First up, the Oscars are this weekend, angling for eyeballs with a snooze-inducing battle between a brazen big budget behemoth (Avatar) and a wily art house upstart (Hurt Locker).

Why snooze-inducing? If Avatar sweeps the race, no one will be surprised because - despite an inevitable backlash - the film had been hyped for months as the frontrunner.

If Hurt Locker wins, no one will care, because frankly - other than a couple of history profs and a geeky neighbourhood kid obsessed with landmines - no one has seen it.

And then there’s Jay Leno, back on late night this week after NBC’s failed experiment to reinvent him as a prime-time dragon slayer.

Is this exciting? I caught his return Monday and found my attention wandering two minutes into his tepid, defiantly unthreatening monologue about the Olympics, Chocolate Cheerios, Dick Cheney’s heart attack and . . . Zzzz, sorry, what was I saying?

Bottom line: Jay is Jay. Solid. Dependable. Uninspiring. If you like him, there he is, back at 11:35 p.m. where his diehard conservative followers want him.

If you don’t like him, you can always turn to irony-drenched David Letterman.

And Conan? Too smart (and quirky) for the room, buster. How he survived seven months as Tonight Show host, I’ll never understand.

But forget the machinations of Hollywood. If there was one ripple on the pop culture horizon this week that infuriated, frustrated and mystified aging baby boomers, it’s the fact Carly Simon – despite repeated fake-outs - still won’t reveal the identity of the arrogant lothario depicted in her oft-dissected ’72 pop hit, You’re So Vain.

“You’re so vain -- you probably think this song is about you,’’ she crooned in a song that has come to be viewed as one of pop culture’s great mysteries, right behind the identity of Watergate’s Deep Throat (since revealed), the whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa and how they get the caramel in the Caramilk bar (rhinoplasty?)

At first, we were led to believe, the jet-setting playboy who hung out with underworld spies and hit on the wives of close friends was Mick Jagger, who sang backing vocals, then Warren Beatty, then a composite of three men Simon dated.

Then last week -based on a tip the man’s first name may be David - British media proclaimed that gay record mogul David Geffen was the guy with “one eye on the mirror” who watched himself “gavotte.’’

David Geffen? Really? A faceless record company exec who wasn’t even romantically involved with Simon? What a crushing disappointment that would have been.

Fortunately, the 64-year-old songwriter nixed that idea a few days later, which makes this a prime opportunity to announce that the song’s enigmatic subject - the guy who probably thinks the song is about him - is, in fact, me.

I was running with a fast crowd in those days, back when glam was king, turtlenecks were cool and rock stars like David Bowie and Elton John ruled the pop charts.

Caught up in the pre-disco fervour, I was quite a flashy dresser - my hat, as Simon crooned so eloquently, “strategically dipped below one eye”, my “scarf it was apricot.’’

I was only 12 at the time, mind you, but looked at least 12 1/2 when I met the fledgling pop star during a family trip to Disneyworld and wooed her with . . .

OK, OK, so it wasn’t me - I was too busy tormenting my siblings during mutinous carpool outings to Hebrew school - but I have to give Simon credit. Thirty-seven years after her song hit No. 1 on Billboard, it continues to intrigue.

“It’s the kind of thing that if I actually tell, it’ll lose the whole mystique,’’ she coyly told media a few years back. “What’s the point of telling? Why bother to tell?”

Which, despite her disingenuous attempts to keep the mystery alive, only makes her secret that much more compelling.

Joel Rubinoff writes about pop culture trends every Friday. You can reach him at jrubinoff@therecord.com