Just for fun, here's a random list of other poll results:

>A large number of city residents still have not heard of the candidates. The proportion of residents who have not heard of Tom Knox, the only candidate to date to run television advertisements, has fallen from 78 percent in July to 44 percent in the current poll.

>Chaka Fattah continues to lead with 26 percent, but Tom Knox has risen from one percent in July to 22 percent in the current poll, most likely resulting from his large-scale television advertising campaign. Among the other candidates, Michael Nutter, Dwight Evans, and Bob Brady have nearly equal levels of support, with 12 percent, 10 percent and 8 percent, respectively. Knox is in the lead (28%) among white Democrats, while Fattah is the most popular candidate among black Democrats (38%).

>67 percent say that crime, drugs, and violence are the most important problems confronting the city.

>By a narrow margin (47%), residents feel that having casinos in Philadelphia will have a more negative than positive effect on the city.

Del Toro has described Pan’s Labyrinth as “a very nasty, ambiguous, bloody, brutal fairy tale, the way they used to be. This is Brothers Grimm before they cleaned them up.”

It sure is. But the first indication of the film’s brutality is not a scene involving baby-eating monsters or mischievous fauns. Before we are introduced to the magical world of the labyrinth, we meet a real-life monster: fascist Capt. Vidal (Sergi Lopez). Early in the film is a scene in which Vidal is interrogating a father and son caught hunting for rabbits at night. He accuses the men of being rebels, grabs a bottle out of the son’s hunting satchel and smashes the butt end of it repeatedly into the man’s face, killing him. He then shoots the father, and for good measure empties his pistol in the son’s head.

Set against the backdrop of post-civil war Spain circa 1944, del Toro (Blade II, Hellboy) weaves together the vicious realities of Franco’s regime with an opaque underworld of fauns and monsters where a young girl named Ofelia (Ivana Baquero) seeks refuge.

But there is no escape from evil and intrigue in this underworld, just as there is no escape from it in the real world. The movie begins with Ofelia’s widowed mother, Carmen (Ariadna Gil), traveling with her daughter to an old mill converted to a military outpost commanded by Capt. Vidal, whom Carmen has married. She is pregnant with the Captain’s son, and also gravely ill. Capt. Vidal, a real-life monster, has been sent to root out and destroy a band of former Republican soldiers holed up in the mountains.

Upon her arrival at the outpost, Ofelia follows a flying insect she believes to be a fairy to an ancient labyrinth on the land. There, she meets a stunning and ambivalent faun (Doug Jones) who puts her to three tasks to prove she is the reincarnated princess of a magical underworld.

As the film progresses it becomes clear that the horrors of the real world are also present in the fantasy world of the labyrinth. The faun is no less forgiving than Ofelia’s evil stepfather, as the girl is forced to brave the lair of a Polyphemos-like monster (also Doug Jones) that bites the heads off fairies sent to guide her and nearly devours poor Ofelia.

But as dark and disturbing as the scenes of the magical underworld may be, they are matched blow for blow by the horrors of the real, war-torn world, and del Toro never flinches as the story turns in the way fairy tales must.

Pan’s Labyrinth is a film above all about human suffering and sacrifice, rich with classical imagery and literary allusions amid a darkly compelling aesthetic. Del Toro, a Mexican filmmaker working with Mexican and Spanish producers and actors, has here done what Hollywood would have found impossible—even in a fantasy world.

That’s how I recently heard someone refer to 2007.

With such a lame and irrelevant label for 2007, already the New Year is probably off to a crappy start. But, if you think about it, each year is pre-programmed to depress you at least for a couple of weeks.

New Year’s Eve wasn’t nearly as cool as it should have been; coming back to work on Jan. 2 after a holiday of food, family, booze and sleep is less than spectacular; and resolutions are made with the inevitable stipulation that actually abiding by them is optional.

It’s not usually the temporary depression of holidays that prevails, though. It’s the failed resolutions that really stick around.

How many of you have already 86’ed your resolution? How many of the rest of you have either cheated a little or simply changed your resolution to allow you to dodge it anyway?

I used to make resolutions not to do things that I would have never done anyway, just to appear successful.

Friend: “What’s your new year’s resolution?”

Me: “I’m not gonna go to the zoo and holler at the penguins.”

Friend: “Wow. How’s that going?”

Me: “Pretty good, so far.”

See, 100 percent success rate.

For the past few years, though, my resolution has been to not laugh at people when they fall down. That’s a tough one and I haven’t quite nailed it yet. I’ve stopped laughing at the elderly and physically disabled, but when a normal person hits the deck, I come close to damaging my slacks.

What it comes down to is that a New Year’s resolution, whether you succeed or not, is just a method to extend the holiday guilt trip for weeks (maybe months).

The best approach, maybe, is to forget the whole thing. Forget the idea that New Year’s even exists. It’s a man-made occasion that separates this 365 days from that 365 days.
If you want to quit smoking, do it on February 12. Want to go on a diet? Start in mid-May. Join the gym whenever the hell you want to.

The best part is you don’t have to tell anyone you’re doing it. Discard the pressure of keeping your New Year’s resolution and put a little stealth in your act.

It is, after all, The Bond Year.

But lo, a Christmas miracle! McNabb’s departure gave rise to 36-year-old Jeff Garcia, the veteran QB who joined the roster in March after a pair of miserable seasons in Detroit and Cleveland. At what seemed the team's nadir Garcia came in and rekindled playoff hopes in the space of four games.

Since taking over from McNabb, Garcia has a 108.0 passer rating, throwing eight touchdown passes and one interception and led Philadelphia to a 3-1 record—within one game of Dallas for the division lead

Strange as it sounds, McNabb’s torn ligament and Garcia’s subsequent moxie have been the biggest gifts the Eagles got all year—and no one saw it coming (the best kind of gift).

On Christmas Day Garcia could be the gift that keeps on giving. The widely despised Terrell Owens has a particular dislike of Garcia; when the two played together in San Francisco Owens attacked Garcia’s performance as QB and questioned his sexual orientation.

Now, with the hated Terrell Owens matching up against his old quarterback and former Eagles teammates, this Christmas Day game is both a chance for Garcia to put Owens in his place and for the Eagles to get in position for the playoffs.

A month ago there wasn’t really anything more depressing around town than what was happening to the Eagles (except what was happening to the Sixers). But now, just in time for Christmas, Philly's lump of coal just might turn out to be a diamond.

So Santa, we have just a thing or two we want this Christmas: For Garcia to get the last laugh on Owens, for the Eagles to destroy the Cowboys, and… oh yeah, for peace on earth and all that.

The special elections, of course, were called because of three vacant City Council seats: Michael Nutter resigned to run for mayor, David Cohen died and Rick Mariano went to jail. Enter Campbell, heiress to a Philadelphia political machine forged in large part by her father, Edgar C. Campbell Sr.

Condolences to anyone who thought the special election would usher in some reform-minded council members fed up with the bad old days.

Campbell is not only the epitome of corrupt machine politics, she is also happy to take, on the city’s dime, a $46,000 Chevrolet Uplander van outfitted with a wheelchair lift (this, in addition to free gas, parking and the $102,000 annual salary that comes with a council seat).

Campbell needs this special van, according to the Daily News, because she “can’t use one leg.” Apparently Campbell has been in and out of a wheelchair in recent years due to health problems and recently had a bout of pneumonia, for which she took steroids that caused stiffness in her arm and leg. Fair enough. But it should also be noted that Campbell is, by any reasonable standard (or any standard at all), obese.

To make matters worse, Nutter, whom Campbell is replacing, refused to take a city-issued car and never put in for gas mileage when he used his own vehicle for city business, according to the Daily News. But hey, at least Campbell told the paper she's committed, in the long-term, to getting back on her feet. Isn't that nice?

We can only hope that Campbell’s determination to walk in City Council chambers is as strong as her determination to rid herself of potential conflicts of interests as a member of that council. But let's not get our hopes up. Campbell has already said she will not give up her “political consulting” businesses, which collect hefty fees from political and judicial candidates seeking party endorsement.

Sound weird? Read on.

Normally a ward leader collects fees from candidates in exchange for endorsement, but after Campbell was convicted in 2001 of illegally collecting and spending campaign contributions in her capacity as ward leader, she set up the consulting businesses.

All of this has been reported before. It’s just a shame no one seems to care that a woman who has shown no respect for city campaign laws and who is a gigantic cog in the old political machine has been quietly placed on City Council. And she’ll probably sit on City Council for as long as it takes her to get back on her feet, which could be a long time indeed.

You’ve earned the honor of going to work everyday with room for nothing but success and improvement. Having an off day? Too bad, you’re all we’ve got.

In two years, the Philadelphia Phillies’ Howard has collected enough awards to last a career: Rookie of the year in 2005, National League MVP this week and best bargain-savior ever with a paltry $355,000 salary this year. Pace yourself, man.

Take a look around at Philadelphia’s sportscape:

Let’s see – that’s injury, death and rewarded incompetence. Oh, and the 76ers are drowning in a retarded sea of collective mediocrity.

So here Ryan Howard sits – Philadelphia’s singular success fueling hopes for the future. Philly’s own personal, pinstriped Jesus.

Howard has announced his nose-to-the-grindstone intentions to work hard. He’s shown that he has consistent power and productivity by leading the league in both homeruns and RBIs last year. Now he can only do the same or better and hope that those red Phillies pinstripes don’t coil into a target.

But if Howard doesn’t continue his progression upwards, there’s no “I” in blame. (OK, that doesn’t even make sense, but it sounds good) The Phillies have to put a batter behind Howard in the line-up who can afford him a chance to see some pitches. The Soriano-fever has broke and the very public search continues for a bat that opposing pitchers will fear enough to face Howard.

Barring that, the slugger can expect his intentional walks to keep rising, making the pitches he sees all that more valuable.

But don’t worry, the Phillies have plenty of time to squander their good fortune and scare Howard out of the city before a decent team can form around its new star. He’s pulling in a fraction of what he’s worth now that his success has been officially recognized.

A $355,000 salary couldn’t buy a batboy in the Bronx. Obviously the Phillies need to cough-up more dough to keep Howard around.

My prediction: Ryan Howard will be a Yankee someday soon. Hey, it’s possible.

As a minor leaguer, he wanted out twice after he got tired of staring at Jim Thome’s shadow lumbering around first base. Imagine how quickly the newly-minted franchise player would jet watching a sucky supporting cast rouse the perpetual ire of Phillies fans?

Plus, New York has become the place where big stars go to make big money and enjoy anonymously sucking next to Alex Rodriguez.

It was nice knowing you, Ryan Howard. Philly was happy to be the first rung.

Of the many Kung Fu tricks they performed, by far the most amazing was called “little boy lifts a bucket of water.” This is a feat in which a monk lifts a 5-gallon bucket of water with a cloth belt tied to his balls. I’m not kidding.

Nor am I kidding when I say that I was the audience member selected to verify that the sash was, in fact, tied to the monk’s balls.

Before I tell the tale, some background is in order. Almost all these monks were teenagers; one of them looked to be about 10 years old. They live at the Songshan Shaolin Temple in Hunan Province, China, where they have been training since they were toddlers. The Shaolin masters there never leave the temple but send their students out to raise money through performances.

For every super-human Kung Fu feat, the monks would select an audience member to come on stage and authenticate that they were actually doing these things and not merely pulling optical illusions. For some feats, such as breaking metal rods over their heads or eating glass, they would bring the metal and glass into the crowd beforehand and let audience members touch them, just to be sure.

For the ball sack trick, a young monk stood stage center and gathered his chi (they always take a minute to gather their chi, or qigong). Then he untied the black sash around his waist, reached his hand down into his orange monk pants and, to everyone’s surprise, tied one end of the sash to his balls.

At this point, another monk came down from the stage and started walking toward me. I had been sitting in the front row, taking pictures. When I saw him coming I was afraid. He motioned me to follow him and I did. You don’t disobey a Kung Fu monk.

I wasn’t sure what they wanted me to do. Other audience members had gone on stage to assist the monks, but this was different. A Kung Fu monk had just tied a sash to his balls, what did they want with me? The monk handed me the end of the sash. This gave me a weird feeling. Then he motioned for me to look down his pants, where I saw that indeed the sash was tied to his balls. To emphasize this fact he gave the sash a little tug.

Having done my part, the monks bowed to me and I left the stage as the audience applauded. I had seen a Shaolin monk’s balls. I kept thinking: What does this mean?

I didn’t ponder for long because up on stage a couple monks had brought out two chairs and a five-gallon bucket of water. The monk with the sash around his balls gathered more chi as he got up and straddled the chairs. The other monks placed the bucket between the chairs. It was obvious what was about to happen.

Strange, tinny Asian techno music blared through the speakers. The monk crouched low over the bucket and tied the loose end of the sash to the bucket handle. The crowd held its breath (‘he really isn’t going to…’). And then he did it. With a Kung Fu yell the monk stood up and pulled the full bucket of water off the ground with his balls.

And then something amazing happened. He began to sway his hips, swinging the bucket forward and backward. His eyes were closed; he was perfectly serene. Not a drop of water spilled.

I gained a new respect for Shaolin monks that day. To be honest, I never really believed they could do superhuman feats. In my ignorance, I thought being a Kung Fu monk was all about flying jump kicks and silently climbing walls. I never knew their true power; I never knew the strength of Kung Fu balls.

Friendster and Facebook are tempting, but they don’t quite hit the mark. Facebook allows you only to view your friends’ profiles. And Friendster quickly loses your interest as soon as you realize every person whose profile you visit knows that you decided to stare at them for an indefinite period of time.

Myspace came through with the perfect combination of narcissism and voyeurism. The venue allows people to talk about themselves and post pictures to an embarrassingly conceited extent, and then allows anyone to view that page anonymously.

But the age of secretly spying on friends, co-workers, crushes, exes and the guy next door is over, people.

Numerous websites now offer code that one can install on their Myspace page to successfully track anyone who comes to his or her page.

And take my word for it. The tracking systems work.

Having the legitimacy of these trackers confirmed, I immediately became paranoid and reserved in my Myspace usage.

· No more reading people’s idiotic comments and making fun of them with your friends.
· No more checking out who got fat, or bald, or coked out after college.
· No more seeing who got married to a fat, or bald or coked-out person after college.
· No more staring at pictures of your ex during work hours.

And don’t give me that wah wah Dateline B.S. that these tracker systems safeguard against real stalkers. The only time these sites get dangerous is if you post personal information on your page or if you brilliantly decide to meet up with a stranger you met online.

If you’re that much of a dumbass, a tracker system will be no help to you. You’ll figure out a way to get raped or robbed with or without Myspace.

There is one interesting perk from this Big Brother mechanism, though: Reverse stalking.

Now instead of going to other people’s pages to check out what they’re doing, you get to see who is spying on you. Small compensation, but compensation nonetheless.