I am a proud member of Justin Bieber’s Facebook fan page, although I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself a “Belieber.”

Let’s just say I am cautiously Justinistic.

When I joined the Canadian’s crooner’s fan page, a notice to that effect appeared on my Facebook wall, and then I started to receive email from friends – email to the effect that I must be either sick or crazy.

As it turns out, there are a lot of Bieber haters out there, aka Justanthropists.

My interest in Bieber is inextricably interwoven with that of my daughter. Bieber is her first teenage heartthrob.

Before Bieber, the only pictures she ever hung on her bedroom wall were of animals.

Some thematic tension remains: She created a collage of Bieber photos and animal photos that I like to call Bieber of the Jungle or St. Justin of Assisi.

Far from discourage this crush, I have participated in it.

I was the one who bought her a Bieber poster book.

I was the one who took her to see Bieber’s concert movie the day after it opened.

In the spirit of such TV dads as Steve Douglas, I often gesture with an imaginary pipe when I say things like “that Justin Bieber seems like a fine young man.”

I’d invite him over, if I wasn’t afraid that he’d talk about hockey the whole time.

No, I don’t love his music, but I don’t love Russian sitcoms either.

Which is another way of saying Bieber’s music is not meant for me.

For me to be personally offended by Bieber’s music, I have to pretend that Bieber and his collaborators gave a moment’s thought to people in my age bracket and the things that offend them.

As a man in his mid-40s, I am self-confident enough to be able to say that I don’t need Justin Bieber to worry about me … because I know James Taylor is worrying about me.

If Justin Bieber is the best example that you can come up with of “The Decline of Western Civilization,” then you aren’t looking hard enough for one.

Personally, I never got over Uncrustables – those frozen, pre-made, peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. I saw someone buy a box the other day and thought, “The terrorists have won.”

We live in a nation that puts Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi on the New York Times bestseller list and then expects her to lecture at Rutgers University.

When asked by a Rutgers student to cite her main inspiration in life, she gave the same response to the question that Winston Churchill gave at Harrow School in 1941: “Being tan. When you’re tan, you feel better about yourself.”

In that pop cultural context, Bieber begins to look more and more like our last, best hope.

It is perfectly legitimate, of course, to dislike Bieber’s style of music, but it’s not legitimate to say he doesn’t know how to perform it.

The following facts are virtually indisputable, it seems to me: The kid can sing, play guitar, write songs, has not yet turned into a jerk and is androgynously good-looking in a way that is meant to appeal to music fans who don’t know what androgynous means and, frankly, don’t care.

He seems to be more genuinely talented than anyone who has performed bubblegum pop for people who prove their bubblegum pop credentials every day by chewing bubblegum.

There are lots of folks who are appalled by the suddenness and deliriousness and ginormousness of his popularity, but I am kind of heartened by it.

Thanks to illegal downloads and major label contracts that seem inspired by indentured servitude, most musicians these days can’t make a living playing music.

And yet, here is this hardworking kid who has somehow legitimately achieved fame and wealth against long odds.

Bieber’s path to victory and riches started where every other amateur’s does these days – on YouTube.

Rather than make you resentful, this should renew your passion for making those funny cat videos.