Confessions of a vampire reader: Pop culture we love to hate

As I write this, I’m wishing that there was a nifty little tool that would insert a paper bag over the author photo at the top left  of the page. Say, a paper bag with two blood-red eyes drawn on it, along with a sly smile revealing sharp fangs.

Why the sudden strange desire for author anonymity? Well, earlier today I clicked on this. And then I watched this:

And over the weekend, I finished reading this. I actually bought it, too. In hardcover. I was Number 166 on the library reserve list, and I couldn’t wait.

Forget the paper bag over my face. I need professional help.

OK, now you know. I have devoured, with the lust of a bloodthirsty vampire deranged housewife, all four of Stephenie Meyer’s appallingly cloying novels in the “Twilight” series. Oh, the lady did protest along the way. Practically every other pulsating word — the diamond skin! the tingly electric charge of vampire sex! — elicited a groan from this chagrined reader. Why did I put myself through this self-flagellating exercise? Why waste a few hours of my waking hours on this schlock? The most honest answer is, “I dunno. The Volturi made me do it.” If you’re a lucky member of the uninitiated, don’t ask. It’s not worth the explanation.

Plus, if you had the patience to watch the trailer, everyone knows that Bella the Beautiful should have chosen the werewolf over the vampire. Hordes of teenage girls would string me up for that, I’m sure, but I guess I’m just a shaggy dog kinda female.

But why this confession? I read “Twilight,” the first in what is sure to be an ongoing saga, for a book club. I put it off and finally picked it up and cringed through the entire read. All for the benefit of the fellowship of my book group. Right. So why did I then go on to read the rest of them? I could say I was reading them so that I’d be prepared when my daughter picked them up. But she’s seven. We have a few years to go.

So why this  perverse attraction to to books that I mocked even as I stayed up late turning the pages? I don’t know. Some health nuts eat the occasional Cheeto. Every now and then, I find myself devouring junk lit. Or watching B movies. (After reveling in Johnny Depp’s wildly over the top performance in “Ed Wood,” I Netflixed “Plan 9 from Outer Space” and survived the entire thing. More than once.)

I faithfully watch Jerry Lewis every Labor Day when he  sings “You’ll Never Walk Alone” at the end of his Muscular Dystrophy telethon. We’re talking every year. He rolls the board for the final countdown of money raised. He cries. He attacks the song. The camera pans to all the teary faces in the audience, and I pull out the checkbook. A total sucker. That’s me. Plus, I always try to arrange a visit to the dentist or the salon right after the Academy Awards, so I can score a look at the Best Dressed/Worst Dressed issue of People. And I don’t even hide it between the pages of the latest Don Delillo or Orhan Pamuk.

I draw the line at “American Idol.” I’ve seen it exactly once — at the gym. The lady next to me in the line of elliptical trainers looked like she was about to throw her water bottle at me when I asked if I could turn the sound off.

So what is this about, really? I remember taking a graduate seminar in post-modern lit from a brilliant scholar who shall remain nameless (you’ll see why). One day, he showed up with copies of a Harlequin romance. He bought them in a grocery store, far out of town. For some reason, he thought we should read the book and analyze it at our next meeting. Well. That session of the class was animated and well-attended. The last line of the book was something like, “And he carried her up the stairs, to heaven and beyond…” Delicious. A bunch of bookworms sitting around parsing the literary value of heaving bosoms.

Is this occasional attraction a mere guilty pleasure? Or is it a desire to feel better about ourselves because we are simply above this stuff, and only reading it to make fun of it? I could write another dozen posts railing about the twisted message of the “Twilight” series. The fact that not one, but two swarthy werewolves “imprint” with toddlers and are pledged to marry them when they grow up is revolting on so many levels.

But I am not here to critique vampire books, per se. I am here to ask you, dear readers, to confess what books, movies, CDs, television shows, etc. you have soaked up, in spite of your better instincts. Pray tell. Do you find yourself reading chick lit under the covers? Historical romance? Do you tune into “American Idol” or “Dancing with the Zombies” — or whatever the latest version is? Dr. Phil? Make me feel better. Tell me I’m not alone.