It worked miracles for Julie Andrews and her brood of cloying kinder. And Oprah’s televised favorites are horrifyingly legendary. So why not me? Only difference: no singing children, no shrieking haus-fraus.

So, here’s my Fave Raves of 2005. Good times!

1. My boyfriend. After I removed my six-year diary from the site, I promised myself I wouldn’t write about boyfriends again. But after 2004’s annus horribilis of ne’er-do-wells, alcoholics, forlorn puers, muscle queens and specious dress-shop owners — meeting Kelly felt like divine intervention. He’s a musician and a thinker. We make each other laugh. And for such a tender age (14 — kidding, 27), he has the wisdom and emotional savvy of French philosophers and Hindi gurus. I’m smitten. Thank you Craigslist!

2. Nightcharm’s editor. John Calendo’s story is a plot plucked from a screwball comedy. New York go-go dancer discovered by Andy Warhol in the 70s. Climbs to the top of the skin mag trade in the 80s — as editor of Hustler, In Touch, Blueboy. Then after a brief run as a pop-culture columnist with Nightcharm, I invited him to assume the gold lame mantle of editor-in-chief of the site you’re reading now, mary. Yes, John’s covered the waterfront, as his Sailors piece demonstrates.

John’s secret? It’s all about The Italian Torment — as my friend Virginia (also Latin) defines that larger than life, Everything’s An Opera world view that Italians are born with. Sure, there are moments when he works my last nerve and everything goes into high-def technocolor, but how dull life — and this site would be — without him. I love you, darling.

3. Amsterdam. After a noisy August in Paris, Amsterdam (below) felt like another galaxy — one without riots. Kelly and I became enchanted and bewitched by this city. Despite the Muslim problem, everything about Amsterdam exudes charm, taste and civic wisdom.

It’s how human beings, as a collective, are supposed to live. Bonus points! While there we were able to meet up with Jop van Bennekom — one of the publishers of my favorite porn art-zine, BUTT. Jop’s sweet, sexy and uber-talented — and a smart business man. Case in point: Starting next year we feature BUTT interviews and articles for our Inner Circle members.

4. Movies War of the Worlds in which Tommy Cruise is slurped up into the rectum of a giant alien. Oh the joy! I already waxed on the film here. My other favorites: The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill, Mysterious Skin, Me and You and Everyone We Know (”Back and forth. Forever and ever.”) And — wait for it: The Exorcist: The Version You’ve Never Seen.

5. Music. What I wanted most this year in music was space: songs that weren’t over produced into oblivion. Jazz and classical musicians understand this approach — why can’t pop artists? Well some do. Just in time, Kelly turned me on to the Chicago quartet The Sea and Cake and their front man Sam Prekop (right). Prekop and his band know a lot about lettings songs breathe, stretch wide and melt.

Prekop’s sound is economical, airy, sometimes elusive but always soulful — and his songs stray away from the traditional format of verse-chorus-verse. His vocals are unassuming, with a take-it-or-leave-it breeziness. Elements of jazz mix with occasional bits of electronic-inspired Bowie (circa Low and Heroes) making for a sharp, fresh set of songs.

I started with the band’s 2003 album One Bedroom and worked my way into Prekop’s latest solo disc Who’s Your New Professor. Both are my pick for Records of the Year. You can listen and watch Prekop’s single Something from Who’s Your New Professor, here.

The best of the rest:

Harold Budd. Avalon Sutra. Minimalist pianist Budd creates ambient pieces that fill a room like barely-there incense. He also worked in tandem with former Cocteau Twins Robin Gutherie on the soundtrack to Mysterious Skin , another gorgeous set of compositions.

Brian Eno. Another Day On Earth. Twenty-five years of everything Eno condensed onto a new set of songs. Lush and affirming.

Anja Lechner and Vassilis Tsabropoulos. Gurdjieff, Tsabropoulos : Chants, Hymns and Dances. Magical minor chords and near-disonant harmonies that evoke life’s deepest mysteries.

Missy Elliott. The Cookbook didn’t have a slew of hits like previous Elliott freak attacks but it demonstrated that hip hop can be musical. A surprising and daring concept.

Goldfrapp. Supernature. (Thanks Curtis). Poor Madonna, this should be her album right now. Although they kookily list their influences as “nature, trees, animals and the night,” it’s more about snagging the best riffs from T-Rex, Flock Of Seagulls, Canned Heat and Giorgio Moroder.

Beck. Guero. A happy sad album that reasserted Beck’s genius for working beats and grooves into golden, addictive things. His best in years — and nary a mention of L. Ron Hubbard!

Mylo. Destroy Rock & Roll has the kind of starving artist focus of the early Moby (though Scottish electro expert Myles MacInnes AKA Mylo — left — is much hotter). Wired, weird and cooly modern, Destroy displays a wandering mish-mash of imprints: Royksopp, early Prince, Groove Armada, Air and Zero 7. Not available until mid-December in the states — so you’ll want to add this to your Christmas list — now!

6. Patriot. Howard Stern. No one wants to lose their liberties and Stern fought for his (and ours) while giddily and unapologetically following his muse into outer space. Here’s what he shared about his upcoming move to Sirius satellite radio:

“You know that show The View, right? I’ve got a show coming on called Crack Whore View. We take all the topics they discuss on The View that day, then take four crack whores and let them discuss those same issues.”

Beam me up now!

7. Website. DataLounge. Where else in the world would you learn that “Barbara, Please!” is considered one of the most memorable lines from Mommie Dearest? Or discover the “meaning” of Laura Branigan’s huge 80s hit Gloria? A helpful DataLounger explained it this way: “Gloria is about shooting people in a mall.” DataLounge is further evidence that crazy queens have cornered the market on wicked wit and snarky snaps.

8. Near-Nude Male Celebrity. Nothing is sadder than watching an entire trailer of The Amityville Horror just to catch a few fleeting seconds of built-like-a-porn-star hunk Ryan Reynolds (above) running amok in his jammy bottoms, all wet and clinging dangerously below the pube line. And yet that’s exactly what I did. Ryan! is that an axe in your hands, or are you just happy to see me?

9. Charmed Life. The very blog you’re soaking in. The following articles and entries made Nightcharm the place to be on the queer net in 05:

• John’s insightful commentary on the conclusion of HBO’s Six Feet Under. And his hysterical take on those ubiquitous International Male catalogs.

• Near delirium made it difficult for John and me to work on the Nancy Grace savaging of Michael Jackson in our Off The Wall: The Bird Woman of Santa Clara. But duty kept us sober — and we delivered.

• And I had a blast researching and recalling the stellar fuck-animal that was Jon Vincent, Gay Porn’s King of Top.

• The absolute conviction with which we approached all things American Idol. Hell, even Scott Savol’s mom visited and left a comment on the site.

10. Anal Bleaching. It’s important to end this list on a bottom note — not that I’d ever try this technique myself. Too, I like that Nancy Grace’s photo appears inches away from the words anal bleaching.

Where else but in our culture of upside down priorities would whitening one’s asshole be considered an act of self-improvement? According to Esquire “Lately porn stars and the idle vain have been lightening the area for aesthetic reasons. One day, parents will be able to choose the color of their unborn child’s anus — but until that utopian tomorrow, there is anal bleach.”

Butthole brightning queen Anna Marsiano’s website, explains that her “products are sweeping the beauty enhancement world. They are increasing in popularity because they can diminish vaginal and anal unsightly dark discolouration to a lighter more youthful tone.”

Oh yeah, and one last thing:

All the encouragement and will to live that I receive whenever I look upon the face of Mrs. Laura Bush.

Merry Xmas, Nightcharmers!