The Pleasure Principle

They, who are omniscient, say that to get people to read your blog you must titillate them, pepper them with details of your scandalous deeds, your darkest secrets, and throw in those of your friends while you’re at it. Ooops. Your Redheads left their attempts at scandal behind them once we realized that Versace doesn’t make sheer garments we like, and trying to become Paris Hilton’s BFF was just too large an assault on our collective dignity. We do have some guilty pleasures though, things that are so embarrassing that if they were known far and wide our faces would match our follicles. BUT in the name of internet popularity we’ve decided to share with you just a few of the things in which, when no one is looking, we indulge. Please don’t judge us too harshly…

Wendy Lane:

Richard Simmons’ Sweatin’ to the Oldies DVD’s: I know, it’s not cool, it’s not hip, but I just can’t help myself. When it’s cold outside and I can’t get out for my daily three mile constitutional there’s something really great about exercising with this sadistic little elf. He’s funny, he’s supportive, he picks great tunes, and you never get the feeling that he’s judging your décor. Besides, the people in his videos look like real people, not gym toned androids who’ve never tasted a baked good. Can twenty million people really be wrong?



Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups: This is the wound which keeps me from being a true foodie. I love European chocolate, and will happily spend hours and hundreds of dollars at Murray’s Artisanal Cheeses, but sometimes only the salty waxy taste of the original Reese’s will do. I’ve tried the upscale versions and keep coming back to the original.


Project Runway: American Idol makes me nervous, and the rest of the Reality TV makes me queasy. But Project Runway is special. Potato sacks, spare car parts, or items from D’Agostino’s produce department are turned into fashion for fun and prizes. The next day when I should be spinning around in my chair composing pithy prose or rehearsing for upcoming gigs I’m second- guessing the judges and comparing opinions on my favorite Runway-related blog Tom & Lorenzo. If only they’d do an "Outfit the Redheaded Singer" challenge I’d be set!

 Laurel:

 Spelling mistakes in public places, which can lead to hilarious unintended meanings. For example, I was just in a small take-out coffee place in the theater district where a handwritten sign said "Restrooms for costumers only". I guess the props folks are out of luck. Down the block, there is a sandwich board outside a faux-French restaurant, advertising the "pre-fixed" dinner. I sure hope that meal is dated...

Hulu and YouTube. "I don't watch television," I murmur. "I read a lot." The second half is true. I do read quite a lot. But the first half is only literally true. I do not own a TV, and haven't owned one for over a decade, so I cannot watch one. But I knew ten years ago that I would someday be able to watch shows directly on my home computer. That someday is now today, and that is how I have come to be addicted to Bones, House, Grey's Anatomy and Doc Martin on Hulu.com, and to any number of British shows and old movies chopped up into 9-minute segments on YouTube.

Rereading English murder mysteries, though I already know "whodunit". And, very specifically, Dorothy Sayers' Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries, because Lord Peter is so much smarter and more articulate than everyone else around him (except that dratted Harriet Vane who finally snagged him). Which makes him quite romantic to me, especially when I have bronchitis or the flu, which is when I tend to read these things. I love it it when Lord Peter erupts into French, which he only does in the throes of passion. And of course nothing inspires a man to sweep into the flat and make mad, passionate French love to a woman more than that woman having a runny nose and a cough that sounds like a seal barking. Mais oui!


We know we’re not alone, you’ve got a skeleton or two rattling around and we want to hear about it. What are your guilty pleasures; we’ve shown you ours, now it’s your turn.