Break out the champagne and little party hats: it’s once again time for every website with an opinion and a some spare time to produce their “[adjective] [plural noun] of 2001″ lists.. and Pith will be here, continuing the tradition of its “List of 2001 Lists” (I’ll keep adding things until January 1). In no particular order:

2001 Wildlife Photographer of the Year (BBC Wildlife)
100 Websites We Love (Shift)
Overrated and Underrated News Stories of the Year (Seattle Weekly)
30 Best Albums of 2001 (CMJ)
Internet Movie Awards
Stacey’s Hot List 2001 (Modern Humorist)
Best of Las Vegas (Las Vegas Review Journal)
Worst Movies of 2001 (The Stinkers)
50 things we’ll be glad to see the back of in 2002 (The Guardian)
Advertising Triumphs and Travesties, 2001 (AdReview)
2001 Worst Tech Products (ZDNet)

Rex Murphy, Canada’s national grouch, looks at some of the recent headlines in his typically droll style. (Those with a yen for more political and cultural commentary should visit PopPolitics.)

Call me Scrooge, but it used to be that I couldn’t think of a single Christmas movie that didn’t set off my treacle alert. My family (or should I say, “the people who made me watch Holliday Inn AGAIN this year”) disagrees. But a few days ago I found a movie we can all enjoy: Santa Claus Conquers the Martians (1964). Is it good? Hell no. Aside from the expected poor sets and costumes, the plot makes no sense and Santa seems to have a jones for nitrous oxide, as he’s reduced to laughing maniacally throughout the script. But any movie where the climactic fight scene features the bad martian being beaten into submission by four small children with whiffle bats and soap bubbles, where one of the few actors to walk away without their profession being profaned is, oh yes, a young Pia Zadora — that, my friends, is a bad movie for the ages.

Terry Jones (yes, that Terry Jones) on the War Against Terrorism: “How do you wage war on an abstract noun? It’s rather like bombing murder.”

An Irriverent Guide to Barbra Streisand: “Quite frankly, there is a growing list of people who hate her.” The movies, the rumours, the terrible, terrible fan art! It’s all here!

I forgot to mention this earlier — waiting for me upon arrival home from Vegas was a copy of the Go soundtrack, sent from Mike in Ontario. Very cool, Mike.. thanks!

Ann Miller and Mickey Rooney with their chocolate-sculpted dopplegangers. (Apparently, Mickey Rooney looks damned creepy in any medium.)

Also on the bizarre food art front is this work, a take on American Gothic featuring Jesse and Mrs. Ventura, entirely created with beans. No, I don’t understand, either.

I’m back, and managed to arrive home not rich, but not too poor either. More to come next week, but in the meantime: Merry Christmas, y’all!

I was going to write something here about birthdays and travel and shopping, but then I realized that I leave in two hours, and I am nowhere near packed. Needless to say, it was going to be a lovely, moving treatise that I’m sure would have changed the way we all think about getting older.. Ha! Kidding. It was more likely going to be a story about beer, ugly clothes, and strange Russian tourists who fall asleep on the plane and drool on you. Just send me good thoughts full of 7s and 11s, and I’ll see y’all on Monday!

(Okay, one little shopping story: I was struck by some sort of clothing-related madness last week and bought a sweater because, as I remarked at the time, it looked “just like something Willow from Buffy might wear.” Then I got it home, and realized that Willow is usually dressed in the most criminally ugly clothes ever seen in prime time. Then I put the sweater in a box in the closet. Now let’s never speak of this again.)

GAP ads are a tool of The Man! It irritates me to no end that Liz Phair hasn’t put out an album in four years, but she has time to flop around and play unconvincing air guitar for the latest round of apathetic clothing propaganda. Now if only I could stop singing the damned catchy song. (Brain.. turning to mush.. must resist.. buying pastel t-shirts..)

This made the rounds a number of months ago, but I’m mentioning it again in reference to my upcoming flight: Am I Going Down? Have I mentioned yet how much I hate flying? Oh yes. I plan to spend at least forty-five minutes of my pre-flight time buying overpriced shots in the airport bar (possibly with a sign pinned to my shirt reading, “If I look lost and drunk, please send me to Gate 42″).

Antique Weird: proving that retro porn from the 1800s kinda bores me, too.