It’s officially the unofficial start of summer! If you watch your local news, you know this is an extremely confusing time for Americans. We have no idea how to comport ourselves after the third week in May. Your local ActionCast FactCopter team is editing their twelfth summer safety tips segment of the week at this very second.

And just in time. For without these segments, how would we know not to eat raw chicken marinated in sun-ripened mayonnaise while diving head-first into a shallow 39-degree lake? And they always provide the most wonderful traffic tips. “Give yourself extra time.” Wait, I can create time? Like some kind of god? I have god powers? JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE, COME TO MY APARTMENT. THE TIME-GOD COMMANDS YOU. Damn. Okay, no. I’m not some kind of god.

And neither are you, probably. So you will need these summer safety tips, unless you want to die of Summer Confusion. Upwards of one American(s) per year dies of Summer Confusion. Don’t become a fake statistic.

Bob observes safety first! Ahoy!

Sunscreen. Always wear sunscreen. Especially at night. I know there is no sun at night, but there are ghosts. Sunscreen makes you invisible to most ghosts, such as creepy-ass little kids who want to tell you who murdered them, and lonely Victorian people sexily twirling their parasols at you going “Yooo hooo!” like weirdos. The higher the SPF (Spook Protection Factor), the better the results.

The ocean. Swimming in the ocean can be a great way to unwind after a long night of ghosts. But the sea is a dangerous place, filled with Jawses and Jaws Twos, garbage from unlicensed human-animal hybrid experiment clinics, and the tears of whales who are sad because you often forget to recycle. The best way to confront sea danger is to find one of the Jawses and ride around on its back. Sharks are the cops of the ocean. Go on a ride-along and you will be safest jerk in the whole ocean. He might even let you arrest someone! In this cop/shark metaphor, “arrest” means “eat.” Which reminds me…

Food safety. Did you know that 20 percent of all foods are actively out to get you? Potatoes, for example, are very rude. It’s not fatal or anything, but it’s downright annoying when you are preparing Grandmother’s Kind of Weird Potato Salad That Contains Meat For No Clear Reason, and one of the spuds is like “Nice job. Where’d you learn to cook, Airplane Food School?” Asshole! Most starchy vegetables are rude in the style of late-’80s standup comics. They are impervious to irony. But not knives. So you will have the last laugh. But be sure not to eat too much. Why?

You are fat. Look in the mirror. Are you a man? Congratulations! You are awesome and perfect just the way you are. Go enjoy the hot weather and howl at girls. You are the star of your own Jimmy Buffett song. You are that guy from Sublime, only not dead. Hop into some enormous cargo shorts and stuff those banana-bunch feet into dad sandals and fucking work it. Are you a woman? Uh oh! You’re too fat. Unless you’re too skinny. Either way, you’re too fat. What you should do is immediately change your body type. Not by exercising. Only women who are already fit (but not too muscular, because that baffles men in the cargo-shorted area) are allowed to exercise in public. Just make it happen. Get perfect. I hear reading cruel comments on the internet works wonders, so here’s one to get you started: hahaha your a fat looser beach wale lol hahaha. Hope that helps!

The three Rs. If you remember nothing else in your entire life because you have some sort of remembering disorder, remember the three Rs, and you will have the safest summer ever.
1. Rules. Follow every tip you hear on the news, especially the ones based on studies funded by large corporations where the results encourage use of their products. Rules are the foundation of fun. You can’t spell fun without rules (the rules of spelling.)
2. Remembering. Remember that remembering disorder I just mentioned? Me neither. I think I have it.
3. Rules. Follow every…wait, did I do this one already? I feel like I did this one already.

Have a safe summer, everyone! Hope it goes SWIMMINGLY. Hope you have a WHALE of a time. Hope MY SOPHISTICATED WORDPLAY IS NOT LOST ON YOU.

"My autozombiography drops this Fall, vageniuses!"

Bangst: the sensation of losing one’s identity upon encountering someone with a haircut similar to one’s own. Bangst reaches epidemic levels at rock shows in Brooklyn.

Dreambag: a gorgeous but douchey person whose douchiness is initially obscured by beauty but gradually becomes undeniable.

Dylan’s Law: when a musician’s fans are so rabidly reverent, they actually drain talent from the musician. Had Bob himself not been subject to Dylan’s Law, this would not have happened.

Fauxsure: when exes get together under the pretense of “closure,” but only succeed in prolonging inappropriate and hurtful attachments.

iFugue: dissociative state induced by listening to music through headphones for extended periods, wherein  one’s own actions — and indeed, the universe — seem controlled by the music.

Prestalgia: premature wistfulness for something that has not ended yet but perhaps should have, coupled with the strong desire that it would end already, so that proper nostalgia can commence.  R.E.M. and “The Simpsons” widely inspire prestalgia.

Slaydar: the innate ability of former metalheads to detect the presence of other former metalheads. See also: Treydar.

Smartyr: a fairly (but not extraordinarily) intelligent jerk who imagines their intellectual superiority is the reason nobody likes them. [Editor's Note: I think I have this syndrome.]

Speakeasily: what an ordinary drinking establishment becomes when militant grammarians dominate the conversation with discussions of grammar peeves.

Treydar: the ability to sense the presence of jam-rock aficionados. Unlike Slaydar, Treydar is not innate; it is developed at four-year universities in New England.

Vagenius: one who is especially knowledgeable about and skilled in lady-pleasing. Those who believe they are probably are not.

I hereby declare “Cellz” the official song of the BP disastrophe. DOOM, with a little help from ol’ Charles Bukowski.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKum7WWeq0Y

Other nominees? Submit ‘em in the comments.

I wasn’t interested in “Lost.” It looked to me like a (more) scripted version of the worst kind of reality TV. If it takes place on a beach, I concluded, there is no possibility the women will be portrayed as human beings. They will be shrewy and semi-nude at all times. Bitch Island. It will be about the fights they have over some bland, muscle-y dude. Swimsuits and face-slapping. Plus, how long can the conceit of surviving on an uninhabited island realistically play out? It won’t last a season.
I was flipping through channels. I didn’t have cable. It was bleak.

I’m not one of those “I hate television” people. I like television. Even network television. “Twin Peaks” was on network television. “Arrested Development” was on network television. Neither for very long, but still. I’ve always believed in it as a writers’ medium — the most immediate way to transmit strong narratives to a mass audience. But I was losing faith. Flipping through channels, finding nothing.

Then something caught my eye. A grey-haired man in a pristine suit in a jungle. Just an image. It was jarring and kind of creepy and lovingly shot, and nothing, nothing on a network drama at the time was ever startling or weird or artfully arranged. I had to know what the hell was going on.

I’ve now been in a dysfunctional relationship with this show for six years. We’re breaking up this Sunday. More accurately, ”Lost” is breaking up with me (me, and millions of other faithful suckers.)

As with any breakup, the psyche develops coping mechanisms to help you get over it: alternating between remembering only the good times, until the pain of loss becomes to much to bear; then recalling only the disappointments, the failures, the times you almost left for good, until you’re so angry, you’re kind of glad it’s over.

If you’ve ever watched this show, you know there’s plenty from both sides. Schlocky performances, dead-weight episodes (and, debatably, seasons), laughable special effects, annoying tropes, heavy-handed symbolism, clunky retcon, obnoxious musical cues, storylines written irreversibly into corners, narrative logic conveniently invented and quickly abandoned. But also: some really wonderful acting, gorgeous cinematography, challenging allusions, headspinning mysteries, intelligent, slow-burning storytelling, nuanced character growth, and, every once in a while, flashes of the sublime.

“Lost” is a show which rewards, and occasionally demands, loyalty and careful viewing. Despite its many sins and essential silliness, it often withstands repeat viewings, analysis, even research. You can’t say that about many shows on a major network. No matter how disappointing the series finale might be (and it will inevitably disappoint many fans), history will view it kindly. I believe it will be considered one of the best programs ever to air on television. Maybe the worst of the best, but among the best nonetheless.

So before “Lost” breaks up with us for good, let’s remember some of the flashes of brilliance that kept us faithful to one series for six years. Five favorite moments, after the jump. (Spoilers for already-aired episodes.) Add your picks in the comments.


Jack pursuing his deceased father through the jungle. This is the moment that hooked me. The scene that widened the scope of the story and told us: this is not simply ”Lord of the Flies” with hot thirty-somethings. It’s not just going to be about water and weapons and waiting for rescue. There’s something supernatural or psychological or both going on. And it’s creepy.

Characters in the alternate timeline flashing to their lives in island timeline. Do you ever get the feeling something is not quite right? As though you’re not in the right place or time; you quite literally belong somewhere else? And sometimes, you catch glimpses of where that might be? This season’s flashes, brought about by love and near-death, is the only new story component that intrigues me as much as anything in the early seasons.

To me, it’s a big, brilliant idea, and it plays on every sense of displacement you’ve experienced, every glancing deja vu, every time you wake from a dream and for a moment you can’t quite tell what’s real, every time you meet someone and you’d swear you’ve met before. Sci-fi often deals with unhinged time or alternate realities, but this season’s “Lost” takes a more mature, poignant approach to these themes: only love or death will set you right.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJIH2VmNWQI

Charlie’s death. This was when I reassured that, as far as the mythology of the island had spun out, “Lost” was still a show about people. True, the death of the washed-up junkie/Britrock semi-star was one of the strongest arguments for “the island is a kind of Karmic clearinghouse that redeems you and then kills you” theory kicking about at the time. But it was also heart-rending. I cried, okay? Real tears that I typically reserve for real people.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=E7gX8zzfM-s

“The Constant.” The whole thing.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=s96iG2lwam4

The very first shot in the series. This scene took its time. The peaceful bamboo canopy, then the bloodied man. The quiet, then the noise. It was clear from the first few seconds: this was something a little bit different.

I’m gonna miss you, “Lost.”

A lot of you a-cracks have asked me if I’m writing this bitch by myself. Yeah right! What am I, some nerd? Do I look like Brock Obama to you? He probably writes ten books a day! Science books! Because he’s a nerd. Hehe. Star Trek. But anyways, I did come up with a whole mess of rad titles for my book. Just between you, me, and Dupree, I hate the one the book company is using. “Decision Points.” What does that mean? That sounds like a business meeting and not the kind where you can use finger guns. I’m totally using finger guns right now! Pow!

Have a great summer everybody.

Sorry so sloppy, love 4-eva,

Bushdude

PS: I hope you like my book names!!!

-Decision Pints

-Decisions I Decided

-Shock And Awesome!

-Thoughts I Think, Draughts I Drink

-You Guys, Remember When Dick Cheney Shot Somebody In the Fucking Face???

-Atrocious, Based on the novel Bush, by Misfire

Elton John

Like the Kinks‘ “Waterloo Sunset” or the Beach Boys‘ “Don’t Worry Baby,” “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” hints at what kind of place the adult world might turn out to be. Heart-stirringly lovely, but a little lonely, a little bitter. Songs like this are fascinating mysteries when you’re a child. You receive clues only by living, by enduring the small heartbreaks and disappointments of adult life. Some songs retain their mysterious quality even after you’ve grown up enough to piece together their meaning; revisiting these songs decades later is kind of a hobby of mine. This one never lets me down.

Here’s the “Top of the Pops” version, in which Elton sings along to the studio track (which is fine for our purposes, because the melody’s sigh-to-cry brilliance is most evident in the studio version.) Dreamy production, and a voice that even Sir Elton can’t summon anymore:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=SYQvc6X4Ms4

[As an aside, nothing in this clip contradicts my belief that Dominic Monaghan should play Elton in a biopic. To be clear, I think such a flick would be terribly ill-advised, but if the inevitable happens and Hollywood puts one in production, they must call this man. Now, we know from "Lost" that he can't sing. But there's something essentially Elton-y in his face and speaking voice.]

Here’s a version with the world’s finest backing band, the Muppets. Shamefully, it omits the verse containing the “vodker and tawnics” line, but is otherwise perfect. Is it just me, or is this exactly what childhood looked and sounded like?

www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvu2Q4BsE2U

There is no possibility I will ever buy the DVDs. There are nineteen of them. Nineteen. That means, for every groundbreaking Richard Pryor act (he said the N-word! On network television!), there will be dozens of, say, Gallagher bits, in which his magic moustache destroys various fruits, or something. (Okay, I’ve never seen a Gallagher act. What he does with his mustache is none of my business.) Which is why the infomercial for the collection is the perfect snack. Bitsy bites of all the best performances, with no empty calories.

Infomercials exist in the cultural outlands. A show about advertising is hailed as the ultimate cipher for American modernity, yet it remains uncool to confess to ever watching an infomercial. Yet if you’ve never seen one of these televised treasures, you’ve likely never heard Diddy claim that Pro-Activ products “moisturize your situation.” And as such, I feel bad for you.

Admittedly, infomercials are for the drunk and the restless. You never watch one on purpose. You watch one when you should be doing something else, like sleeping, or being sober. (And if you’ve ever purchased anything from paid programming, congratulations! You’re probably drunk right now. Get yourself together, rummy.)

As with all paid programming, the experience of watching the “Midnight Special” DVD ad is loopy and vaguely unpleasant. Loopy, because it’s maybe five minutes of content, literally shown in 10-minute or 30-minute loops. Vaguely unpleasant, because there’s something very, very shameful about watching Rod Stewart sing “You Wear it Well” while wearing gold pants. Yet the ad is compelling, because dammit, that Bowie performance really is something special and maybe that show really was culturally important and maybe it really does need to be viewed on these high-quality discs and it is an exclusive offer after all…

Step away from the credit card. Lucky for you (but not so lucky for Guthy-Renker,) the internet exists, preserving these feasts of ’70s excess forever.

I hope Bowie’s race never finds our planet and demands his return. We need him here.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=9IslmcAApeg

The infomercial touts the program’s non-lipsync-ness, but… well, it’s gotta be hard to maintain perfect pitch while dancing like a go-go cowgirl.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=r7WPwH8Rd6g

No, kids, that ain’t Britt Daniel fronting the Strokes. That there is Tom Fucking Petty.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=cNXQ51s9xHw

It’s officially Holiday Month. Nothing you can do about it. The harder you try to tune it out, the louder your grocery store will blast Paul McCartney‘s feverish, surreal, so-terrible-it kinda-blows-your-mind-and-becomes-awesome “Wonderful Christmastime.”

Let’s face it, most Christmas songs are not good. Well, the hymns can be quite beautiful — think “O Holy Night” — but the radio-friendly versions of them are invariably nauseating. (Think Celine Dion strangling “O Holy Night.” Yeah. Sorry.)

What’s the discerning connoisseur of popular song to do? Ignore the stifling contemporary readings of hymns and boring carol retreads: look to original Christmas-themed material to really roast your chestnuts.

The late-1940s boozy duet “Baby, it’s Cold Outside” was classed up by Dean Martin in ’59. (Listen to those lyrics; ring-a-ding-date-rape!) It seemed to have a moment a few years ago. Its culmination was getting Deschaneled in the Will Ferrell vehicle Elf, to admittedly adorable effect. But its since served time on too many car commercials to charm anymore.

Run-DMC‘s “Christmas in Hollis” will always be near and dear to my heart. Unfortunately, it’s right on the line between Actual Song and Novelty Song. Okay, the exclamation “Oh my god! A ill reindeer!” might push it over that line. But notice how the production (hard beats, turntabling, no singing) and their personal style (slim black jeans) are so dated, they now feel fresh.

The Pogues‘ “Fairytale of New York” is a perfect Christmas song. If Shane MacGowan realizes it’s Christmas eve, there’s no choice but to celebrate with him. Kirsty MacColl‘s soaring harmony lifts you out of the drunk tank and onto the city streets, with the bells and the chill and the promise of another dawning year. Plus, I can’t prove this, but I’m fairly certain this is the only Christmas duet in which the woman is called a “slut” and the man a “faggot.” [NB: Yep, that's Matt Dillon as Shane's arresting officer in the vid.]

But for me, what’s below is the ultimate version of the ultimate Christmas song. It’s a Christmas song that’s actually a breakup song. A Christmas song which acknowledges that, while sometimes this season makes you want to put a batch of cookies in the oven, sometimes you’ll just want to stick your head in it. (It’s a Joni Mitchell joint, but I prefer Fran Healy‘s voice on it.)

www.youtube.com/watch?v=_hqrt4mJclo

What are your favorites? Is it ever okay to love this, for example, or is it merely an amusing curiosity for the Bowie loyalist?