|THE BLACK LIST: DAMN YOU, GAMBLOR. DAMN YOU TO HELL.|
|By The Black Table|
On our way to the track on Saturday, we misplaced our flask. Since we only use it a couple times a year (and only at the track, natch), losing it is maddening. Taking a long pull of whiskey in between races goes with the track like losing every race. You wave your furled up program, yell and drink.
But what to do when you can't find the flask? You could try dumping some Jameson's into a travel coffee mug and then wrapping it up in a sweatshirt. But then it would spill and soak the sweatshirt. Then you'd have to leave a message for your roommate saying the house smells like a distillery. That'll make him wonder if you're drinking before noon. Lucky for us, someone else brought some Glenfiddich. And we'll find the flask in time for our next appointment with the Dark Lord Gamblor. Anything to avoid another whiskeydent.
But enough about us. Read, savor and use the form on the right to join
our not-so-secret club.
CHARMIN'S SHITTING BEARS: Toilet paper commercials usually fall under two categories: things that are absorbent and things that are not. For things that are absorbent, demonstrations are always ALWAYS done in mysterious blue water with either a wipe or an "look-ma-upside-down" test. But, Charmin Ultra, always on the cutting edge of absorbency, has taken this one step further -- using instead, shitting bears. Does it make any sense to show cartoon bears, barely concealed, pooping behind a tree? Or to make these shitting bears dance with their toilet paper after having wiped themselves with it? Is the target audience of Charmin Ultra users woodland creatures with a concern for softness? All I know is that after watching one too many bears respond to their call of the wild, I only want to buy Scotts tissue. F+ -- Ceda Xiong
BLIND GIRL AT THE ARCADE FIRE GIG: To understand I closed my eyes for as long as I could during "Laika." About 30 seconds. It was too difficult to keep them shut. Sorry for bluntly stating the obvious, but there was so much you didn't see. Here is a partial list: the keyboardist drumming the crash helmet, the clock motion the double bassist made with his bow, the flash of red stocking over the bass drum when Régine banged the skins, the stage diving, the violinists brushing the hair from each other's eyes. But then, neither did you see the astonishment on the face of every bloke who noticed your white cane after spilling beer in your hair as they barged their way to the front. They didn't know what to say. You didn't give
a shit and carried on smiling. You had better things to listen to, right? Power Out! Blind girl, seeing you tap that white cane in time capped an awesome gig. A -- Louis Cooke
WILLIE RANDOLPH'S SUBWAY COMMERCIAL: It's one thing when your childhood sports hero leaves your favorite team to manage their crosstown rivals; it's a step up for him, and an opportunity that he has deserved for many years. It's another thing that he has his team playing better than the team he left; hey, the Yanks have an old team with a bloated payroll and the Mets have a young, exciting team with a semi-bloated payroll. You can accept these things, even enjoy the change of pace. But when your childhood sports hero does a sandwich shop commercial where his signature line is "It's a lot of meat!" -- and he seems to emphasize the "m" in "meat" a little too much -- your admiration of his steady play and unfailing judgment under pressure disappears. You start to wonder if up is down, if inside is out, and if the Orioles are actually going to be good this year. You call your entire belief system into question, to the point where you end up even questioning your very existence. Damn, you, Willie Randolph! Damn you and your toasted Subway sandwich! Damn you all to hell! F -- Joel Keller
THIRTY MINUTES TO NATIONAL: I recently took a long weekend to fly home from D.C. to visit friends. During this three day weekend, over the course of three cookouts, I consumed no less than eight hot dogs\brats, six burgers, one 22oz. T-bone and enough cheap liquor to kill a Kentucky race horse. Anyway, flying back into National became a real gamble. I don't know if they have adopted the 30 minute rule for airports like Logan and JFK, so I may be preaching to the choir here, but flights back to D.C. are a real timing issue for me. When I leave the District, which is seldom, I really like to live it up. Because of this I have found that I need to time my hangover dumps to exclude that 30-minute block of time during my flight's return the Capitol when I can't leave my little seat on the airplane. Most recently, 20 minutes outside of DCA, I felt that steak start to move. I began to formulate scenarios in my head. Should I have the flight attendants announce to everyone on the plane that the passenger in 13E has a real big shit brewing and that they should all remain seated after the captain turns off the fasten seatbelt sign so he can make a mad dash for the airport-o-let? There sure wasn't any way it was all going to fit in the puke bag. I puckered up and tried to keep my mind off the cannonball in my colon by reading about Virginia vineyards in the current edition of Attaché magazine. I give myself an A for holding my mud like a trucker. -- Monty
YAHOO'S LAUNCHCAST RADIO: Launch, I can still remember the first time we met. I was so happy when I discovered you'd let me set up my own station for free. (And no, I didn't think any less of you because you gave it away.) You knew me so well back then. Better than I knew myself. You kept playing The Smiths, even though I didn't think I would like them. You made me love "Rooms On Fire" by Stevie Nicks, though I had never thought to seek it out before. And yes, I know I'm romanticizing it just a bit. We had our differences. I remember. Why you insisted on playing so much Alexander O'Neal, I'll never know. But, still, you did so much for me, Launchy. And what did I do for you? Almost abandoned you for that slutty Sirius. As soon as I logged in, I knew I made a big mistake. I'm so sorry, Launch. I'll never do it again. Please take me back. I can't make it without you. You: A+ My leaving you: F -- Gena Hymowech
VIRTUAL CRUISE: It may be a sign of aging, but I saw an ad for a vacation cruise the other day and thought "Man, that could be fun." A week away from home and work, getting massaged, swimming, eating gourmet food and presumably getting laid six ways to Sunday by the lucky plus-one I've chosen to accompany me. But who can afford it? Driving past an abandoned big-box retail store the next day, it hit me: put all that cruisey shit in there (bar, restaurant, pool, shuffleboard courts, poop deck)! Pipe in ocean sounds, strategically place some seagull crap, and mist salt water through the ventilation. Voila! Budget "cruise" for weekend warriors, hydrophobes and those whose significant others won't be mortified at the thought of vacationing inside the old Handy Andy. Hey, those buildings need to be used for something, and there are only so many flea markets and Lazer Tag franchises to go around. B -- Bergman
YOUR EX-BOYFRIEND'S PROMOTION: On your first day at your new job, you couldn't believe your luck when you saw your hot cubicle neighbor doing some flagrant envelope pushing re: the company dress code (are tight corduroy bellbottoms ever really acceptable at work?). Soon enough, you were lunching together every day, and writing eighty gajillion flirty emails across a distance of four feet. After a couple months of serious dating, it ended, as office romances often do, somewhat acrimoniously. But you still had to look at each other every day, and you couldn't really find anyone else satisfactory, so you got back together. And broke up again. And got back together, and so on and so forth through half a dozen breakups, each more painful than the last (come to think of it, the fourth breakup was slightly less painful then the third). When you were broken up, you were either flirting or studiously ignoring each other, testing the self-absorption of your co-workers (which is actually more impenetrable than one might expect). After a year and a half fucking with your head, he's finally GONE, if only five floors down. Still receiving the occasional vitriolic in-house email: C. Not having to dress up every day out of spite: A -- EN
ONE SHOE WEARING OUT: One morning, putting my socks on, I see my right toe sticking out of the sock. Not to be disturbed by this, I continue my ritual, only to discover that the sole is coming off my right shoe. What is the deal with this? The left shoe is still intact, yet the right one ? It's not like I use one foot more than the other. Unless someone is playing a mean trick on my by stealing my shoe late at night and wearing it out for me, I can't think of a decent explanation. Maybe my shoe was the one that the dudes in the sweatshop forgot to glue together properly. Either way, having a 'talking' shoe is worth a B, but needing to buy a new set of shoes because one is worn out sucks. D -- Megan
NAME CHANGE (GOING IN): Having gone the traditional route and taken my husband's surname post-nup, I first had to go to the DMV three times before they could provide me a new driver's license with the new name. After finally accomplishing that feat, I felt empowered enough to take the next step -- a new social security card. The social security office doesn't even have a person who tells you to take a number anymore. A computer spits one out at you after you follow the arrows in the door. The whole time I was there, including the transaction, the only words spoken to me were, "Check this for errors and you'll get a new card in ten to fourteen days." No "hello". No "goodbye". No human contact. Inflated feeling of self-worth after defeating the DMV and getting my new license: B+ -- DLL
NAME CHANGE (GETTING OUT): It's bad enough that I've had to correct every account I've ever owned, stand in line at the DMV -- twice -- and speak to the manager at the grocery store because I reflexively signed my charge slip with the first three letters of my married name, then furiously cross them out and start again with the maiden name. The divorce has been final for two months now, and I'm still getting "Ooh, a name change! Who's the lucky guy? Where did you honeymoon? Congratulations on your marriage!" Yeah, it was a pretty good six years, you nosy person-who-obviously-doesn't-know-me-well-enough -to-be-making-assumptions, let-alone-asking-personal-questions. D. Knowing that I'll only ever change my name again for witness protection, even if I marry twelve more times: A++ -- Stacie R., not W., dammit
Each and every week, Black Table readers like you write the Black List and get absolutely nothing in return. Ain't that some shit.