It struck me the other night while I was watching a report on 60 Minutes about an East German man who lived in America for many years as a Russian spy.

The man looked like any of your neighbors, so no one suspected a thing. One day though, the feds came calling. Maybe you saw the report.

If you did, you also heard him say that the most difficult part of his secret existence was telling his daughter the truth.

I thought immediately of a parallel in my own life; a secret so dark, so tucked away in my past that I shudder to this day when I remember sharing it with my own daughter. Now, I reluctantly share it with you.

I regularly watched “The Lawrence Welk Show” on Saturday nights during my teens and twenties. And we’re not talking about a few shows here and there. I’ve probably seen more than a hundred.

Yes, while my friends were out cruising and getting hammered on Boone’s Farm, I was too often at home in front of the TV with my parents shamelessly watching Bobby and Cissy cut a rug and Myron Floren effortlessly ripping off polkas on his accordion.

I don’t remember when my obsession with Welk began. His show would just sort of show up on my TV each Saturday at around 7pm, almost magically, without having to change the channel.

Champagne bubbles would fill the screen, and I would drift into a hypnotic trance.

In the early days of my addiction, a sample of the show turned into a taste, then a taste into a spoonful. Before I knew it, I was grazing on the entire Welk buffet of old favorites, ballads, and the occasional Welk treatment of a pop or country tune.

I always thought it would be interesting to hear Welk introduce the song “Play That Funky Music White Boy.” With his thick accent, it would probably come out something like “Play dat-a fonky music-a whide boy-a.”

I know what you’re thinking. Why on earth would you ever confess this secret to anyone?

There are several reasons.

Like the Russian spy in the 60 Minutes story, I want to leave this earth clean and free of guilt. I also happen to believe, even looking back today, that the people on the Welk show were actually pretty good.

Variety shows were big in the day, and Welk’s singers were among the best performers on TV. It is my understanding they didn’t earn huge salaries, but when they sang, they performed with all their heart. They were attractive people, they smiled, and they came back each week to give us even more.

There was something comforting and familiar about them on a dateless Saturday night. It may also have been part of the reason I was dateless on some of those Saturdays.

Welk’s show started out in black-and-white, but when they made the move to color in the mid-60’s, Welk made the most of it. Fully grown men would appear on stage in bright canary-yellow suits, looking like they’d just stepped out of an Easter basket. The colors just seemed to jump off the TV screen.

It was also educational. Thanks to Welk’s catchy goodnight tune, I learned to say “good night” in most of the major foreign languages.

My addiction followed me to the University of North Carolina at Charlotte where it wasn’t unusual to hear strange music and smell funny smells drifting down the hallway of my dorm. But in my case, the strange music might be a Guy and Ralna love ballad, and the funny smell was more than likely freshly popped popcorn.

My college friends never thought poorly of me, at least they never expressed such feelings, but they would often stage their own version of an intervention by turning up the volume on the Pink Floyd album that played endlessly through the night. I would respond by cranking up the Joe Feeney.

Through understanding and a small amount of family counseling, I’m proud to report that I am no longer addicted to Welk, though there have been momentary lapses into my past thanks to PBS reruns of his show.

There’s even something cool about watching it now. There must be. Saturday Night Live regularly lampoons the Welk show. Their satire is screamingly funny, but I doubt Lawrence would be pleased.