The Passenger has no New Year's resolutions. I haven't made any since 1996, when I resolved to drink Orson Welles' "Muppet Movie" weight in Sneaky Pete - a goal dusted off by February. Having achieved that seemingly impossible end, what could I do but shelve the whole concept of resolve, until such time as I can kick it altogether? Still, I hate to waste this space, so without further ado, here are some resolutions I've gladly made on behalf of other dopes:

WE, SPIN MAGAZINE, will cease being an aesthetic and spiritual representation of 1976. I, COURTNEY LOVE, will diminish, completely and utterly, down to the subatomic level. WE, THE FORD MOTOR COMPANY, will forgo the new T-Bird in favor of a new Pinto. I, KEVIN WILLIAMSON, promise never to do another single thing as long as I live.

You can thank me later, kids. And now - back to the hit parade!
 

For all its talk of Oasis' brothers Gallagher, The Passenger can't help but tiptoe through The Sleaze. Every week, Jill "The Diva" Stempel rounds up the usual suspects of the cult of celebrity - usually intellectual giant Brad Pitt, floatation device Demi Moore and those aforementioned brats of Oasis - and busts them with baby-faced, acid-tongued zeal. Did you know that Sylvester Stallone gave out a quartet of breast enlargements for Christmas? That Heather Graham's getting' it on with Ed Burns? That Noel Gallagher's on the rehab trail? It's all here, framed by Stempel's witty, Hedda-Hopper-esque asides. Give this woman your unconditional love, loyalty and affection, and maybe she'll agree to run for the presidency.
 

"This site is very you," declared the enlightened soul who suggested it to the Passenger. Ah, but is it? Am I irreligious, hedonistic, and subtly ambiguous? Do I really want to be Pope-For-A-Day? Do I have the strength of will to Save My Own Ass? Yes, by gravy, yes! I will luxuriate in the Sacred Disorder of the Enigmata! I will bust my hump to commit a Truly Original Sin! I will give full-throated testimony to the Apocryphal Psalm of Eural! I will unload my cravings for an SUV and more and better kitchen accessories to the Confessional! I will make the holy polenta! Visit the Disorder today, and you, too, will be one of thee!
 

Can you believe there are only 48 episodes of "Space: 1999"? When I was a kid, I could have sworn that there were at least, oh, a million. (And 1999 seemed a billion years away ...) The "Space: 1999" Cybrary provides a balanced overview of the 1975-1977 British television series, from the cast - Martin Landau, you rock! - down to the furniture (a big ole Passenger smooch to the first person who finds me one of Gae Aulenti's fabulous Pileo floor lamps, dead or alive). Sure, the powers-that-be at Moonbase Alpha owe more than a few conciliatory dinners to Kubrick's "2001," and their dialogue was penned by androids ("In the first episode, there was practically no dialogue for quite a while, which, in view of what was to come, was a terrific idea," sneered TV Guide), but what matters these Earthly trifles? This is the Space Age we were promised, but have yet to achieve - a dramatic (and well-appointed) age of innovation and exploration that continues to elude our reach, regardless of what the calendar reads.
 

Of course, if I did have a New Year's resolution - and I'm not saying I do! - it would be to become more like Paul Frees. If anyone's got a voiceover gig for the Passenger, I'm ready and willing to put on the handlebar mustache and six-shooters. Ciao!

FUTURE SHOCK!