My Guilty Pleasures

No Shame Here

Aug 30, 2025

These are not great sins.
But still I confess them all.
Guilt tastes like candy.

I’ve got guilty pleasures. Not few. Not to mention. In fact, I’m about to overshare. TMI.

Hell, we all have guilty pleasures. I just write mine down, give them punchlines and call it self-care. Otherwise, we don’t have an Op-Ed Haiku today!

My list of things that I find somewhat embarrassing, and my wife calls irresistible:

There’s my biscotti for breakfast. Not one, multiple. Yes, cookies to start my day.

There’s me putting more than a dollop of dulce de leche in my espresso. I’d mainline it, but it’s too thick for a needle.

There are my afternoon siestas. Nuff said.

There’s me making Kraft Mac & Cheese...and dropping in two humongous Australian lobster tails like I’m Julia Child slumming it. Mmm...blue box decadence.

There’s my junk food intake…I eat red Twizzlers like it’s a food group and buy gas station penny candy…that suddenly now costs 25¢.

There’s my love of old romantic black and white movies. On repeat.

There’s listening to my music very loud and not caring what anybody thinks.

There’s my real estate porn addiction.

There’s my proclivity when attending dinner parties to zero in on people who work in “financial services” and claim to be ethical wealth managers, only to end the night blabbering into their Negroni, questioning capitalism and their own adulthood. (Actually, that’s really a sport.)

There’s indulging in Westside LA celebrity gossip…we tend to know a few.

There’s me, every now and then, supergluing a silver dollar to the sidewalk outside a window and watching the chaos unfold. Adults are funnier than kids. Trust me.

There’s my penchant for stealing beauty—neighbor’s flowers, photos of sacred art, the occasional objet d’art that whispers ‘take me.’…and occasionally conspiring to liberate masters from the walls of collector friends. (Just kidding, Edythe, sort of.)

There’s name-dropping when writing my Op-Ed Haiku’s.

There’s getting my passport stamped somewhere new.

Also? Random thoughts of Penélope Cruz and/or Salma Hayek. No explanation necessary. Well maybe one to my wife after she reads this.

So there, I said it.

Honestly, no shame. No Guilt. No serious questionable health concerns here. (Technically, I’m not addicted to real estate porn—I can usually stop after just 12 tabs.) I just plead guilty of these pleasures. Nolo contendere. Petty indulgences. Small treats I take, or do, or regress towards, that don't hurt anyone, including myself. So let’s call them what they really are: forms of self-care. They bring me joy, lift my emotional wellbeing, and frankly, humble me occasionally. I’m human.

But to be clear, I don’t creep on social media, watch reality TV—more a nature show guy—play Candy Crush (like forever), or procrastinate. Nor do I secretly love to pick my nose, watch Korean soap operas, or like cosplay of any kind.

George Orwell, a real paragon of virtue, thought of his Kipling poetry obsession as “almost a shameful pleasure,” back in 1942. Thus: guilty pleasures.

Not totally pointless, but probably things we like without purpose. Maybe with connotations of gaining pleasure from some lower aesthetic plane? Slumming it, maybe.

But let’s get to the real confession. The playlist. The one I only blast when no else is listening—or when I want the neighbors to judge me.

And no, I am not going to confess that I own a copy of Ethel Merman’s 1979 disco album. Of course, I don’t! No Broadway Show tunes for me. No, really. Nor will I be dissecting the song "Guilty Pleasure" by Chappell Roan. It’s cringier than that. Much cringier.

I know the classic Guilty Pleasure Hall of Fame includes songs like the Bay City Rollers' "Saturday Night," ABBA's "Dancing Queen" and Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up." You could throw in Vanessa Carlton's "A Thousand Miles" or Whitney Houston's "Dance with Somebody" too.

But no, my guilty pleasure songs—that I oddly have not yet outgrown—include unfashionable artists, and are tracks with extreme emotional intensity or repetitive lyrics. That’s what makes up the guilty part. Then there’s the pleasure part of the equation. And I seem to gain pleasure from not conforming to certain standards of taste and sophistication when I listen to them. Boring reason. But then also admitting to liking things that are considered "lowbrow." Judgment be damned. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed to admit I like the following songs, a lot. But I will tell you that my Spotify algorithm is very confused. Because my best guess is that Spotify now thinks I’m a teenage girl from 2009 and a middle-aged divorcée at a karaoke bar.

Because listening to my Guilty Pleasure playlist: Blasting my songs can be a fantastic way to uplift my mood and energy levels. And maybe annoy my neighbors a little too. It can be my version of carpool karaoke by the pool. Or, if I’m in the car, usually on the coastal Mediterranean Highway, you too can catch me singing these power ballads and cheesy classics too.

Okay here goes, The Guilty Pleasure Playlist:
“Merry Go ’Round” by Kacey Musgraves (Because nothing says existential crisis like a twangy waltz about your hometown.)
“Lover” by Taylor Swift (Romantic delusion has never sounded so well-produced.)
“What’s Up” by 4 Non-Blondes (Every time this comes on, I think I’m in a protest documentary. Especially now.)
“Cruisin’” by Huey Lewis & Gwyneth Paltrow (This is my duet-with-a-hairbrush-and-a-bottle-of-wine jam. Don’t judge.)
“Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” Shania Twain (My only cheesy 90s country music.)
“Fuck You” by Lilly Allen (The happiest middle finger you’ll ever sing along to. British sass included.)
“It’s Not Unusual” by Tom Jones (Unbuttoned shirt. Chest hair optional. Hip thrusts—less now than 10 years ago.)
“Closer” by Chainsmokers & Halsey (Millennial angst in a synth-pop taco. And yes, I eat the whole thing.)
“Umbrella” Rihanna & JAY-Z (Ella…ella…ella…eh…eh…eh...It’s in your head now. You’re welcome.)
“All Star” by Smash Mouth (Irony is dead. This slaps unironically.)
“Without You” Harry Nilsson (Power ballad so dramatic it should come with tissues and a therapist.)
“Mandy” by Barry Manilow (I don’t care what anyone says. Respect.)
“True” by Spandau Ballet (Every shower is a stadium. No encore.)
“The Power of Love” by Jennifer Rush (What the hell is this doing here? No, really.)
“On and On” by Stephen Bishop (Actually makes my Spotify algorithm check on my emotional well-being.)
“The Lady in Red” by Chris de Burgh (She’s dancing with me…and yes, I am weepy, a little.)
“I’m a Believer” by The Monkees (Before Shrek stole it, I already believed. Donkey just made it cooler.)

And the pièce de résistance of my Guilty Pleasures playlist:
“Firework” by Katy Perry (Yes, I am the fireworks. Yes, I belt this in the car like I’m exploding over the I-5 nightly near Disneyland at 9PM. No, I will not apologize.)
“Single Ladies” by Beyoncé (This song activates my hip joints automatically, and no, I cannot explain the hand choreography I do in court.)
“Shake it Off” by Taylor Swift (Haters gonna hate, but I’m gonna shimmy like I’m in a Target commercial. And like it.)

But no, sorry, I do draw the line on anything saccharine by Neil Diamond and “Total Eclipse of the Heart” by Bonnie Tyler, that’s my wife’s cup of tea.

So that’s my guilty pleasure playlist. Judge me if you want. But I’ll be by the pool, blasting “Mandy,” sipping espresso dulce, and watching—via Ring cam—as someone tries to pry that glued-down Euro off the sidewalk.

Guilty? Nah. Just vibing on a Saturday afternoon.

Thanks for the privilege of your time, it is the most precious thing we have, and I appreciate it. Be well.

Op-Ed Haiku by William Chalmers

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