Column: For Roger Ebert, sometimes bad was bad

Reading about bad movies should not be this melancholy an experience.

After all, the whole point of reading Roger Ebert's collections of zero- to two-star reviews is to revel in the ineptitude (“The Last Airbender”), the excess (“Battle: Los Angeles”), the sheer, well, BADNESS (“Basic Instinct 2,” pretty much anything featuring Adam Sandler) of the cinematic misfires catalogued therein.
He's published three: "I Hated Hated Hated This Movie," the more succinctly titled  "Your Movie Sucks," and his latest -- the one I’m working through now -- "A Horrible Experience of Unbearable Length.”

Of course, this latest volume has a sad distinction the other two didn’t, in that it's his last. As you probably know, Ebert passed away April 4 -- eerily enough, about a week after I ordered the book, and just a day before it arrived in my mailbox.

For a while, I’ll admit I avoided opening it. I’ve read most of Ebert’s books -- from his early collections to his “Great Movies” series to his fantastic memoir “Life Itself” -- and I couldn’t stand the idea of there not being another to add to my shelf after I finished this one. But I could resist for only so long, and less than halfway through it I’ve already found myself LOL-ing over lines like these:

“All About Steve”: “How does [Sandra Bullock] choose her material? If she does it herself, she needs an agent. If it’s done by an agent, she needs to do it herself.”

“Conan the Barbarian”: “The film ends with a very long battle involving Conan, Khalar Zym, Tamara, and Marique, a sentence I never thought I’d write.”

“Footloose”: “The film’s message is this: A bad movie, if faithfully remade, will produce another bad movie.”

“Hatchet II”: “Tickets are not cheap and time is fleeting. Why would you choose this one? That’s a good topic for a long, thoughtful talk with yourself in the mirror.”

Even as much as I’ve loved Ebert’s work, I had no intention of writing a tribute to him -- plenty of other, better writers (and a few worse ones) did that soon after he passed. But as I’ve been reading this last collection, it’s had me rethinking what’s drawn me to his writing over the years.

Like everybody else who wasn’t a reader of the Chicago Sun-Times, I first discovered Ebert on television -- I actually watched him on PBS as a kid, when he and Gene Siskel would sometimes discuss a single movie for 10 minutes, and there always seemed to be a very real risk (hope?) that they would finally come to blows. By the time they were following David Letterman around suburban neighborhoods on “Late Night,” “Siskel & Ebert” seemed more like TV characters than critics.


But like a lot of other Ebert fans, I eventually came around to his writing -- and could he ever write. His reviews weren’t Film Quarterly think pieces, typed a few lines at a time in between thoughtful stares out the window and sips of mineral water: They were tight epistles written on a daily deadline, which made their insight and wit all the more impressive.

And it’s true there were a lot of movies he didn’t like -- but his reviews of those films weren’t nasty, even if some people went about collecting “Ebert’s meanest reviews” after he died. Instead, his incredulous plot-skewerings and sardonic observations were more like a tribute to the good movies stuck inside those bad ones, struggling to get out. (Well, maybe not “Hatchet II,” but the other ones.)

What I’m realizing now more than ever is that Ebert knew that movies could be trenchant, transcendent, even life-changing -- like any number of the subjects of his “Great Movies” essays, from “Casablanca” to “Vertigo” to “Taxi Driver.” So movies that lazily squandered their opportunity to even try to reach those heights made him downright angry -- and made him feel like if the movie refused to entertain, he would at least make sure his review did.

In fact, given his pure love of the craft, it’s hard not to appreciate the sacrifice he went through: suffering through enough bad movies to fill three volumes, so we didn’t have to.

And for that, I felt a need to offer my belated thanks. I’ll probably never see most of the movies in "A Horrible Experience of Unbearable Length,” but I’ll likely want to pull the book from my shelf through the years and read the reviews again, and again. Though he may be gone, Roger’s reviews of films both good and bad -- thanks to his uncanny ability to tap directly into the heart of how movies can move us, and how we feel on those occasions when they don’t -- will never get old.

Unfortunately, you can’t say the same about “Footloose.” (Either version.)

Column: Netflix remedies our sharing shortage

Yes, my life SEEMED complete -- I was already sharing every song I listened to on Spotify and every book I read on Goodreads, so that the full breadth of my cultural savvy could be consumed instantaneously by all my friends and acquaintances. No need to thank me -- your awed admiration for my good taste is all the appreciation I need.

But I couldn’t help but feel like something was missing, and as soon as I got the press release from Netflix,  I knew what it was: a “new Netflix/Facebook integration” that “lets Netflix members see what their friends have watched.” That sound you just heard was thousands of closet “Bridalplasty” watchers fainting from embarrassment. (You know, the show where brides-to-be compete for free plastic surgery. And no, that is not a typo.)

I’ll admit I was skeptical at first, given that most Netflix press releases involve them charging you more money for less service and expecting you to thank them for it. But this time they’ve hit it right on the head: What Netflix needed was a way to share its users’ every preference, rather than, say, movie choices that are better than these actual films featured on my Netflix Instant homepage:

“Bad Ass” (2012): “Loosely based on a true incident, this tale follows a lonely Vietnam vet who bravely takes on two menacing hoods on a bus.”

“Fire When Ready” (2011): “A firefighter becomes an avenging angel when he challenges New York’s underworld with his bare hands and a hose.”

“Iron Sky” (2012): “The Nazis retreated to the moon in 1945. Now, they're launching an invasion of Earth!”

OK, one of those was fake -- but probably not the one you think. Regardless, we’ll now have the opportunity to let our online friends know the minute we’ve watched one of these fine movies, or inadvertently clicked on one of them, an occurrence familiar to anyone who’s ever accidentally watched 45 minutes of “Extreme Couponing.” (Er, not me ... other people.)

I of course signed up for this new feature immediately so that my online friends would have the benefit of seeing my “Recently Watched” queue, which currently contains the following:

1) 10 old “Walking Dead” episodes

2) That’s it.

Unfortunately, though, my friends are apparently embarrassed about their viewing habits, or inexplicably opposed to broadcasting their every move, because almost none of them have gotten on board. As a result, my ability to “connect with friends over TV shows and movies” has been sadly limited to one guy, we’ll call him Jeff, who apparently likes pretty much all the same stuff I do. So ... Way to go, Jeff!

Meanwhile, while I wait for my other friends to sign up, I thought I could suggest some additional services that could be useful if we’re really going to reach our full sharing potential as a society. For instance, something that broadcasts our prescription medications as soon as they’re filled, so people can compare notes on their ailments and treatments. (“OMG, I’m on clindamycin phosphate too!” etc.)

Or maybe our supermarket purchases, so we know whether or not our friends are buying store-brand cereals (seriously, “Crispy Hexagons”?). Or something that posts all of our bodily functions in real time, because my 11-year-old son would find this hilarious. Or how about sharing every article we read the minute we read it? Wait, they already have that? (Note to self: Stop taking those online Cosmo quizzes.)

All of these would definitely come in handy, because let’s face it: At the end of the day, we’re JUST NOT SHARING ENOUGH. If people don’t get with the program, I’m going to have to do something crazy, like make my movie decisions based on my own personal tastes. Well, and Jeff’s.

Wonder what he would think of “Bad Ass”? Er ... I just clicked on it accidentally.

Column: Putting the 'do' back in doo-wop

Hear ye, hear ye! I come in praise of the sh-booms! The shu-wops! The bom-diddy-boms! The ring-a-dong-dings! (Well, not so much that last one, but all those others.) I’m talking about doo-wop, that marriage of R&B and early rock ’n’ roll that started on city street corners in the 1950s and had doo-wah-diddied its way into the oldies bins by the time the Beatles got here.

I was reminded of my longtime romance with doo-wop by “Acapella,” the new album by Kenny Vance and the Planotones, which showed up in my inbox earlier this month. Vance, a founding member of Jay & The Americans, is clearly a man on a mission: He’s recorded some of these classics before, but never sans instruments, and his sheer love and appreciation for the songs is palpable — from the first bom-bom-bom of The Cadillacs’ “Zoom” to the last “wee-hee-eee” of the Flamingos’ gorgeous “I’ll Be Home.”

In between, Vance and his group go deep on oldies that most people probably haven’t heard unless they’re among the group that popped the originals onto their turntables 50-plus years ago.

“I felt like it was time to do a tribute to the days when we started,” Vance says, and on “Acapella” he nails numbers by such long-forgotten groups as The Charades, The Collegians and The Paragons (not to be confused with The Paradons, who are also represented here with a silky-smooth version of their one hit, “Diamonds and Pearls”).

Even though I’m not part of the demographic who heard these songs their first time around — KISS, Queen and Foreigner were on my school-bus soundtrack — I’ve had a soft spot for doo-wop as long as I can remember. And for that I have to credit my father, who was growing up in the Bronx when Dion DiMucci was just a guy from the neighborhood, not the frontman for The Belmonts.

To hear my dad tell it, pretty much any group of guys with the inclination could (and would) gather on the street corner and form a doo-wop group. He even recalls doing a doo-wop competition with his sister and two friends at Mt. Carmel Church Hall in the Bronx, a gig that he thought went well until the other groups got up — all of them made up of “black kids who sounded like they should have been on the radio,” my dad recalls, laughing. “We didn’t even stay for the rest of the contest.”

Even if his doo-wop career stalled by high school, though, he retained a love of the music that ensured a steady diet of oldies on our family stereo: WCBS-FM in New York was in its heyday, and Sunday nights featured “The Doo Wop Shop with Don K. Reed,” played every week in its entirety in our living room.

Even as a kid, there was something that struck me in songs like the Five Satins’ “In The Still of the Night” and Vito & the Salutations’ souped-up version of “Unchained Melody.” First and foremost were of course the tight-knit arrangements of nonsense syllables that made up the backbone of every track. Beyond that, though, was the way the songs captured the simple joy of a bunch of guys singing in a tiny studio (or possibly a bathroom) — the production was simple and the lyrics were almost always of the you-true-blue variety, but that was part of the charm.

“Acapella” is certainly slicker than any of those early records, but Vance — who at 69 somehow manages high notes and harmonies that would be impressive for someone a third that age — captures their heart and soul. True to the originals but not slavishly so, The Planotones imbue songs like the rollicking “Zoom Zoom Zoom” and the smoky “Mio Amore” with sparkling, vibrant personality.

Vance also somehow avoids the Lite-FM vibe of a Manhattan Transfer or the college a cappella group smarm that can neuter these songs’ street-corner grittiness. Don’t take my word for it, though — here’s what my father, the erstwhile doo-wopper, had to say after a few spins through “Acapella”:

“As someone who’s familiar with most of the original renditions of these songs, I tend to be disappointed when they’re covered by another group,” he admits. “With this album, I found I enjoyed some of the songs just as much as the originals.” When the doo-wop is this good, he points out, you don’t miss the instruments.

Dad’s favorite from “Acapella” is “You Cheated,” which he describes as “unbelievably true” to the 1958 original by The Shields. But the whole package, every track, is true to the doo-wop spirit that helped fuel early rock ’n’ roll: Close your eyes and you may even find yourself back shu-bopping on a Belmont Avenue street corner — whether or not you were there in the first place.

Column: Faking it on Facebook

You may have sometimes wondered why certain people spend so much time on Facebook. There are several possibilities, including:

1) To get as many pictures of your children onto the Internet as possible, so strangers know what they look like;

2) To let people know the awesome word you just played in online Scrabble;

3) To keep up with friends who you’d cross the street to avoid if you saw them coming;

4) To suffer acute feelings of misery and loneliness, not necessarily in that order.

If we’re to believe a new university study, that last one may be more likely than you’d think. According to Reuters, the study found “one in three people felt worse … and more dissatisfied with their lives” after viewing their friends’ profiles on Facebook. Those people are clearly doing it wrong.

After all, the only way your Facebook friends are going to have more appealing lives than you is if you fail to keep up with their level of meticulously crafted fraudulence. Because, as Mark Zuckerberg often says, Facebook isn’t about the life you have, it’s about the life you PRETEND to have. (OK, he doesn’t actually say that, but I’m sure he’s thinking it.)

Take this finding from the study: “Vacation photos were the biggest cause of resentment.” This jealousy is completely unwarranted, because no matter how awful your vacation is, you can usually get your family to look happy at least long enough to snap a few pictures — perhaps because you’ve bribed or threatened them, or because they just saw Grumpy fall off the Mickey’s Soundsational Parade float. (Which, admittedly, would be funny.)

People then post the pictures on Facebook with the caption, “Another great vacation day with the fam!” This is code for, “Here are the three minutes when we didn’t look miserable,” which you should remember before starting into your spiral of depression.

Here’s another one: “Women were more likely to envy physical attractiveness.” Next time you find yourself jealous of how good someone else looks on Facebook, please remember we live in the age of the digital photo. That means people can consider dozens, even hundreds, of pictures of themselves before finding that very special one that — thanks to a quirk of lighting, shadow and the fortuitous placement of a potted plant, and possibly Photoshop — makes them look like a vaguely blurry Gisele Bundchen.

That photo is immediately posted on Facebook, and the others are deleted with prejudice, having committed the crime of being, you know, accurate. (I’m told this problem has spilled over into online dating, because instead of posting pictures that show what they actually look like, many would-be daters are posting pictures of Gisele Bundchen. And that’s just the men.)

Then there’s envy over “How many ‘likes’ or comments were made on photos and postings.” This one is tougher, because while you can pick your friends you can’t make them like you, or your photos of your very special children, or that thing you found on the Internet with the angry cat on it. (Which, admittedly, is pretty funny.)

Your best bet here is to try to inspire the “guilt like” (and its corollary, the “guilt birthday greeting”) by liking as many of your friends’ posts as you can, thus making them feel obligated to like you back. Barring that, some people have been known to create fake Facebook profiles and use them to elevate their like counts. (Er … Not me. Other people.)

I suppose the other thing to keep in mind is that the respondents in the study were from Germany, where misery and loneliness are recreational activities, like whist. But no matter where you’re from, I would think a good remedy for Facebook depression might be to shut it down, go outside, and try to “like” a few things in the real world.

Or on Twitter. I hear Kim Kardashian’s on there.

Column: One man’s hit is another man’s ‘Les Mis’

If you’re a card-carrying male person, you know there are only three kinds of Hugh Jackman movies that are acceptable for you to see:

1) Movies in which he slashes evil mutants with his adamantium metal claws;

2) Movies in which he kills vampires with a giant crossbow;

3) See No. 1.

Not included on that list, you’ll notice, are movies in which he spends hours singing into the camera at such an immediate distance that it’s impossible not to notice his unkempt nostril hairs. (Or dapper graying curls, depending on whether at that moment he’s a starving parole breaker or an aging reclusive single father, or possibly the mayor. I lost track somewhere in there.)

I’m referring of course to the movie adaptation of “Les Miserables,” in which Hugh Jackman as Jean Valjean is basically singing the entire time, whether he’s dragging ships to shore, running his factory or visiting Anne Hathaway in France’s dingiest hospital, where she’s dying in a teary-eyed, short-haired kind of way. Fortunately for Jean Valjean, everyone around him is also singing (even Russell Crowe!) so none of this seems out of the ordinary.

Now you might think I went to see this film because my lovely wife dragged me there, but I actually went because I just happen to be a fan of “Les Miserables” – I’ve seen the musical three times, and I dare say that I even find it, well, stirring. Yes, I know that may call into question my masculinity and my artistic preferences, not to mention indicating an unusually high tolerance for bombast.

I first saw “Les Miserables” in Boston when I was in college for the same reason that college students do everything – because I could get discount tickets. (No, not because I was drunk – if that were the case, I would have gone to “Cats.”) It didn’t take me long to realize that not only did Les Mis have a pretty compelling story, but it was just epic enough to truly lend itself to full-throated warbling. Plus, muskets!

Not that I’m a full Les Mis apologist. There are a few things I’ve found off-putting about the musical to this day, including:

1) Marius. He’s a drip, what with all his love-at-first-sight gushing when he should be figuring out how to load his musket. Of course, that makes him a perfect match for Cosette – together they make the drippiest couple in musical theater history, and that includes Emile and Nellie in “South Pacific.” (Er … I had discount tickets!)

2) I can’t figure out the math – every time I add it up Valjean comes out to be about 200 years old, and yet he can still carry grown men through sewers for days on end. (Although the next day he wakes up and can’t lift his valise, and 20 minutes later, spoiler alert, he’s dead, so there you go.)

3) Let’s face it, it’s a lot of fuss over bread.

Still, it’s pretty gripping for a musical, and I can’t really imagine a way the movie could have done a better job adapting it. Jackman has this uncanny ability to project an inner sincerity, even when he’s slashing mutants, so he’s an ideal Valjean. And Hathaway is certainly good at conveying “distraught” – she generates more close-up actual tears than all the other actors put together. Although it was admittedly pretty close.

As for Crowe, he’s not the greatest singer in the world, but he does a nice job projecting the sense that if you didn’t fully appreciate his performance he might reach through the screen and smolder you to death. It’s a lot better than Clint Eastwood’s singing in “Paint Your Wagon,” which, spoiler alert, is exactly how you’d imagine Clint Eastwood’s singing.

Regardless, though, I’d argue that even if “Les Miserables” is flawed, it’s impossible not to get caught up in the sweeping story of redemption and the soaring (if bombastic) music that goes along with it. I challenge even the most manly audience members, the ones who thought Liam Neeson was too wishy-washy in the “Taken” movies, to listen to Valjean and company sing “One Day More” and not feel at least a little bit stirred.
 

And don’t worry: If it makes you uncomfortable, you can just close your eyes and think about crossbows.

Column: A happy Christmas is in the cards

Do you remember mail? It came in envelopes and someone would leave it in a box at the end of your driveway? You’re right, it does sound ridiculous.

Anyway, this is the one time of year when real mail makes a comeback. That’s because many people still send Christmas cards: For the price of a stamp (whatever that is), this allows you to share some tangible holiday cheer, not to be confused with the digital holiday cheer that involves putting someone’s head on a dancing elf. As hilarious as that may be.

Of course there are some questions involved with holiday cards, such as whether you should display them prominently around your house, or leave them in an unkempt pile on your kitchen counter until you throw them away on Dec. 26. Neither of these choices is necessarily correct, except for the second one.

Then there’s the question of what kind of card to send. There are several options, some of which even involve using glitter that spills out of the envelope when someone opens it, which is a great idea if you’re planning to send cards mostly to people you hate. If that’s not the case, though, consider one of the following:

1) Kid cards. Somewhere along the line it became a law that if you had a child between the ages of 0 and college, it was required that you stick their picture on your Christmas card. This made some sense back in the pre-Facebook days, but it’s less necessary now that you digitally document your child’s every milestone and achievement, and also all those times when they’re more adorable than all the other kids, which is always.

I’m among those guilty of using this method, partly because there’s now a certain level of Mutually Assured Christmas Card Destruction: Everyone involved agrees to keep proliferating children-centric Christmas cards so as not to be branded as the one set of parents not obsessively proud of their kids’ sparkling photographic charisma. Who knows what the other parents would think if you sent out a card that shunned your own children in favor of say, the baby Jesus, who is much less likely to be posed in a Santa hat in front of a fake fireplace. Which reminds me:

2) Jesus cards. These are cards meant to share in a joyous celebration of the birth of Christ, and to remind you that at some point you became a godless heathen who puts his own kid on his Christmas cards instead of God’s kid. (And are thus implicitly hell-bound, Merry Christmas.) Of course, you also might not be sending a Jesus card because you’re Jewish. Which brings me to:

3) “Seasons Greetings” cards. Since most families these days are made up of people practicing any number of religions, often at the same time, you might be safer with a “Season’s Greetings” card appropriate for Christian, Jew, Muslim, Wiccan, agnostic and atheist alike. Because even if we have differing beliefs, at the end of the day, there’s one thing we can all agree on: that it is currently a season.

4) Cards with side-splitting comical cartoons in which Santa’s butt crack is showing. Please stop sending me these. You know who you are.

5) Spite cards. These are cards sent specifically to arrive on Dec. 24, thus giving the receiver no time to send a card in response. Spite-card senders have been known to spend months mapping out a delivery timetable so as to ensure maximum guilt for the recipients, which is what the holidays are all about.

Wait, scratch that — I read my notes wrong. Perhaps what the holidays are really about, among other things that may or may not involve guilt, is slowing down long enough to appreciate what you’ve got and share some of that aforementioned good cheer — maybe even by writing out an actual card or two. If you manage to spread even a little old-fashioned holiday joy — real, physical joy that you can touch and smell, not eJoy — maybe it makes all the writing and stamping worthwhile.

But if I see my kids in that pile on your counter, next year you’re getting the dancing elf.

Column: Waiting for the end of the world

“Inmates in a women’s prison near the Chinese border are said to have experienced a ‘collective mass psychosis’ so intense that their wardens summoned a priest to calm them. In a factory town east of Moscow, panicked citizens stripped shelves of matches, kerosene, sugar and candles. A huge Mayan-style archway is being built — out of ice — on Karl Marx Street in Chelyabinsk in the south.”

– New York Times, Dec. 1, 2012

A MESSAGE FROM THE U.S. GOVERNMENT ON THE PENDING END OF THE WORLD:

Dear U.S. Citizen:

I am Fred Cranston, associate assistant director of the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA). As you have no doubt heard, the world is scheduled to end on Friday, Dec. 21. We know this because the Mayan calendar ends on that date, and the Mayans have never been wrong about anything. This is what makes them so insufferable at dinner parties.

Ha ha! Just a little Mayan humor to help ease the tension that’s bound to go along with knowing the world is coming to an end. I have been asked to write this letter to help prepare Americans for our impending annihilation, partially because of my experience in disaster mitigation, and also because all the other officials are already sequestered on the government’s secret fleet of high-tech flying arks.

Anyway, it is our goal to avoid the mass end-times panic that has already begun in Russia and other areas of the world. Remember, just because the earth is going to open up and swallow us, or we’re going to be incinerated by giant solar fireballs, or the earth’s polarity is going to reverse, propelling us all into space, is no reason to be uncouth. (This means you, Arkansas!)

With that in mind, we ask that you follow the following simple guidelines:

1) Please do not hoard matches, kerosene, sugar and candles, because none of those things will help once you’ve been incinerated by a giant solar fireball (and in the case of kerosene, it will probably just make things worse). Instead, consider using the food and resources you currently have in your home, because they’re bound to spoil quickly after the earth becomes a barren, burning wasteland.

2) Trying to avoid gaping, fiery holes in the earth by driving around them as they open up is not advisable, no matter how feasible that appears in the movies. For one thing, those are typically trained drivers on a closed course; and also, the gaping, fiery holes are added in later using a computer. You’re much better off standing very, very still, and hoping the holes go around you.

3) Please be advised that building tremendous Mayan structures out of ice or other materials is unlikely to stave off the impending apocalypse. That said, I, for one, welcome our new Mayan overlords.

4) We strongly recommend against using your last few weeks on earth attempting to live out your wildest fantasies, particularly if they involve “maxing out” your credit cards, telling off your boss, professing a long unrequited love, or public nudity. On the off chance the world doesn’t end as predicted, any or all of these actions could prove personally detrimental, or at least embarrassing. Consider perhaps some more staid activities, like Jenga.

5) Finally, even though we’ve been unable to pinpoint exactly how the world is going to end on Dec. 21, we feel a need to deny the prevailing rumor that mankind will be wiped out in a zombie apocalypse, which is just silly. However, you should plan to have some sharpened shovels around to chop the tops of their heads off, just in case.

In conclusion, we hope these guidelines will help you adequately prepare for the end of civilization, and if you have any other questions or concerns between now and then, feel free to contact your local FEMA office. A representative who couldn’t fit on one of the arks will be happy to assist you.

Sincerely,
Fred Cranston, FEMA

Column: This year's reasons to be thankful, sort of

As you may recall, every year at this time I like to offer up a list of reasons we have to be thankful. And while it's true that you may be somewhat frustrated with certain developments – such as the election results, or the deteriorating environment, or your inability to tell apart the Kardashians – that doesn’t mean there isn’t also a lot to celebrate.

For instance, you should be thankful for the fact that:

1) You didn’t go into this month believing, in your heart of hearts, that you were somehow going to become the president of the United States.

2) You’ve managed to keep your illicit affair a secret, or if you didn’t at least keeping illicit things secret isn’t supposed to be your primary occupation. Or if it is … we never had this conversation.

3) You didn’t think that hey, maybe it might be fun to manage the Boston Red Sox this year.

4) You didn’t open opposite "The Avengers." ("A Little Bit of Heaven" starring Kate Hudson, we hardly knew ye.)

5) You weren’t chosen to appear in the Opening Ceremonies for the 2012 London Olympics, which I don’t think ever actually ended – you’d probably still be there, pounding on metal canisters while dressed like a refugee from "Les Miserables."

6) You weren’t the one who had to drive Karl Rove home from Fox News on election night. Awkward!

7) You didn’t get nominated in the same category as Adele. ("Firework" by Katy Perry, we hardly … well, actually we knew you a little too well.)

8) You didn’t invest your life savings in the Facebook IPO. And if you did, don’t worry, because word has it you’ll soon be able to trade your shares for Farmville cash to buy virtual chickens.

9) You have a job. Well, 92.1 percent of you have a job. The rest of you will have to stick with the Farmville cash.

10) Donald Trump has not taken an interest in any of your personal records. Yet.

11) The NCAA hasn’t imposed any sanctions on you. Yet.

12) You’re not dating Taylor Swift, because let’s face it, that wouldn’t end well.

13) You weren’t locked out of your job and forced to work in Slovakia with Lubomir Visnovsky, no matter how much fun it may be to say "Lubomir Visnovsky."

14) You weren’t the one who had to drive Big Bird home from Sesame Street after the first debate. Awkward!

15) You haven’t started any sort of petition or campaign against Ellen DeGeneres, because let’s face it, that’s just crazy talk.

16) While the Fiscal Cliff could wind up pushing the country back into crippling recession, you won’t LITERALLY have to go over a cliff, like lemmings or Toonces, the cat who could drive a car.

17) You’re not the backup quarterback for the New York Jets.

18) You didn’t invest your life savings in "Rock of Ages," the Tom Cruise musical. And if you did, don’t worry, because it might manage to make back its cost in foreign markets where they’ve never heard music before.

19) You haven’t said anything within range of Joe Biden that might make him open his mouth to emit a thunderous guffaw, blinding you with the overpowering glow that emanates from his incisors.

20) Last time you filled in for somebody at work it probably didn’t result in the Patriots losing to the freaking Cardinals and you getting booed by 70,000 drunk people.

21) Clint Eastwood hasn’t gone anywhere near your furniture.

22) You probably won’t be standing between David Lee Roth and Eddie Van Halen when they finally come to blows, the sheer force of the altercation causing their decrepit bodies to crumble into a chalky dust that smells vaguely of bourbon.

23) You haven’t been rebooted in 3-D.

24) You’re not a candidate for office who thought it would be a good campaign move to tell women you know more about their bodies than they do. And if you are: Dude, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?

25) Even if you did go into this month believing that you were somehow going to become the president of the United States … At least you didn’t manage the Boston Red Sox.

Column: What did Ella Fitzgerald do to deserve Rod Stewart?

Followers of this column may recall that I am used to receiving emails from famous people — for instance, there was the time that Joan Collins sent me three identical emails about her new jewelry line. Of course that was in 2007 and I haven’t heard from her since, but I’m sure she’ll get back in touch with me if she has anything really important to share, such as another new jewelry line.

But I have to admit I was surprised this week when I got an email from none other than Rod Stewart. At first I wondered what Rod Stewart could possibly want with me — I figured he wasn’t emailing to ask for $5 like Barack Obama and Joe Biden do two or three times a day, since Rod Stewart has plenty of money, which he uses on important charitable activities such as buying himself new wives.

As it turns out, though, Rod was writing me to let me know about his impending Christmas album, “Merry Christmas, Baby.” (I use the word “impending” because “upcoming” somehow didn’t seem sufficiently apocalyptic.) It was the subject line of the email that immediately caught my eye: “New album featuring collaborations with Michael Bublé & Ella Fitzgerald,” a statement so fundamentally wrong that I’m fairly sure I heard the heavens crack open and rain a torrent of bitter tears for all eternity.

I’m not talking about the Michael Bublé part — I don’t know much about Michael Bublé other than that he’d probably be right at home next to Rod Stewart, perhaps even joined with him at the torso, like Chang and Eng. It’s the second part, about dueting with Ella Fitzgerald: For one thing, Ella Fitzgerald died in 1996, and for another, I’m pretty sure her final words were, “Well, at least now I’ll never have to do a duet with Rod Stewart.”

Not that I’m completely against duets with dead people. I didn’t really mind the one Natalie Cole did with her late father, Nat King Cole, which you couldn’t help but think was sweet and moving as long as you’d taken enough Zoloft. But there are plenty of far worse examples, such as the album “Duets” by Frank Sinatra, who was alive at the time but only technically.

But I’ll go on the record as being completely against the idea of a Rod Stewart/Ella Fitzgerald “collaboration,” which is really only a collaboration in the way that eating a hamburger is a collaboration with the cow. First of all, Ella was known as the “First Lady of Song,” and pairing her with Rod Stewart would seem to indicate that he was perhaps the “President of Song.” This is completely and entirely false unless the song in question happens to be “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy,” in which case he would be running unopposed.

Just so as not to jump to any conclusions, though, I did watch the “trailer” for the album, but it didn’t have any snippets from the Ella duet. (Although it did have a clip of a Christmas video with Cee Lo Green, who looked sort of like Burl Ives, if Burl Ives had been eaten by Cee Lo Green.) It also had plenty of Rod Stewart, shamelessly showing off how he has monopolized the United Kingdom’s entire supply of gaudily colored plaid jackets. Rod is now 67 and apparently can no longer lift his arms above chest level, possibly because his skin has been tightened so many times it’s started to affect his armpits.

Frankly, though, I don’t have to hear it to know that his duet with Ella is a bad idea. I’m not saying Rod Stewart should never sing with other people — for instance, there was that time he sang that song from “The Three Musketeers” with Bryan Adams and Sting, which is still reportedly in heavy rotation at the Guantanamo Bay detention camp.

But when it comes to Ella — who in her day had mopped up the floor with such duet partners as Sinatra, Louis Armstrong and Bing Crosby — he’d be doing himself a favor by sticking with someone more in his league, and alive enough to make the decision on her own.

I’m thinking Joan Collins may be available.

Column: Giant Space Asteroids II - The Revenge!

Like most columnists, I started in this business for one reason and one reason only: to win the Nobel Prize for Column Writing. Then I discovered there was no Nobel Prize for Column Writing, so I decided that I actually started doing it to effect positive change in society. Thus far that’s gone about as well as the Nobel Prize thing, as evidenced by the lack of traction in my campaign to get us all jetpacks.

Until last week, that is. That’s when my column on giant space asteroids elicited a sudden flurry of asteroid-related activity. Not among the asteroids, which are notoriously stubborn and can’t read, but among certain people who, like myself, do not want to be crushed and incinerated by them, not necessarily in that order.

Granted, not all of the activity was useful. For instance, NBC News (motto: “Wait, what?”) ran a story about how the 1998 asteroid movie “Armageddon” was, as it turns out, unrealistic. Fourteen years well spent, I-Team!

Actually, they were reporting on a study out of the University of Leicester, where one 22-year-old master’s student said of the film, “After watching it back, I found myself being more skeptical.” He also surmised that Hollywood might be guilty of “falsification of the science to make movies more interesting.” In response, the University of Leicester changed its name and left town in the middle of the night.

But on other fronts the news was more positive, especially among the one federal agency that might actually be equipped to do something about the problem of deadly giant space asteroids: the Grain Inspection, Packers and Stockyards Administration.

Wait, I meant to say NASA. And as it turns out, NASA’s Extreme Environment Mission Operations (NEEMO, and I swear I did not make that up) thinks that we actually have a pretty good chance against an oncoming asteroid – if, that is, we’re willing to spend $50 million on an asteroid spotting system. Just to put that in perspective, I should mention:

1. “Rush Hour 3” cost $140 million.
2. See No. 1.

If we were to pony up and start actively searching for oncoming asteroids, that would no doubt come as good news to the Gaiashield Group, one of the few organized bodies out there working to keep us all from being crushed, incinerated etc. They also happen to have what may be the Best Website Ever (gaiashield.com), in that it features:

1. The motto “The Sky Is Falling Now!” over a picture of a Tyrannosaurus Rex running from falling meteors.
2. See No. 1.

The Gaiashield people, incidentally, are not thrilled with how President Obama has handled the giant space asteroid crisis so far. They even have a personal letter to him on their website, which reads, in part, “The Next Large Asteroid on its way to strike Earth is closing at A Million Miles A Day. Time is simply not on our side here … Tic Toc!” Say what you will about the Gaiashield Group, you have to admit the “Tic Toc!” was a nice touch.

But at least Obama seems to have a general idea that we should probably be doing something about giant space asteroids. According to Dale Brownfield of Gaiashield, who wrote me after reading my column, “I’m sure Romney still needs to be taken to school on this.” Most likely a private preparatory school that frowns upon blacks, gays and giant space asteroids.

Still, that brings me back to my point of last week: If Romney wants to become president, it seems to me all he has to do is come up with the $50 million to fund NASA’s asteroid spotting project. He could probably do that entirely from money he could find today around his house, under the couch cushions and on top of the car under the dog. I bet he’d even have plenty left over to spend on other projects.

I recommend jetpacks.

Column: Where do the candidates stand on asteroids?

I’m very concerned that despite a growing disgust among the populace, the presidential candidates continue to dwell on extraneous topics like taxes and the economy and refuse to address what’s most important to the American public: namely, what they’re going to do to keep us from getting hit by a giant space asteroid.

Personally, getting hit by a giant space asteroid is currently my own top concern, even more so than my concerns over a zombie apocalypse. This is because while the latter is definitely unpleasant, it’s never happened before, whereas it seems there was a time when earth was being pelted practically nonstop by space asteroids, like some giant, unfortunate pinball bumper.

I’m basing my information on a book I’m reading, "A Short History of Nearly Everything" by Bill Bryson. It came out in 2003, but since I’m just getting around to reading it now I’m hoping that "everything" hasn’t changed too much during the past nine years. I do know we haven’t been hit by a giant asteroid during that time, because as Bryson makes very clear, I would have heard about it.

For instance, if we were to be visited by a meteor like the one that hit Manson, Iowa 74 million years ago, immediately before it hit "the temperature below it would rise to some 60,000 Kelvin, or ten times the surface temperature of the Sun … Everything in the meteor’s path – people, houses, factories, cars – would crinkle and vanish like cellophane in a flame." And after that, things would get really bad.

I won’t go into the graphic details. (Earthquakes? Check. Volcanoes? Check. "Blizzard of flying projectiles?" Checkeroo.) But you’d think that with literally millions of these things flying around the heavens, protecting us, the citizenry, from crinkling like cellophane would be a no-brainer of a campaign platform. By contrast, Medicare reform does very little to help a senior population that’s been incinerated.

And yet, according to Bryson, "the number of people in the world who are actively searching for asteroids is fewer than the staff of a typical McDonald’s restaurant." About the only good news about that statement is that at least asteroid hunters have advanced degrees and are unlikely to do unpleasant things in the Fryolator.

This is why, if I were running for national office (an experience I imagine is not unlike being hit by a blizzard of flying projectiles), I would do so based almost exclusively on the giant space asteroid platform, making the following promises:

 1) I would immediately create a Division of Asteroid Hunters (DAH) that would employ thousands of people to sit on mountaintops staring through telescopes into outer space. When one of them spotted an asteroid headed in this direction, they would point at it and shout "ASTEROID!" This is what is known as a "job creator."

2) I would order NASA to immediately stop paying all that attention to Mars, which has pretty much no chance of slamming into us, ever.

3) Instead, I would have them start training an elite team of asteroid blower-uppers, like in the movie "Armageddon." I never saw that movie but I’m reasonably sure that it involved Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck blowing up asteroids, possibly while listening to Aerosmith songs.

There are still a few details to work out – for instance, Bryson points out that even if we managed to blow up an oncoming asteroid, it would probably just slam into us in a bunch of pieces, "with the difference that now the rocks would be intensely radioactive." This is what is known as "class warfare."

So here’s hoping that either President Obama or Gov. Romney take up the call – whomever adopts the giant space asteroid platform first is bound to sway the ever-important independent voter who doesn’t want to be hit by a giant space asteroid. After all, if the fact that it’s estimated an asteroid could take out 1.5 billion humans in a single day isn’t enough to sway the public, the candidates can always point out the following:

A certain number of those humans are bound to wind up as zombies.

Column: These high school grads are hard to picture

I’ve been an editor in chief for a little over a year now, and because of my lofty title you might assume I spend most of my time engaged almost exclusively in glamorous journalistic activities, such as tripping copy boys and berating that Parker kid for not getting me better pictures of that blasted Spider-Man. And you would be right.

But I also have to handle the workaday responsibilities that come up when you least expect them and that cannot be handled by other people, because those people have gone into public relations. For instance, the other day I spent several hours helping a colleague match the names to the yearbook photos of 236 local high school graduates, 235 of whom were named Brittney.

I kid, of course – it just seemed like they were all named Brittney. (Some of them were named Brittnee.) But what really struck me during that exercise was how yearbook photos have changed since I went to high school in the 1980s. For instance, back then about two-thirds of the photos featured a mullet haircut, which seemed completely normal at the time, in comparison to Jon Bon Jovi.

But what the current photos lack in mullets they more than make up for in variety. Back when I was in school they issued us plastic combs and stuck us all in the same pose in front of a standard sky-blue background. As a result all the yearbook photos were basically identical, except that some of us were dressed like Madonna and/or Robert Smith of The Cure. We know who we are.

But these days, it seems, anything goes: Backdrops are black, blue, yellow, red and everything in between; some are outside, some are inside; pictures are taken from above, below and either side; outfits range from ties to T-shirts, with at least three of the students I saw having apparently just stepped off a motorcycle, all of them girls.

As random as the photos appeared, though, I’ve managed to narrow them down into three discernable categories. You may want to keep these handy next time you find yourself looking through your child’s yearbook attempting to decipher the texting shorthand in all the bios (GR8 <3 U HU9 Fibberty-Gibberty!, etc.):

1) Grads In Trees. I’d estimate that a good one in five graduates has opted to pose with a tree for her senior photo. (I say “her” because it’s mostly girls – boys would probably prefer to pose with a manlier piece of nature, such as a big rock, or a badger.) Most of the subjects have one hand pressed against the tree as if to hold it up, and I saw at least one overachieving graduate who seems to be sandwiched between TWO trees, like a schizophrenic squirrel.

2) Grads On The Beach. Again mostly girls, these shots feature a smiling teenager carefully posed so as to feature both sand and surf in the background. It’s worth noting the beach has apparently been cleared of detritus (seaweed, needles, toddlers) and the seniors are, thankfully, fully dressed. At least from the waist up.

3) Grads With Sore Necks. I find it disturbing how many high-schoolers seem to be suffering from acute upper body stress, at least judging from the number of them posing for their senior portraits with one hand awkwardly massaging the back of their own neck. Others have their hands joined together with their chin or face resting on top of them, as if to keep them from strangling people of their own accord like in the movie “The Crawling Hand” (1958). I’m just saying.

It’s all a little disconcerting, especially when taken together with the blurbs describing their high school memories. (So Johnny, what is this “Sticky Taffy Saturday Night,” and does your mother know about it?) But I think in the end I have to come down in favor of the variety: I can’t help but think that when today’s students look back in 20 or 30 years, this mash-mash of styles will represent their graduating classes much better than the uniform images of years past.

But they’ll probably have no idea what <3 U HU9 meant.

Column: Where have all the oldies gone?

It's hello Nicki, goodbye Dusty.

I can only imagine what Boston radio listeners thought last week when they turned on Oldies 103 with the full expectation of hearing “Brandy” by Looking Glass and instead heard the opening rap of “Starships” by Nicki Minaj. They probably figured the funky sugar cubes they ingested at that Iron Butterfly concert in 1968 were finally catching up with them, like those health class movies always said they would.



Of course what actually happened was that 103.3 had become AMP 103, a Top 40/dance pop station. I was surprised at how upsetting I found this development, even if Oldies 103 didn’t have the most startlingly original programming — they tended to play the same 10 oldies over and over again, and eight of them were “Rhiannon” by Fleetwood Mac. It also wasn’t really an oldies station, at least not anymore — because if “My Life” by Billy Joel was now an oldie, what does that make ME?

But I did, and do, remember when the station debuted in 1987 and played songs from 1955-1969. Having grown up with New York’s classic CBS FM — thanks to my father, whose first record was Chuck Berry’s “School Days” and who always instilled in us the importance of a saxophone solo and a good guitar riff — I found the new WODS comforting during my early college years. Even if I was the only one in the dorm who knew who the Five Satins were. (Hint: Not a bowling team, probably.)

It didn’t take long for the station to add the ’70s into the mix, and eventually the ’80s. The ’50s songs, meanwhile, disappeared the same way “Music of Your Life” faded out when I was a kid, leaving my poor grandfather to listen exclusively to ball games. His only other option was to risk hearing Kool and the Gang staking out Frank Sinatra’s former airwaves and consequently having to smash his transistor radio with a rock.

I couldn’t quite relate, though, until last week, when Katy Perry weaseled her nondescript little voice into Dusty Springfield’s former territory on 103.3. (The running joke among my kids, ages 10 and 13, is that I tend to ask wincingly “Who IS this?” every time a Katy Perry song comes on the air, as if my brain refuses to store her musical DNA no matter how many times it has the misfortune of passing through there.)



It’s not like I was an everyday listener, but there was something reassuring about flipping on Oldies 103 at a backyard cookout and hearing “These Eyes,” “Sister Golden Hair,” “The Loco-Motion” and all the rest. (Not to mention honest-to-goodness real rock ’n’ roll from the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and Credence.) If the bass is turned up loud enough on AMP 103, on the other hand, I get the impression it could short-circuit the barbecue-goers’ nervous systems, leaving them flopping around the pool like deranged salmon.

I should mention I’m not completely repulsed by the AMP 103 playlist, Katy Perry aside — my daughter and I recently came up with a list of common-ground songs, and it had Lady Gaga, Bruno Mars, that girl who sings about calling me maybe and even some Nicki Minaj. (Yes, I’ve been known to find myself singing “jump in my hoop-de-hoop-de-hoop, I own that” while doing dishes. I didn’t say I was proud of it.) But didn’t we get enough of that on KISS 108, 104.5 XLO, MIX 104.1 — the former WBCN! — and all the rest?

Now the Boston oldies crowd is left with 105.7 WROR, but their promos are starting to tout music from the ’60s, ’70s, ’80s “and even a little bit of the ’90s” — which means they’re probably getting ready to jettison the ’60s like a bad batch of patchouli oil.

Fortunately these days there are other options, like satellite, HD and Internet radio (where Oldies 103 lives on) and the omnipresent iPod app. In honor of WODS, I embraced my oldification and downloaded one called the “True Oldies Channel” so I could listen to some Guess Who, Tommy James and Three Dog Night — the whole time thinking that they don’t make ’em, or at least play ’em, like that anymore.

Not that I’ve given up on everyday radio. There’s always the ball games.

Column: An open letter to beachgoers

Welcome to the beach! Your comfort and safety are of primary importance during your visit here, and with that in mind, we ask that you follow these simple guidelines in order to ensure a memorable stay for all visitors.

1) Blanket location: We value togetherness here at the beach! Feel free to put your blanket as close as possible to the people next to you, even if there’s plenty of space around. If you’re not sure whether you’re close enough, take this simple test: If you were to roll over, would your head be in the lap of the person on the next blanket? If not, you’re not close enough!

2) Music and talking: If you bring a radio to the beach, make sure to play it at top volume. Otherwise, it might be difficult for the people around you to determine whether you’re a fan of punk, hardcore, ska or adult contemporary selections, such as “Escape (The Piña Colada Song)” by Rupert Holmes.

Similarly, if you’re using a cell phone, please talk as loudly as possible so as to best share your conversation with your beach-mates. Having a fight with your significant other? Need to discuss your prognosis? Like to swear? We want to know! If possible, please also try to gesticulate wildly.

3) Swimwear: First and foremost, we want you to be comfortable during your time here. That might mean wearing a bathing suit one, two or three sizes too small — the choice is yours! And gentlemen, remember: The lo-rise Speedo is not just for remote Greek islands anymore. (We’re talking to you, Grandpa!)

Also, please keep in mind that you didn’t get all those tattoos so that nobody could ogle them. We’re just saying.

4) Children: When you bring your children to the beach, that’s a great time to take a break — your blanket neighbors will be more than happy to police your youngsters. Also, beachwear is optional for the little ones: A soggy diaper is fine, or just let them go au natural. That means naked!

If your children are playing with recreational items such as Frisbees, baseballs or Jarts, we ask that they try to yell out a friendly “heads up!” before throwing or hitting those items into a throng of sleeping beachgoers, at least every third time.

5) Sand procedures: When running on the beach, kick those toes in deep to best propel sand into other beachgoers’ blanket areas. This is essential to ensuring that visitors go home with soothing ocean sand in their eyes and food and lodged deep into the recesses of their bathing trunks, among other places.

6) Food: Whatever you may bring to the beach to eat — be it grapes or Cheez Doodles or a tremendous sausage sandwich that drips peppers and onions out of the bun onto your bare torso when you take a bite out of it — make sure to leave it unwrapped. That way all your fellow visitors can enjoy the beauty of nature up close when hundreds of seagulls swoop down to devour your leftovers, squawking how you might imagine a thousand burning souls would scream in hell. Fun!

7) Horseplay: When you pick up your girlfriend to drop her in the water and she squeals and squeals and squeals? We love that.

Thank you for your cooperation; by following these simple beach procedures, we’re sure you’ll have a fine and relaxing stay here by the water! As for the rest of us, we’ll be at the movies.

Column: There's a pop star in my backyard

Watch out for snakes, Colbie.

Listen to Mix 104.1 all Memorial Day weekend for your shot to win tickets to the Gavin DeGraw/Colbie Caillat show on July 25 at the Bank of America Pavilion. Everyone who wins tickets will qualify for a shot at the grand prize — a Backyard BBQ with Colbie at their house when she comes to town in July!

— Mix 104.1 website

Hi Ms. Caillat … er, can I call you Colbie? That’s a really interesting name. Is that short for Colbert? No? I had a friend in elementary school named Corbin, but we just called him Corbin. Anyway, thanks for coming here to my backyard and everything.

Sorry I didn’t get a chance to mow the lawn, but it rained for the last few days and I had to work late, and last weekend was just crazy with driving the kids around and napping and such. But as you can see I put these old comforters out for us to eat on and they sort of smush the grass down. Don’t worry, it’s been weeks since we’ve seen a snake … although that’s probably just because the grass is so high.

That smell? Oh, that’s just the grill. I tried to scrape all the black stuff off but darn it if it doesn’t seem just calcified on there at this point. You’ll notice how certain areas of the grill look like they’re on fire and others get no flame at all — weird! Anyway, it shouldn’t affect the hot dogs … I defrosted them a few weeks ago, but hot dogs never really go bad, right?

So I hear you’re a singer? To be honest I haven’t heard any of your songs … I just entered the contest to get the Gavin DeGraw tickets. And even with those it turns out I was actually thinking of Gavin MacLeod. You wouldn’t know it necessarily but he has a wonderful voice — I saw him in a dinner theater production of “Annie Get Your Gun” in the early ’90s.

Come on, Gavin McLeod? From Mary Tyler Moore? I think I have the Chuckles the Clown episode on VHS if you want to borrow it. VHS — it was a video format. How old are you, anyway?

Did you bring your suit? We just got around to opening the pool last week. I know it looks green, but chemically it’s perfect, almost. If you go in it would be great if you could bring the strainer thing in there and scoop out some of the leaves. No? That’s OK, the dogs are in there now anyway. They love a good swim, but they need some help getting up and down the ladder.

Jeez, is Bob using the chainsaw again? Sorry, that’s just my neighbor … BOB! STOP USING THE DARN CHAINSAW! I’VE GOT COLBERT CAILLAT OVER HERE FOR A BARBECUE! NO, NOT THE DEFENSIVE END FOR THE CARDINALS — THE SINGER! NO, I NEVER HEARD OF HER EITHER.          

Sorry about that … Can I get you something to drink? A lemon-lime soda maybe? It’s the Market Basket brand, but it’s just as good as Sprite, almost. Not as good as those Grand Union sodas with the penguins on them that they used to sell in the ’70s, though. The ’70s — it was a decade. Came before the ’80s. How old are you, again?

Watch out, the dogs are coming out of the pool! Yikes, dogs, do you have to shake off right here? Sorry about your boots, Corbin … Are those suede? You probably shouldn’t be getting those wet like that.

Oh, you have to leave already? Well, glad you could come by … No, you have to pull up to open the gate … no, UP. Then pull the thing back — that’s right. Wow, I’ve never seen anyone get in their car so fast.

DON’T FORGET TO MAKE A LEFT AT THE VFW TO GET BACK TO THE HIGHWAY! GOOD LUCK WITH THE CONCERT! TELL GAVIN HE WAS AWESOME IN THE LOVE BOAT!

Column: My local congressional race, by the (Face)book

Here in Massachusetts, the Sixth District congressional race between Democratic incumbent John Tierney and his Republican challenger, former state senator and lieutenant governor candidate Richard Tisei, is certainly heating up. Press releases from the campaigns are coming fast and furious, and there’s no shortage of vitriol — witness Tierney’s response to Tisei’s latest poll claims, in which the words “deceptive,” “outrageous” and “desperate” all make early appearances.

But press releases are so, well, pre-Facebook: We all know the real electoral battle will be raged across the social media landscape, amidst the Farmville updates and videos of shark attacks. So how are the two candidates doing on that front? It’s subjective, of course, but here’s my evaluation of their campaigns’ respective Facebook pages.

Frequency: Both candidates seem to be posting about twice a day, and let’s face it, any more than that could get pretty annoying. Advantage: Neither.

Personality: Most of Tierney’s posts feel staff-generated, except for a few standouts like one marking the anniversary of same-sex marriage’s legalization in Massachusetts. Tisei’s feed, on the other hand, seems to have been handled for some time by the candidate himself, or at least someone who does a very convincing Tisei impersonation. Advantage: Tisei.

Cover photo: You can’t judge a candidate by his Facebook cover photo ... or can you? Tierney’s cover shot is a smiling, sunny campaign-trail pic; whereas Tisei’s moody, blue-tinted image, accompanied by text asking (in big block letters) “ARE YOU READY FOR A NEW DIRECTION?” is, frankly, a little scary. Advantage: Tierney.

Other photos: Tisei’s page has a mere 23 wall photos, many of them actually ads touting Tisei or attacking Tierney — along with the requisite picture of Ronald Reagan, accompanied by a note that Tisei interned in the Reagan White House. (One degree of separation!) Tierney, who of course has years as a sitting congressman under his belt, has 41 wall photos and 27 shots from “around the district.” Oh, and one of those wall photos is of a doe-eyed bald baby with a giant Tierney sticker on his arm. Jackpot! Advantage: Tierney.

Comments: Not all that many on Tierney’s page, and the ones that are there tend to be of the “John, you are a true leader” variety — one gets the sense that someone may be spiking comments that are anything but complimentary or bland. Tisei’s, though, offers a little more back-and-forth among his followers, and there are even some comments speaking out against Tisei’s particular stands — one post about fishing regulations has a multi-faceted debate that goes on for 10 comments. Advantage: Tisei.

Likes: In the post-Facebook world, doesn’t it all come down to likes? As of this week, Tisei had 4,120, and Tierney had racked up only 2,616. Advantage: Tisei.

The final analysis: Looks like Tisei’s got the edge in the social media campaign, at least as far as Facebook’s concerned. (We’ll save Twitter for another column.) The congressman better get his supporters clicking their “Like” buttons in addition to getting out their checkbooks. And playing Farmville, of course.

Column: The tube according to Osama

Fox News “falls into the abyss as you know, and lacks neutrality too.” CNN “seems to be in cooperation with the government more than others.” That was how Al Qaeda … rated several American TV news outlets, according to documents made public today.

– Los Angeles Times, May 3

***

To: The Joint Chiefs of Staff
From: Combating Terrorism Center
Regarding: Osama bin Laden’s journals

Gentlemen:

Although reports have attributed critiques of American news networks to an Al Qaeda operative, Osama bin Laden’s personal journals — confiscated following the raid on his compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan — would seem to indicate that the criticisms may actually have come from bin Laden, who apparently spent several years in his bunker doing nothing but watching American television.

Following are 10 of bin Laden’s journal excerpts that bolster this opinion, for your eyes only:
 1) “Fox and Friends is as lacking in neutrality as the rest of the network’s programming, which is emblematic of the American arrogance and hubris. And who is doing the picking of Brian Kilmeade’s neckties? That person should be beheaded and his body defiled.”

 2) “Two and a Half Men: Ashton Kutcher, bah! I have a mind to order a fatwa against him, because of his conceit in believing he could take the place of Charlie Sheen, and also because I feel that eventually he will hurt Demi, whom I loved in ‘Striptease’ and would gladly make one of my many wives.”

3) “The Big Bang Theory: These wispy faux men would not last for a day in my ranks. Also, the one who argues that Superman is mightier than Green Lantern is foolish beyond all folly. Death to him!”
4) “House: I find this surly physician appealing! Also, he made me realize that I may have hereditary hemorrhagic telangiectasia. (Although my wives have thought I was a hypochondriac ever since I got obsessively neat after watching that Monk marathon last year. Curse them … Demi would believe in my ailments!)”

 5) “Glee: This show is so gay. In fact, these are some of the happiest people I’ve ever seen on television. Praise be to Glee!”

6) “The O’Reilly Factor: What is this No-Spin Zone he speaks of endlessly? I am beginning to think it is not a real place.”

7) “Undercover Boss: I once did this with my new recruits — masqueraded as one of them so I could see how truly dedicated they were to our glorious cause. Until one of the lieutenants tried to strap a bomb on me, and I was like ‘Hey, Osama here! Undercover boss! Good job, carry on everybody!’”

8) “The Tonight Show with Jay Leno: “It is not fair that Americans should enjoy quality late-night humor while our brothers around the world are experiencing comedy of the most miserable level. Based on this, with the permission of God, we will continue to inflict Jay Leno upon you until the suffering of our people abates.”

9) “Deadliest Catch: Sadly about fishing.”

10) “The Voice: Terrible — these people have the voices of a hundred spitting camels being mauled to death by a Caspian tiger. Except for Dia Frampton, whose tones are like a blessed emissary of Allah and whom I would like to be one of my virgins when I arrive in paradise, many, many years from now. Oops, hold on, someone’s at the door.”

A version of this column originally appeared at CAP News. Check out other satire from me and CAP in “Net's Best Satire, Vol. 1,” available at Amazon and BN.com.

Column: Famous last words from Bobby Valentine

Last week, new Red Sox manager Bobby Valentine had this to say about superstar third baseman Kevin Youkilis: “I don’t think he’s as physically or emotionally into the game as he has been in the past for some reason.” It’s curious that he would say this, if for no other reason than that Youklis could bludgeon him into oblivion with just one twitch of his tremendous bald head.

But beyond that, it seems odd that a brand new manager would mouth off to the press about one of his players, which is the type of thing that gets players angry, owners agitated and, eventually, managers fired. (Remember how Billy Martin would just walk into a room and George Steinbrenner would fire him? Now that was baseball!)

That’s until you consider maybe that’s exactly what Valentine wants. After all, quitting just two weeks into the season wouldn’t look good for anybody, but given the way things are going, it’s reasonable to assume he’d rather be anywhere else: Texas, New York, Japan, seating patrons at his restaurant in Connecticut, etc.

Take this past weekend, when the Red Sox were up 9-0 over the Yankees. FOX left the contest briefly to broadcast the end of Phil Humber’s perfect game, and when they came back, the Red Sox were strewn across the burning, bloody field like a squadron of slaughtered orcs. And Valentine had that look on his face that he seems to be perfecting, halfway between “What just happened?” and the one Mel Gibson had when they eviscerated him at the end of “Braveheart.”

In fact, one can only assume that in the wake of the Youkilis comment, Valentine is spending most of his free time coming up with other things he can say over the course of the season to get the ownership to put him out of his misery. Things like:

April 28: “What’s up with that David Ortiz? I never understand a word he’s saying.”

May 5: “Dustin Pedroia — meh. And he’s kind of short for a ballplayer, don’t you think? Yep, short and bald.”

May 19: “These players are OK, but I don’t see anyone who could hold a candle to an Aaron Boone.”

June 2: “That Carlton Fisk home run? I still say it was foul.”

 
June 14: “Yastrzemski … What’s that ‘z’ doing in there? Suspicious if you ask me. I’m just saying.”

June 28: “It’s just a wall, people. A big stupid green wall.”

July 14: “You know what I like to do for fun? I watch the end of Game 6 against the Mets over and over again, and just laugh and laugh and laugh.”

 
July 28: “I’d like to introduce my new pitching coach, Grady Little! Oh, you’ve met?”

Aug. 4: “I was thinking of growing a mustache like Dwight Evans, but then I thought, why would I want to look like an oversized Maltese?”

Aug. 11: Bloody sock my [bleep].

Aug. 15: “I don’t think Johnny Pesky’s been as physically or emotionally into the game as he has been in the past for some reason. Ow!” [gets hit by beer bottle]

Aug. 27: “Release me from my contract or you’ll never see Ted Williams’ head again.”

Of course, if Valentine makes it through to September he might as well stick it out until the end of the season — management probably won’t ask him back, but he can always parlay his year in Boston into something more satisfying and less likely to get him booed. And when he does, I have a feeling I know what he might wind up saying to Red Sox fans.

“Would you like a table for two?”