Ever indulge in secret sex practices so perverted you couldn't even admit them to your analyst?

No?

Oops, I guess those things aren't as universal as I thought.

Anyway, if you've never experienced that degree of guilt and self-loathing, you still have another opportunity. The sordid personal hell of pop addiction.

These days, you can admit just about anything -- transsexualism, bulimia, God knows, even working in advertising. But tell anyone that you listen to Journey, and suddenly they can 't get away fast enough and into a shower.

What really irritates me is that those same people will tell you Abba is cool, or Serge Gainsbourg, or Dean Martin. Because they're kitsch and camp.

Well, I submit that the following ten guilty pleasures are just as good, just as bad, and maybe just as funny as Abba. So here's my list of things I sometimes listen to in my apartment alone, with the volume turned down so no one can hear out in the hallway. I know it may kill my planned second career as a music critic. That is, if anyone besides my editor actually reads this.

Journey -- OK, the lead singer is one of the most annoying people in music history. But as a good friend of mine noted after hearing "We Are the World," when Steve Perry takes his turn singing the melody, "IT'S SO FULL". He was right. I would actually take Journey's Greatest Hits over, say, the same by the Cult or the Godfathers or, well, you name it. I'm so ashamed.

Neil Diamond -- Except for Van Morrison, he's been the most consistent person in rock ever. Not for his music, for his bad taste in clothes. But that's OK, because his bad taste in over-emoting almost makes up for it. I know you hate him. I know I hate him. But look me in the eye and tell me that Holly Holy doesn't give you chills. I dare you.

U2 -- If you're not ashamed to listen to this tripe, you should be. I submit that Bono is every bit as excruciating as Barry Manilow. Speaking of whom...

Barry Manilow -- Like Jerry Lewis, Manilow is good in exact proportion to how painful he is. Yes, he has a way with melody. Yes, his lyrics, like virtually everyone’s on this list, are utter shit. But at least he loves his mother. When did that stop being important in this world? Huh?

Celine Dion -- Maybe it was because I was going through a divorce at the time, but a few months ago I heard one of the overproduced, commercial power ballads on her huge hit album, and almost cried. Fortunately, I was home alone at the time, so it was only myself I couldn't face the next day.

George Michael -- I want your sex. Fast love. Jeez, is this guy retarded, or what? On the other hand, if you listen without prejudice, you'll find a pop sensibility that's pretty sophisticated. And the guy did a competent "Unplugged", which is more than I can say for Courtney Love. There, I said it.

The Carpenters -- Back when my Aunt Fay was listening to the Carpenters, I was opting for Humble Pie. Needless to say, I haven't put on a Humble Pie record in twenty years, and "Yesterday Once More" is beginning to sound almost as majestic as "I am the Walrus." Always, there is Karen's eerily sad, painfully honest voice. Maybe the personal tragedy adds resonance to the music, but there's no denying it's almost too much to listen to. At the same time, the very innocuousness of the music makes it even creepier.

REO Speedwagon -- Remember the video when the geeky lead singer lip-synched "It's time to pull my ship into the shore, and throw away the oars forever..." Aside from being a sexual metaphor worthy in its idiocy of AC/DC (a truly good band), it's also the moment in the video when the lead singer sprayed a little spit in his sheer enthusiasm for his pathetic song. Why this gave me chills I have no idea. I think I'm very sick.

Glenn Campbell -- Of course, where would he be without Jimmy Webb. Actually, where would any of us be without Jimmy Webb. My favorite is "Galveston," a huge hit in the sixties with all kinds of people who didn't realize it was about a depressed person who's cleaning his gun because he's contemplating suicide. This is some dark shit in a very harmless looking package.

Whitney Houston -- I don't care if she's a prima donna. I don't care about the rumors she's gay. I don't even care that she steadfastly refuses, Patti Labelle-like, to go anywhere near the melody line. Her vocal wanderings, sheer show-off performance pieces, could make the hair on a bald man's head stand up. Which could come in handy, the way my hairlines going.