusted after Pamela (Victoria Principal).

And as Blake Carrington, John Forsythe was to Dynasty what Hagman was to Dallas, while Linda Evans (Krystle) and Joan Collins (Alexis) made sure guys watched too. They defined the perfect guilty pleasure: bad acting, corny melodrama and hot stars.
Quite possibly the most flamboyant show on TV (along with boasting the hottest models), Runway offers all the Type-A stress of The Apprentice, but with the fashion swagger of Isaac Mizrahi on the red carpet.

Thanks to this addictive show and another guilty pleasure—the brutal What Not To Wear—the men of America have learned the definition of the word "couture" and how to properly accessorize, or so their wives tell us.
Like cockroaches, they'll outlive us all. Guiding Light, originally a radio series, is now entering its record-setting 54th year, while Days of Our Lives is an incredible 41 years old.

Don't forget General Hospital, whose contribution to the '80s was the famous "Luke Laura" wedding, which actually made a woman's decision to marry the man who raped her seem like a romantic one. You never know who's watching soaps, either—fans generally have a strict "don't ask, don't tell" policy.
Showgirls is widely considered one of the worst films ever made, yet you can't tear your eyes from the screen, as if it's one giant flesh-filled train wreck.

Elizabeth Berkley is unintentionally hilarious as Nomi, yet her lap dance scene with Kyle MacLachlan (Zack) rivals anything you'll see at Scores. And let's not forget, the oft-nude Gina Gershon (Cristal) classes things up. Meanwhile, in Striptease, Demi Moore showcases her silicone-enhanced body, while Burt Reynolds embraces his inner perv.

Need we say more? It doesn't get guiltier.
Sure, Pretty Woman, Sleepless in Seattle and When Harry Met Sally are the genre's modern classics, but what about all the countless other formulaic, totally forgettable romantic comedies you've seen since?

(Think Maid in Manhattan, How To Lose a Guy in 10 Days and Kate and Leopold.) Ladies—why do you keep renting them? And guys, you're doubly guilty, not only because you watched Legally Blonde and Sweet Home Alabama, but also because you liked them.


As a culture, we're obsessed with celebrity gossip in all its forms, but there's something particularly enthralling, and subsequently guilty, about TV shows like Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood and The Insider. We endure moronic talking heads like Billy Bush and Pat O'Brien just so we can stay on top of every breaking development in the juicy Brad Pitt/Angelina Jolie/Jennifer Aniston saga, or the tragic Hilary Swank/Chad Lowe split. This is critical information in these trying times.


Although porn overall is itself a guilty pleasure, homemade celebrity sex movies are the crème de la. The infamous Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee video was the real groundbreaker—it gave the world a mind-blowing, XXX-rated look at everyone's favorite Baywatch girl, while immortalizing Lee in John Holmes-esque fashion. Later, we didn't even care that the "cameraman" used night vision to film Paris Hilton doing the nasty.

Still a winner? Yes..

.yes it was.

Any Patrick Swayze Movie (Ghost, Road House, Dirty Dancing, etc.

) Ghost is a big hit with the ladies, yet guys get all verklempt too. And while Road House is a tour-de-force of male fantasy, complete with bar fights, hot blondes and lethal, throat-ripping kung fu moves, ladies dig it, because, well, Swayze's buff. But wait—he also boogies with the best of them in Dancing, and leads both a post-commie-invasion rebellion in Red Dawn and a greaser street gang in The Outsiders.

If only the great Anthony Hopkins could muster up that kind of versatility, minus the mullet and layer of cheese.
Hair bands were as integral to the '80s as Reaganomics. They represented our own inner leather- and spandex-clad, Aqua Net-blasted libidos, and they're still (sometimes secretly) loved to this day.

Just ask anyone who packed the Garden recently when a reunited, albeit geriatric, Crüe rolled into town, or the legions that pack Giants Stadium seemingly every summer for Jovi. And when Warrant's "Heaven" or Extreme's "More Than Words" come on the radio, and you're alone, we know you're singing along.
There's really nothing in the aural landscape as soothingly saccharine; their records are prized possessions of mothers and grandmothers everywhere, and the younger generations have been brainwashed with the stuff.

Just singing a few bars of Air Supply's "All Out of Love" or "Even The Nights Are Better" will reduce many a baby boomer to a quivering, sobbing mass. Ditto Manilow and H O. And that's without even seeing the hairdos these guys used to sport.


Another proud son of the mullet, Marx was the pop maven back in the late '80s and early '90s. Who can forget "Endless Summer Nights," "Should've Known Better," "Hold On to the Nights" and "Right Here Waiting"? They were all the stuff of mall food court daydreams and awkward prom slow dances.

He came back around in 2004 with a new record, reminding us of how much we like the guy, even if we'll never confess to it.
There was a moment there when the world fell in love with this Scandinavian four-piece, right when you thought "The Sign" was perhaps the greatest pop song you'd ever heard. Then, just as quickly, something about it became totally embarrassing.

We blame the Swedes for this.
Most of us, even diehard Stern listeners, know that what we're enjoying is childish, sexually obsessive trash, but we just don't care. Even true intellectuals become potty-humor connoisseurs when Howard is working his magic.

Some use a canvas, brush and paint for their art; Howard uses porn stars, crotchety Klansmen and drunken dwarfs for his.
There's a wrestling- and NASCAR-loving sportswriter here at the Press, from the South no less, who turns to jelly at the mere mention of Ms. Gibson's name.

Amber-haired former mall-pop queen Tiffany once enchanted another staffer. Then there was Britney and Christina, before they got married, pregnant and/or crazy, and now we have Hilary Duff and the rambunctious Lindsay Lohan. We're always going to love cute, perky little teen bubblegum pop queens, but while it's okay for your 11-year-old to say so, you should probably keep it to yourself.


(*NSync, BackStreet Boys, New Kids on the Block, Menudo) Although most of us know that there's little to no redeeming value in putting together a bunch of teen underwear models, giving them microphones and a dance routine, then setting them loose on the pre-pubescent girls of our nation, it works every time. Although, that still doesn't make singing "I Want it That Way" or "Shape of My Heart" in the shower any more forgivable.
Although it would be perfectly normal in other parts of the country to trumpet your love of all things Nashville, here in N.

Y. it's a different story. Look, we can totally understand why you love Shania Twain, the Dixie Chicks and Faith Hill, heck, even Garth Brooks, but you don't want to be that guy in the commercial singing "Man!

I Feel Like A Woman!" in a car packed with your buddies.
We're all plagued with really stupid songs we can't get out of our heads, like Hanson's "MMMBop" or the Pussycat Dolls' "Don't Cha," and are thus caught singing them aloud at embarrassing moments.

But few are as artistically lousy, or as frighteningly catchy, as the Black Eyed Peas' "My Humps." (You know it: "My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump/My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps.") Haha.

..It's now embedded in your brain.

You can now add yet another guilty pleasure to your list.

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Keywords: Road House, Paris Hilton
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