One of our beloved Black Table editors was just the victim of a theft. It was just like you see in the movies. Some huge guy stood in front of our editor on the subway, acted like he couldn't get out of the way, stumbled into our editor and then apologized before brushing out the door. About five minutes later, our editor realized that the wallet with the money for the lunch was all gone.

We love New York City, and we feel safer here than just about anywhere we've ever lived. But sometimes? Sometimes we hate this place.

We have 10 reviews this week, as usual. If you want to rock it hard, rock it here, using the form on the right. Hang onto your valuables, people.

-- 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.

DYLAN NOSTALGIA: I confess to actually refusing to answer my phone or interact with others while the Dylan/Scorsese documentary runs on PBS. I don't even know if it's good; I'm no film scholar. I'm not even a self-proclaimed "Dylanologist." It just reminds me of being 14, and listening to "Positively Fourth Street" for the first time, staying up late to record it off a radio broadcast onto a tape (remember tapes?!), so I could learn all the words to impress a boy at school. The boy turned out to be gay, but there was no real loss for me. This whole world of music just opened. It was whiny and beautiful, and it sometimes clanged like my little, early-teenage heart. Who cares if Dylan's a self-absorbed prick, enamored-with/hyper-conscious-of his own mythos? Remember the first time you heard him, and how you felt? Yeah. Thought so. Listening to "Tangled Up in Blue" like it's the first time: A -- Mara

SWEET PEOPLE WHO WANT TO "HELP": This, in the sweetest southern lady's voice, the kind that turns every statement into a question: "Hello? Yes, hi there? I'd like to open my home to one of those poor refugees from the hurricane? But I need a single, white Christian woman? Not one of those looters I see on the TV? Because, you know, I don't feel safe? And I also I'll need to be reimbursed by the extra food expenses and things like laundry? Who can do that for me? You don't know? Why not?" Uh, F, ma'am? -- Susan Kim

ASSHOLES AT THE GYM: You. You know who you are. The guy who stays on the treadmill at the gym for longer than the allotted 30 minutes. Which isn't a problem if there aren't people waiting. But it's 6 p.m. on a disgustingly steamy Monday evening, and there's a line of wannabe athletes out the door, itching to burn off their excessive weekend calorie

consumption. And when, finally, you relinquish your most-coveted spot, do you wipe off the slick layer of sweat that you've left behind, like some kind of disgusting snail trail? No. You leave your sweat shower for the next person in line. Which happens to be me. Fuck you and fuck this. I'm going to a bar. F. p.s.: You're a fat-ass. -- LK

NINTENDOGS: With Tamagotchi a distant memory and Pokemon's popularity all but over, the United States is ready for a new virtual pet fad. Enter Nintendogs. Yes, the House of Mario has shipped a new addictive toy across the fruited plain. It features the similar raise-your-digital-creature gameplay of other games, but Nintendogs is on the new handheld DS system -- sort of a hybrid video game/palm pilot with two screens -- which means (1) petting your King Charles spaniel with a stylus; (2) telling your little beagle to "lay down" through the system's microphone; and (3) having your puppy Labrador bark when another Nintendog is in the vicinity through wireless internet. (The two e-puppies can then meet in a virtual dog park.) Could this be the start of a craze? Look for Nintendonuts and Nintendoctors in time for Christmas. My rating: A. My Nintendog's: Bark! -- Daniel McQuade

"YOU GOT SERVED:" Sweat, cheap cologne and bad electronica filled the air as I maneuvered my way to the sweet salvation of alcohol in the horrible bar on my block my neighbor brought me to. As I paid for my drink, a figure came flailing towards me through my periphery. A skinny white thug in a Lakers jersey lunged in my direction with a purpose. A movement was enacted similar to an octopus floating through water and Morrissey dancing in gyration through a set without the microphone swing and shiny gold shirt. Following this spectacle I was graced with a hand in my face, and simply the words "you got served." I'm not sure what is worse; the bruise on my ass from falling off my stool with laughter, or that there is a group of people doing this that actually take themselves seriously. A -- Sean Root

BILL SIMMONS' NEW BOOK NOW I CAN DIE IN PEACE: Finally, the last manuscript on the Boston Red Sox championship book dogpile. For someone who writes intermittently under the nom de internet "Boston Sports Guy," Bill Simmons certainly took his sweet time, didn't he? And just in time for the backlash, as Boston sports fans have morphed from "aw shucks" losers to annoying, belligerent sore winners. What once was mildly amusing (albeit in a patronizing way) has now become smarmy and unlikable. Now I Can Die In Peace? Oooh. Soon? Hopefully. F -- Dan Dunford

BIKINI WAXES IN DC: I hate getting a bikini wax. But when going cross-country to visit an ex-boyfriend (and possibly to get laid for the first time in months) I opted in for a little Inquisition-level torture. The last time I had this done, it was in a nice, quiet, clean and, most important, cheap spa in Italy. Apparently that's not how they do it in DC. The last person's nasty wax-&-hair-covered "sanitary" sheet was still on the bed. Spanish pop music blared in the background, and the woman who was giving me the wax kept screaming in Chinese over the privacy barrier. Not to mention that I think the wax was actually honey, and the pattern she left on my beaver means I'll have to spend some quality time with my tweezers. Best part? This cost me three times what I paid in Europe. D. (But if it means I get some action: A.) -- LK

TO THE CINEMA SLUG, MAY YOU R.I.P.: Why is it that whenever I sit in a theater of any size (empty or not), the largest, smelliest, must unpleasant individual releases their uncompromising reign of sickness and disease upon my $10 worth of movie magic by selecting a seat directly in front of or behind me? Is it beyond the simplicity of rational thought that one afflicted with multiple maladies such as chronic cough, otherworldly body odor and a compulsion to talk to characters in the movie would take the initiative to seclude one's self to a section where said complications would impose the least upon fellow cinema patrons? Take my advice: The next time you feel like seeing a movie, visit a nearby Blockbuster. D- -- Craig

SEX AND THE CITY ON THE WB: I'm tired of networks buying the rights to "Sex and the City" and airing the old episodes late at night. TBS did it first, and now the WB Channel 11 network has to jump on the bandwagon. And I have to ask: What's the point? On network TV, it's a series that so watered down that it's a shadow of the show it used to be. It's like when these regular TV networks try to show The Godfather or Scarface. If you have to edit every fifth word and scene, it's not worth showing. If I want to see Scarface, I will pull it off the shelf of my video library. I don't need a television network providing me with the 60 percent of the movie that's not gory, violent and raw. Same goes for "Sex and the City." Leave the cutting edge stuff to HBO, and just keep broadcasting "Reba." D- -- Jenn Stevens

LOOKING AT PHOTOS ON DIGITAL CAMERAS RIGHT AFTER YOU TAKE THEM: You're in front of the White House, acting like a maniac, as your friend snaps a photo. Then you calm down long enough to run over, flip a little switch and breathlessly ask "so how'd it turn out?" Or how about the time you tried to take a group photo with everyone's camera, only to wait two minutes between each shot as the camera was passed around for everyone to see? And then someone says, "Oh I look like ass in this one. Can we do it again?" What ever happened to the fun and spontaneity of getting your photos back from the CVS after a week in Mexico? Not to mention the fun of stealing someone's camera and taking a picture of your ass, only to have their mother see you spreading your butt cheeks as she looks over Johnny's pictures from prom. Luckily, at a wedding, I was in recently, the wedding photographer used a film camera. She said it had something to do with color saturation; it really didn't matter to the groomsmen as we shot pictures of each other mooning it. I bet that was a great surprise when they finally saw the proof sheets. Picture preview on digital cameras: D+ -- ben Goodnight

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