Good Christ, is it time to go back to work already? The Black Table doesn't know about you, but Sunday night, the night before we had to go back to work, was like having the last meal before our execution. Seem too dark? Probably true. But then again, you didn't fall into the Excel morass we did on Monday either. Never has our life seemed so empty. And we assure you … it has seemed very empty in the past.

But no matter; there's no use bringing you down with us. It's 2005, and that means fresh new starts. So look for all your friends to quit their jobs, join a gym and break up with their significant others. So that'll be fun. Chaos is always a sign that a new year is happy.

Anyway, 11 brand new Black Lists this week. We're please to be back in business after our break here, and to celebrate, come to our party this Saturday at 9 p.m. We promise it will be fun. And submit to the Black List using the little bar on the right. Be safe, young Jedis!

-- BT

The Black Table needs your help! Every week, we need reviews of the latest media-related crud, new products from Capitalists and odd idea, concept or trend. All you need to have is a sharp opinion that you can distill down to one paragraph of 150 words and give a letter grade. To submit, please fill out the form below. Entries may edited for length, style and clarity. Hit us with your best shot. Fire away.

THE DEATH OF LENNIE BRISCOE: 2004 was not the best of years. Bush won, the tsunami struck and Paris Hilton became an internationally known celebrity. But there was still some hope. That is, until Jerry "Lennie Briscoe" Orbach passed away at the much-too-young age of 69. Not to trivialize Orbach's other work, but Lennie Briscoe was amazing. Never missing the chance for a good rotting corpse one-liner, this guy experienced thousands of murder investigations and even more ex-wife jokes. Turn on TNT right now. Chances are, Lennie is wisecracking around Manhattan, and you should be watching. F for the death of one of television's greatest characters and an even greater actor, and A for eternal life in syndication. -- Victoria

THE GOLDEN GIRLS SEASON ONE ON DVD: "Thank you for being a friend..." and so begins the theme song to one of the best shows in recent memory. Blanche alone deserved her own spin-off, that sassy minx. And now thanks to the DVD, we can relive their senior hijinks, including the time when the con artist came to town (and Blanche slept with him), the time when Rose's nephew came to town (and Blanche slept with him) and the time when the actor came to town. Oh, and yes, she did him, too. Maybe included in the DVD outtakes is the answer the age-old question: Why do so many old people move to Florida? Why, it's because the weather is nice, the beaches are full of good-looking people in thongs, and we never have to see the Goldens in theirs. No, really,

thank you, Sophia. A -- Jill Sheehy

OTIS DAY AND THE KNIGHTS: Otis, my man! Amazingly enough, Otis Day and the Knights are indeed still around. Running into them at a New Year's celebration in the late 1990s in Plainfield, N.J. was a surprising one in and of itself, but overall, in terms of aging, Otis isn't doing bad: He's lost his hair, thinned out even more, if that was possible, but he's still mighty spry on stage, even if the repertoire is a bit limited. Still, like any good R&B band, they get people shaking. But only if you don't mind if we dance with yo' dates. B+ -- Dave Gaffen

EXPLAINING THE BLOOD ON YOUR FRONT PORCH: You may be past legal drinking age, but your keg stand mentality has yet to wane. So you throw a party, at which numerous people are too wasted to stand. Fair enough. One such person meanders out on your front CONCRETE porch, falls down six steps and cracks his head open. Not nice, but after the EMTs show up and your drunken comrade gets a couple stitches and a massive hangover, it's all good. Except that your landlord comes over the next morning to check your kitchen sink and expects some sort of explanation for the copious amounts of blood stains on the front steps. You run through possible scenarios you could use to cover, and end up with the semi-believable "cut your hand while taking broken glass to the outside garbage can". Good save, now no one has to know you're an irresponsible alcoholic. Having to explain the blood on your porch: D-. Having the good judgment to NOT draw a chalk outline on your steps as a joke: B. -- Crystal

FABRIC SOFTENER SHEETS STUCK UP THE LEG OF YOUR PANTS: I'm interviewing a disaster relief guy who just happens to be not only extremely good-looking but housed in this extremely cool disaster RV with chainsaws hanging on bolts in latched hatches, about 50 of those aluminum-looking emergency blankets rolled up into sliding doors and water canteens hanging from stainless steel hooks all over the walls. I'm taking down his every word when I look down and see a piece of lint hanging from the bottom of my jeans, and I pull on it, because I'm nervous and therefore fidgety, and it is not a piece of lint but a fabric softener sheet stuck up the leg of my pants, and I keep pulling and pulling, thinking, "Oh, God, when, when, when will it come OUT?" And then, I say, "Uh, where is your trashcan?" I am still asking: WHY, God? Why me? Why then? It's been liquid fabric softener ever since. A -- Susan Kim

BLURTING OUT YOUR SEXUALITY TO A TOTAL STRANGER TO MAKE HIM FEEL LIKE A BAD PERSON: I spend 30 hours a week behind the counter of a video store in Tribeca, because I need the goddamn money. Yes, Tribeca, land of high-maintenance attitudes, where you have to have a dog and a kid to even get a day pass. I like to mentally check out most of the time as I scan, hearing the "blip" that yes, this unit is overdue, and the rich bastard on the other side of my counter tries to argue his way out of a late fee. Occasionally, I like to speak to the Tribecans, to amuse myself. A fellow came in and returned the first two discs of "The L Word," and wanted to rent a third. I said I assumed he liked it, and he said, "I don't know you that well, but I really just think it's the lesbian sex. Some of the other scenes are kinda interesting, but it's the lesbians that I like." I said, "Oh, well, is Jennifer Beals a convincing lesbian? Have you ever met a lesbian?" He said, after clearing his throat, "I'm sure I've met some, ya know..." And I, with a smirk I could barely hide and a twinkle in my eye, said, "Well, I'm a lesbian." Silence. He choked a little. I smiled. He stared, then mumbled "There ya go, then...You'd probably like it." Then he turned and was gone faster than a bat out of hell. Infiltrating Tribeca with my East Village poverty and overt sexual dialogue: B+ -- Kittens LeStax

VIRGIN MEGASTORE WORKERS: I went to the Virgin Megastore on Michigan Avenue in Chicago. What struck me was how the people who work there look and dress just like the people who work at indie music stores -- but the Virgin people have more attitude. How cool are you if you work for the MAN in a city where every neighborhood has a real record store that doesn't carry the latest from Britney or the Mariah Carey Christmas CD? Did you learn nothing from "High Fidelity"? Being able to listen to tons of CDs for free: A+. Acting pretentious while working at a chain store: F. -- Rebecca Berfanger

HAVING A DEAD MOUSE IN MY HOUSE: At first we thought the smell was coming from one of the trash bags. Maybe some chicken or a piece of fruit rotting away. But then we put the trash outside, and the smell remained. After a little nose work, I realized it was coming from behind the fridge. The fridge is moved and ... nothing. No mouse, no rat, no old food that had fallen behind the fridge, nothing. So now if you come over to my house this holiday season and think to yourself "wow, they sure do like air fresheners," you know why. Having a dead mouse behind the wall that you can't get to: F. Scented candles and Renuzit Air Fresheners: A. -- Bob Sassone

AVOIDING I-95 FROM NYC TO POINTS NORTH: There's a stretch in the Bronx where the Cross Bronx Expressway converges with the Bruckner Expressway. Half the people are trying to scoot across a two-car length section of three lanes of traffic to get to I-95; the other half are circumnavigating the same stretch to jump from the Expressway to get to the Whitestone Bridge. It's an insane asylum, and after a Yankee game, well, it's even worse. But you can avoid this altogether by simply using the Cross County Parkway to the Hutchison River Parkway, which will then lead you to the Merritt or Route 684, depending on where you're going. And no I-95 is needed. Because it sucks. Avoiding it: A. Using it: F. -- Dave Gaffen

GETTING FIRED THE WRONG WAY: Six months ago I started working under a new boss. I could tell immediately that we didn't click. Going into my year-end review, I knew my bonus wasn't going to be anything to write home about, but I wasn't expecting was the 15-minute tongue lashing and scream fest. Caught off-guard, I blurted out, 'Am I fired?' to which I received the satisfying response 'Maybe. Let me get back to you tomorrow' Over the next four days I went through two packs of TUMS and read all about the etiquette of firing. Still no word from the boss-man. Apparently you're supposed to: a) give warning and a chance for redemption; b) never fire anyone on Friday; or c) before the holidays. When the axe fell that Friday afternoon, I was too stunned to shout out 'YOU DID IT WRONG!' For getting canned: D. For getting canned the wrong way: F. -- McGee

THE UNINVITED BIDET: Technology is a wonderful thing. My laptop is the closest thing to a life partner that I've got. But there is a time that technology oversteps its bounds and shows up unwelcomed on your ass. Since my school renovated its bathrooms, toilets with new-fangled automatic sensors have been installed, much to the enthusiastic kick-flusher's chagrin. You've gotta give the designers props for good intentions (who wants to touch a public toilet anyways?), but the flawed execution means that oversensitive sensors register the slightest shift in movement and baptizes the bewildered sitter with toilet water. If they are not busily making ass spray, then these little demons are adamantly not flushing that embarrassing lunch mistake. Even the boldest of "pants-up" gestures are not enough to set off untimely sensor. Until recently, when I learned of the manual push-button technology located on the side of the toilet, I was slinking quickly out the stall before anyone else saw the exit of shame. How ironic that the very technology intended to reduce contact between the shitter and the shit-seat ends up making this distasteful exchange even more intimate. Technology, thy foe is poop. D- -- Ceda Xiong

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