|THE BLACK LIST: LIKE BOB VILA IN THE GHETTO.|
|By The Black Table|
We got some new furniture yesterday. The house has looked, for the past few months, as if belonged to Miss Havisham. Now it's as though we kidnapped the cast of Queer Eye and held them hostage in our living room. After a considerable transitional period, we're not ashamed to have our parents visit. We even bought a giant tree.
We're especially happy about the tree. It's a corn tree. We never heard of it, either. But it's got shiny leaves and only has to be watered once a month, which suits our habits just fine. But most of all, our house feels a little more like home. And as the wind blows cooler and the leaves start to crunch, it's good to have a place to go that doesn't recall the waiting room at Port Authority.
We invite you to decorate this page with your reviews. Use the form to the right. Don't forget to tip the delivery guy.
FLYOVERLANDISM: A San Francisco friend of mine and I are discussing the Shonen Knife song "Sushi Bar," which he thinks is the best pop song ever, and I think is just OK. He, slightly wounded that I don't share his fanatical enthusiasm for the tune, sniffs that I probably just don't get it because "you don't have sushi in Ohio." When I realize he's at least semi-serious, I protest, only to be told that any sushi we have here couldn't be REAL sushi. Because Japanese chefs can fly into SFO to start a new life and cook for Yankees, but continuing on to Detroit Metro or Cleveland Hopkins wouldn't be, you know, keeping it real. Someone from fucking Tokyo can mock my hometown's relative sashimi dearth all they want. Roundeyes from anywhere else acting like their shit smells like California roll get a D+. – Bergman
THE RUG DOCTOR: I know I don't know you, but if you live in home that has carpeting anywhere, then you live in filth. If you have a dog, you live in twice as much filth. Vacuuming doesn't count. The filth cannot be vacuumed away, even if you have the $500 Dyson. Go rent a Rug Doctor and steam clean your carpets. As you watch the black water shoot through the hoses, you will be shocked that you were living in such squalor. You will thank me later. Once you know the feeling of sinking your toes in in freshly shampooed carpet you can never go back. The Rug Doctor: A. The dirty looks people will give you in the checkout line because it takes so frickin' long to fill out the rental paperwork: D -- SRS
CNN'S WHITE HOT ANDERSON: Get yourself back in a suit,
Anderson Cooper. I don't care how many storm surges you can handle, that distressed denim, button-down Gap, circa 1991, is not coming back. Yes, it matches your steely blue eyes. And yes, you're a Vanderbilt and therefore have a longer leash on the denim thing. And OK, you didn't have access to new underwear for a few weeks, but get yourself to Brooks Brothers (or Hugo, or, hell, Target sells suits now) and step off of Aaron Brown's turf. C+ -- Amanda Long
GIRL AT WORK THAT CAN'T GET OVER THE HIGH SCHOOL DAYS: Last time I checked I was totally not interested in the fact the your house, where you still live with your parents, has the same floral wallpaper that your Mom bought at Montgomery Ward about 20 years ago. I also don't care that your boyfriend said you "get too excited over food", not that you are fat, yeah right, just that you get too excited. Hey, who doesn't get off over 37 cent wings? Even more I don't want to hear about the time you and your high school friend, who got you the job at this office, thanks a lot high school friend, got tons of junk food and watched movies at Kristy's house, for the tenth time. I know that you were so stuffed and that you got hyper from all of the sugar. Please don't bring in anymore pictures from your junior prom. We can already tell from the nostalgic stories that you were a loser, we don't need photo proof. Finally getting an assistant: B Realizing that no one likes you anymore because you got your annoying ass high school buddy a job: F -- shannon
GETTING YOUR LATENT PREJUDICES EXPOSED: On my way into the department store, I notice a small group of young men coming toward the entrance from a different direction. I am firmly entrenched in the middle class, from the balding, white-looking salesman demographic. These guys are from hip-hop nation. It looks like we are going to meet at the entrance and I want no part of them and their loud and obnoxious carrying on. Surely they will be trouble. So I slow down to let them go first. Staring at the ground as I walk, I notice their noise has died down and I look up to see the last member of this hoodlum "gang" is holding the door open for me. I mutter thanks and he gives me a smile that just says "Gotcha, didn't I?" I try not to think of myself as racist or prejudiced. Coming from a working poor family with grandparents who emigrated from Cuba should have pre-empted that. But apparently, every once in a while, lessons need to be relearned. Thank you, guy at the store, for the pie in the face of my pre-judgment. I hope your parents are proud of you; they should be. A -- Roy Felipe
SLEEPING IN – WAY IN: I'll be honest. I can't get up early on a consistent basis. It's one reason why I don't hold a 9-to-5 job. But still, it's kind of freaky to go to sleep at 2:30 in the morning and wake up at almost 5 in the afternoon. Now granted, I hadn't slept at all two nights before this happened (so I could make sure I was up for my infrequent 11:30 am gig), but nevertheless, I still don't see how I could sleep for that many hours. And here's what's even more disturbing: the dream I had involved the actresses who played the two daughters on Too Close For Comfort, and I thinkdear GodI was having a threesome with them. Although, I guess it could have been worse. The dream could have been about Nancy Dussault. Or Ted Knight. Or a threesome with both. Grade: C, because the girls on Too Close For Comfort were kinda hot. -- Gena Hymowech
SMART, BUT NOT SMART ENOUGH: My stolen wallet was dropped loose in the mailbox last week. The post office dug around what was left, found a Red Cross blood donor card with my parents' address on it, and kindly sent it back to Pennsylvania. The wallet was in fine condition, minus my missing credit/debit cards, ID, etc., but everything else was there. You left the press pass from my college paper, some remnants from a trip to Ireland and all the other stuff that proves I'm a sentimental wuss. You even took a piece of junk jewelry I got as a joke for a friend and was keeping in my change purse till I saw her next. But I rooted around in a hidden pocket or two and found, to my delight, my social security card. Yes, I know I shouldn't keep my SSN card in my wallet. But I had a hunch that no one would find it in there. So have my $70 in cash and use those seven metrocards you charged to my cards. Enjoy your $16.10 worth of McDonald's. (What did you order?) But stealing my identity is a little harder without my SSN, you fuck. C+ -- Aileen Gallagher
WHO'S VIEWED MY PROFILE FEATURE ON FRIENDSTER: OK, so I'm newly unemployed and also newly registered at Friendster. Which of course means I've spent my endless unemployed hours trolling Friendster for profiles of anybody I've ever known, dated, seen, vaguely heard of... No-strings-attached browsing, right? Oh, not so. Today I logged on to Friendster to find a new anonymity-shattering feature that allows users to find out who has been viewing their profile. Hey, it's okay if an arrogant ex-boyfriend knows that I've been curious enough to look at his profile! Oh wait. No, it's not. Oh...crap. Last shred of dignity being stomped on by something called "Friendster": F. -- IF
CAPITAL CAMPAIGNS: Last night my alma mater called asking for money. Because four years of mind-numbing lectures have dulled my mental reflexes, I momentarily floundered in a sea of possible replies. Option 1: “Hold on while I find my checkbook. Nope, not under this pile of overdue loan statements. Maybe I left it underneath my last package of Top Ramen. Actually, I bet the rats took it.” Option 2: “I’m glad you called. Lately I’ve been having nightmares about students drinking their frappucinos in a student center with only one plasma TV on each wall. All of this hurricane coverage has convinced me that my charity dollars will be best spent ensuring that rich white kids have every opportunity to ignore muted broadcasts of CNN while they throw trash at the mentally challenged janitor.” And finally, befitting the rhetorical skills of a decorated English major, my actual answer, Option 3: “Fuck off.” Over-financed universities asking impoverished alumni for money: D. -- Ryan Dodge
THE LAST TWO BLACK LISTS: I'm just going to come right out and say it: The last two Black Lists have been fucking atrocious. Let's talk about the 9/21 Black List. First off, not funny. Much more irritating, however, is the fact that out of the 10 submissions you published, I recognized six of the authors as regular contributors to your site. I can only assume the other four are close and personal friends of the guy who updates the links on the left side of your front page. (Oh, wait, it doesn't seem that anyone has held that job in the past six months.) Isn't the purpose of the Black List to give the readers a chance to contribute? Now let's move to 9/28. This time you actually gave "reg'lar folks" a shot, only you picked the dumbest fucking anecdotes I've read since I perused the NYT's Metropolitan Diary on the can a couple weeks ago. That was enough to piss me off - and then I noticed that "LK" had actually submitted two of them. Brutal. Does Jerry Seinfeld write this girl's material? "Don't you hate it when you're at the gym and somebody sweaty doesn't wipe after himself?" LOLOLOLOLOLOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! "You know what's bad about being a girl? Bikini waxes - they really hurt!" ROTFLMAO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Such biting social commentary. I couldn't understand how this girl got two painfully unfunny submissions published, and then it came to me. Realizing I can't get something printed on the Black List unless I blow AJ Daulerio: F. j.bloEditors' Note: Come on, now. You know you have to go down on all four of us. Good times!
Each and every week, Black Table readers like you write the Black List and get absolutely nothing in return. Ain't that some shit.