We’re all guilty of something.

Sure, for some, it’s a bit more serious (like armed robbery), but for most of us, the crime is one of taste, not federal law. Maybe while driving back to Athens after a long weekend with the parents spent soaking up the comforts of home, some University students like to crank up Bryan Adams and soft-rock out. Or hair metal might be more their taste.

As for myself, I enjoy bopping along to the songs of the Disney Channel stars. They’re oh-so-catchy, if not vaguely terrifying (there’s something unnatural about that Demi Lovato’s smile). I could blame a young, Hannah Montana-obsessed family member, but I’d be lying if I said it was all her fault (after all, she’s not even 10).

No matter the guilty pleasure, the idea remains the same. There are some things that, for all the joy they may bring us, we tend to keep to ourselves.

I suppose it’s part of the same compulsion that drove so many of us during middle school. After all, middle school saw the years of true conformity. Never mind all this high school tosh.

Wearing the Abercrombie & Fitch sweater even though it was itchy and ugly? Check. Wearing those stupid bouncy butterfly clips? Check. Boys: the bleached hair, gelled up in the front? Check.

No one wanted to be caught stepping too far outside the safe, trendy zone. High school brought more people, more cliques, more options of who to be. College doubly so. Still, even now, we sometimes seem driven by some hidden, internal seventh grader.

Don’t get me wrong. Everyone loves a “non-conformist, kitsch” pleasure. But why else does half the bar erupt into song when Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” filters through the speakers? It’s funny if you only kind of like it. It gets weird when you can sing it without the music.

Not to sound like an inspirational poster (there are no kittens on wires here), but I’d like to encourage people to embrace their guilty pleasures. It won’t make anyone a better person or provide some deep revelation about the workings of the world.

Once, though, when I was a child, a strange little boy flew into my room and told me that with a little fairy dust, the happiness provided by my secret CD stash would allow me to fly. Of course, I jumped off the bookshelf and fell flat on my face, so I think he was lying. Or he was a movie character that I believed in a little too much. Who knows.

Most silliness aside, our guilty pleasures give us a sense of enjoyment. Sure, there aren’t many people who won’t laugh upon hearing someone spent a fortune amassing a collection of just-plain-bad romantic comedies. But does it really matter when, at the film’s saccharine end, there’s that un-ironic swelling of the heartstrings?

Our secret guilty pleasures are things that, however cheesy and universally panned, bring us an unencumbered smile. And honestly, in times like these, with recessions and hiring freezes and surprise University fees (nice knowin’ you, hundred bucks), we could all stand some moments of light-hearted fun.

By the way, if anyone else over the age of 18 happens to know the names of all three Jonas Brothers for the same ridiculous reason as I do, you know where to find me.

- Cameron Hubbard is variety editor for the Red & Black.