November 5, 2002

GUILTY PLEASURES

by Adam Finley, Claire Zulkey, Joe Lavin, A.J. Daulerio, Bob Sassone, and Will Leitch.

Joe Lavin

Sleep. That's my guilty pleasure. Oh, to have something exciting like, say, rampant partying or sex addiction or rampant sex addiction at parties. But, no, I have the most boring guilty pleasure imaginable. I sleep too much.

Of course, I'm not talking about your normal variety of sleep. I'm talking about the 12-hour dead-to-the-world power-doze. I can sleep until two or three in the afternoon, and if you tell me you can do that too, I'll sleep until five just to piss you off. If not for the rest of the world's terrible insistence on noise in the afternoon, I don't know if I'd ever get up on the weekends.

Put it this way: I work a four-day week, primarily so that I can sleep in one extra day. Oh, sure, I claim that Wednesday is my "writing day." But it's also the day I sleep until noon. It's the day I specifically turn the ringer off on my phone so that no tele-marketers can possibly wake me. I like to rationalize all this by pointing out that I regularly stay up until two or three in the morning. I'm a night person. That's why I sleep late, I tell people, although we both know the truth. I'm just a lazy sleeper.

But am I really lazy? Why is sleep instantly equated with laziness? I prefer to think of my sleeping habit as the dogged pursuit of a skilled hobby. There are so many who have trouble sleeping. Why mock me just because I happen to do it well? Besides, there's nothing like waking up when you want to and not a moment earlier. Try it sometime. For your next vacation day, make no plans at all. Disconnect the phone. Don't set your alarm clock. Even tip the clock to the side so that you won't see the time and feel compelled to rise early out of guilt. And once you do wake up and are ready to attack the day, just stay there for another half-hour. Go ahead and do it. I think you'll thank me. If you don't mind me saying so, you've been awfully cranky lately. You could use some extra sleep.

Joe Lavin writes a weekly humor column at joelavin.com. He is also the author of But I Digress, a collection of humor columns available from his web site and from the top shelf of his closet behind some old sweaters that ought to be discarded. While awake, he has written for many publications including The Boston Globe, The Boston Phoenix, Salon, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency.

Claire Zulkey

Kraft macaroni and cheese. Ramen noodles. Anything by Hostess. Gas station flavored coffee. Kraft macaroni and cheese.

Among my many guilty pleasures, any type of processed, cheapo or otherwise crappy food item is one of the most persistent.

It's Prince and the Pauper syndrome, only with food. My mother is a gourmet cook who has fed me my entire life, and I've taken it completely for granted. Some moms make canned beans; mine sautees thin green beans in browned butter. Some children eat mashed potatoes out of a box; mine mashes them herself, adds buttermilk and tosses in a bit of parmesan cheese. Some fruit salads consist of cling peaches sitting in their own aluminum-tasting syrup; mine comes with shredded fresh mint leaves.

If you want a meal, you come to the Zulkey house. However, if you want a snack, you go someplace else. Unless your idea of satiating the munchies consists of oranges, rice cakes or perhaps frozen chicken breasts, my house is a black hole of snacks. Sometimes they come in, but they mysteriously disappear. Anything that resembles a snack is immediately devoured or thrown away to avoid temptation.

Once, my boyfriend, staying on a visit, declared that he would go downstairs to the kitchen in search of a cookie. I laughed. "If you find any, please be sure to let me know."

My parents tried to steer me clear of bad food from an early start; they had anticipated a utopian life free of refined sugar and fat until my aunt and uncle snuck me chocolate while Mom and Dad were away on vacation. This odd balance of food, of constant well-balanced meals but nonexistent mindless snacks can send any body (well, specifically, any girl) into a downward spiral of food hell. When I was younger, I'd beg to stay at friends' houses known for their Lucky Charms, Ho Hos and drippy quesadillas.

I'd get creative at home, sticking glasses of orange juice in the freezer to simulate popsicles, even going so far as to taste baking chocolate (note: it does not taste like regular chocolate.) We used to get Quaker Chewy granola bars in bulk; my mom stopped after my brother and I shoveled them in, craving their precious chocolate chips.

I just wanted a little bad food; was that so bad?

College was practically sensory overload. Where else are you allowed, practically encouraged to eat pizza at 3 a.m., to eat Nutella with a spoon, to consume portions of toppings-heavy frozen yogurt the size of your head?

I'm a bit older, now, and more appreciative of the finer foods in life. Sometimes I even cook healthy, well-balanced, even complicated meals for myself.

But if no one is looking, I still succumb to the junk food. As a treat. As culinary slumming A Chee-to here. An Oreo there. Hot dogs at baseball games. And there's always that blue box, ready for me to transform it into a steaming bowl of rubbery orange delight. As long as I can explain it as junk food deprivation as a child, then it's all right.

Claire Zulkey is a freelance writer and copywriter from Chicago. Find her at zulkey.com.

A.J. Daulerio

When I was 15, I ate so much liverwurst one summer that I ended up with gout. My doctor was stunned. He told me it was very rare for a person my age to get gout. He asked me about my diet, if I'd been eating a lot of shellfish or salty meats. My mother told him how much liverwurst I was eating --which was up to a pound per day--and he made a face like he'd just drank a bowl of snot. I had to cut down on my liverwurst intake or I'd have a tough time walking, much less play football which is where I'd suspected my sore toe joints had came from.

This was not an easy task. I think I was addicted to the stuff. The second night I caved and ate the rest of the roll that was in the kitchen. As Dr. Gold had predicted, the next day my big toes swelled the size of plums and I had to go into see him again to get a Cortisone shot. I was so embarrassed I told him I had dropped a large dictionary on my toe. He told me that he'd heard the dictionary-dropped-on-the-toe excuse enough times in his career, which I found odd. So, I didn't eat liverwurst again for a year, fearing I'd end up with a walker before passing my driver's exam.

The next summer I worked at my brother-in-law's deli in South Philadelphia. Every week he was throwing away large amounts of liverwurst because it wasn't selling. I couldn't let that happen. Eventually, I was eating four liverwurst sandwiches almost everyday. My joints swelled up again and I had to miss some time at work. So (again) I stopped eating liverwurst. I had to for other reasons as well. My brother-in-law was going to start docking my pay because I was eating more of it than he was selling.

Now, I have liverwurst once a month, usually as a reward after a particularly tough week at work or around the holidays when my mother puts it out as an appetizer. Most of the time, I can make one roll last a week, but sometimes I still overindulge and limp around for a few days after. It's just so damn good. Even if it does basically cripples me every time I eat it. My grandmother used to love liverwurst as much as I do. I now realize that's probably why she walked so funny. When I was about six or seven, she introduced me to it. It didn't appeal to me at first given its purple color and mushy consistency. She'd say it "looks like cat food, but it tastes like candy".

I used to not know what she was talking about. I do now.

A.J. Daulerio is a freelance writer.

Adam Finley

Almost everyone would like to quit their job. They might even peruse the want ads during their afternoon break while they munch on vending machine snacks, but very few of them will actually get up and walk out without the promise of a new job.

Because no one wants to be unemployed.

Except me.

When you're unemployed, your only job is to look for another job, and that is the easiest job there is. My first taste of unemployment came in the summer of 2000. I was working as a copy editor in the methamphetamine-riddled Iowa town Tom Arnold once called home. After three months of piecing together obituaries, I was called into my editor's office where he told me I would be given a one week review, and then they'd decide whether to keep me or not. This was my first time being fired, so I thought there was a possibility they would keep me. I have learned much since then. Unemployment hurts at first. They tell you to relax, it won't hurt that bad, but they're wrong. They tell you to just lie back, it might even feel good, but you don't believe them. You even consider backing out, but so many other people have been unemployed before you, so it must not be all bad.

It does hurt the first time, it hurts a lot.

But after that, it kind of starts to feel good.

Unemployment isn't like a real job, in fact, by its very definition, it's not a job at all, but it‚s the only job you have while you don't have a job, and the key to enjoying it to its fullest potential is to act as if it is your job.

Every morning you have to wake up and buy a newspaper.

Then you go online.

You read the comics, and check your e-mail. Yes, the Family Circus is still unfunny, and yes, you are still subscribed to the Flaming Lips mailing list. You may be unemployed, but the world is still marching on per usual.

And as long as you have a newspaper and Internet access, you might as well check the job ads.

You skim the local paper for local jobs, perhaps something that has to do with restaurants or hospitality. That's the heading they list "Front Desk Clerk" under in the Careers section of the paper. I've worked in three different Super 8 Motels, and my total time spent in all of them is about three months.

When I become unemployed, however, I am a motel genius. I know the motel business inside and out. I ran the front desk, checked clients in and out, cleaned the pool area, and stocked the continental breakfast bar. What I definitely did not do is sit in the lobby watching television all night reading Hunter S. Thompson and chatting with this insane twenty-four-year-old newspaper boy who rubber-banded his papers together at five in the morning while he blathered on and on about things which I knew nothing about, and which I'm pretty sure he didn't either.

Once you've found a few job possibilities, you can run out and pick up applications. This is really all you need to do, because the unemployed's workday is actually quite short. If you have time, you can take these home and fill them out, but if it's after 10 a.m., forget about it. The traffic starts to get bad around that time, and by "traffic" I mean the band Steve Winwood used to be in.

I used to think the song "Valerie" was actually called "Mallory." When I learned the truth, I also learned how artificial the world could be.

Being unemployed makes you sensitive in this way.

You get a lot of reading done when you're unemployed, too.

And you can drive around if you feel like it, because the traffic is really light at 10 a.m.

According to the AP Stylebook, that's the correct way to write the time, with a period after both the "a" and the "m."

This is part of my journalistic knowledge, which may soon garner me another writing job, something as cool as the last writing job I had. For two years I worked out of my home, set my own hours, and never saw my boss (he lived in San Francisco and I lived in Des Moines). It was like getting paid to be unemployed. My job was to watch online films, listen to online music, and write about them. Then I got out the Play-Doh.

Actually, you can get paid to be unemployed, although they don't call it that; they call it "collecting unemployment," and while I'm sure that only adds to the fun factor of not having a job, I've never actually done it. I tried collecting unemployment after I lost my last job, but according to some mystical file the gods have on me, I have no record of being employed during certain times. I credit this to a lot of "non-jobs" I've held over the years, jobs with no specific title like "Kid who trims the grass around grain silos" or "That guy who puts tree branches into a shredder and gets whacked repeatedly in the face with said branch in the process."

That was the summer I was able to peel reddened skin from my face like an apple peel. My face hurt a lot that summer, what with being sunburned and smacked with tree branches all day. Unemployment, however, has never made my face hurt.

You also get less paper cuts when you're unemployed.

And nobody yells at you.

Or makes you urinate into a cup to prove your typing ability.

But it's more than just not having to put up with the daily grind all of those poor employed bastards have to. It‚s about the wonderful world of discovery and enchantment that awaits the unemployed person every day. During those unemployed times I've listened to Gremlins 2: The New Batch on DVD through headphones for no good reason, I've written letters, and I've read the dictionary. I also came up with the phrase "I am so Bill Paxton."

Here‚s an example of how to use the phrase:

You went to a bar the other night, and you flirted with a cute girl sitting at the end of the bar. Before she leaves, she gives you her phone number. The next day you slyly tell all of your co-workers, "I was so Bill Paxton."

You may have gotten the girl, but while you‚re at work, I‚m at home watching The Texas Chainsaw Massacre in French.

You sad, deluded, employed bastard.

Adam Finley lives and writes in Des Moines, IA.

Bob Sassone

What is a guilty pleasure, really? If it gives us pleasure, why do we have to feel "guilty" about it? The first part of the phrase suggests that we should feel embarrassed for liking it. But if it's a quality thing - TV show, film, song, book - why do we have to feel guilty? Why can't we just say it's a good thing, maybe even a great thing, that should be watched, read, or listened to, and leave it at that? Unless, of course, we're talking about the Macarena.

So you're sitting there on your couch. Maybe you've just eaten dinner, or you just got home from work, or maybe it's late at night and you're channel surfing. Past the local news, past that episode of Friends you've seen 300 times (the one where everyone talks about a past Thanksgiving, where everyone played football). You're flipping around the stations, flip, flip, flip, and you land on The Disney Channel. The announcer says "and now back to more Boy Meets World, here on Disney!" You say a little silent "oh, jeez" to yourself, and you press the channel button forward.

Wait. Don't. Give it a shot. You might be surprised.

OK, if it's the later seasons, when Cory and Topanga and Shawn and Eric went off to college (the SAME college, mind you), and they just HAPPENED to be taught by Mr. Feeny, the high school teacher who decided to start teaching at the college, and Cory and Topanga got married, and the writers started to add up-to-now unknown relatives and roommates and cast members that just made things get out of hand, sure, you might wonder what the hell I'm talking about.

I'm talking about the first five seasons, when the show was...how can I put this without sounding fanatical...one of the most clever, good-natured, well-cast, well-written, laugh-out-loud-but-still-touching half hours on television. Critics ignored it (usually without watching it), because it was sandwiched between Urkel and some show where those unearthly Olsen twins played...I don't know, unearthly Olsen twins, or something. It was dismissed as just another one of those lame ABC Friday Night sitcom. I feel sorry for people who missed it (though enough people watched it, since it ran from 1993 to 2000).

I don't know why I first started watching the show, since Friday night teen sitcoms weren't my cup of tea (OK, maybe Sabrina, but for entirely different reasons), but I got hooked. On the surface, it was the story of three friends - Cory, Topanga, and Shawn - trying to survive middle school and later high school. Cory and Topanga dated, and Shawn was Cory's best friend. But what made this show soar above the others was the interaction of the cast and the writing. This wasn't a set-up, joke, set-up, joke, get in trouble, wacky mishap, joke, lesson learned, play music, fade out show. OK, some episodes were indeed like that. But the humor and situations were often more irreverent than you'd expect, and they broke the fourth wall and included many inside jokes. How can a show with so many of the sitcom conventions (grouchy next-door neighbor, episodes about the dangers of drinking, scenes where the parent talks to the kid around the kitchen table and they hug) seem so...so...uncoventional? And how many teen sitcoms can you name where you can actually quote one-liners?

These characters were well-developed. They cared about each other (Cory and Shawn's best friendship was one of the most real, best written friendships you'll find on television), they grew (Cory and Topanga dated, broke up, stayed friends, dated, then got married at 18), they made mistakes. Even the parents and teachers were written in a refreshing way, a change from the usual "parents and teachers are the dolts and the kids are clever" trend that often happens in sitcoms. And it was rather daring for an ABC Friday night teen sitcom (are Cory and Topanga actually going on their honeymoon and doing it?). It's hard to describe the show, really. Imagine Leave It To Beaver, with a big dollop of Seinfeld. There, I just described it.

Since I've already dug a hole for myself, let me go a bit deeper: not only is Boy Meets World a guilty pleasure, I contend that...wait for it...it's the most underrated TV series of all-time. Yeah, you heard me. The most underrated TV series of all-time. And I don't feel guilty saying that.

I also love SpongeBob Squarepants...

Bob Sassone is editor of this magazine, and has never met anyone named "Topanga."

Will Leitch

I have no guilty pleasures, and, to be honest, I'm a little offended you asked. A life spent full of regret, questioning, full of self-doubt...that's not a life lived at all. It is caution that should be thrown to the wind, like a plastic bag, whistling, whipped around to and fro. What a beautiful sight.

Sure. I have a few predilections that could, in the wrong hands, be perceived as "dopey" or "uncool" or "perverted." I enjoy listening to "Freebird" in the nude covered in Tabasco sauce and fire ants, while highlights of the 1985 Chicago Bears play, silently, on a projected screen on my ceiling. Is this something I should feel guilty about? Eh, prosecutor? You're being awfully quiet now, Mr. Starr.

I don't have to justify myself to you. Your moralizing is becoming meddlesome. I'm not the one wearing parachute pants. Now, get off my porch.

Will Leitch's "Life as a Loser" column runs weekly on TheSimon.com. He has written for Salon, The New York Times on the Web, New York Press, Nerve, Ironminds, Playboy.com, and The Sporting News.

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