Well, election day was yesterday, and if you're like us, you voted. But maybe you're not and stayed home.

We haven't seen the papers yet, and the polls aren't closed yet, but we can say with 100 percent certainty the world in a week will not be much different than it is now, and gas prices will keep rising, and we'll still eat too much at Thanksgiving and watch the Lions lose and, you know, all that. We're a barrel of laughs, you see.

We've got 10 reviews. That's how many we always have. Link to the right if you want to be in next week's. The usual drill.

— 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.

MONKEY FEEDING TIME: I think it was a family of capuchin monkeys. But I could be wrong. Doesn’t really matter, it was a family of three monkeys sitting on a branch, all looking out at their audience. The mom was in the middle, with the baby to her left, feeding. The father (or maybe just a friend?) was sitting behind the mom, cleaning and picking at her back. The mother had teats, but not eight in parallel rows like a dog does. Two teats, hanging down like flat breasts, with inch-long nipples. The baby decided he was done feeding and swooped off to go play, at which point the mother picked up her own teat and started sucking it dry. Mmm, breast milk! Then she pinched her nipple and squirted the remaining monkey milk at the crowd. It had excellent projection and reached about a foot. Needless to say, it was my favorite exhibit at the Bronx Zoo. A — Pjamma

HAVING ALL SEVEN DEADLY SINS REPRESENTING IN YOUR OFFICE: There are seven of us in our office, and we're a cauldron of the deadly sins. One of us likes to eat. A lot. Probably bulimic, too. GLUTTONY. One us is a sexpot; every guy that walks in to deliver a package or fix the phone gets undressed with her eyes and lusted after. All subjects of conversation end up back on sex. LUST. One of us is so vain she has a 6 foot by 6 foot mirror installed directly in front of her desk. PRIDE. One of us likes to gamble, spends every weekend at a casino and is constantly getting involved in get-rich-quick schemes. GREED. The boss is a screamer, everything from a bent paperclip to fat people makes her angry. WRATH. One of us wants what we all have, be it kids, a man, a great wardrobe. And whines about it all the time. ENVY. One of us will do anything to avoid work, cuts out early, comes in late, shirks. responsibility. SLOTH. It's starting to get to me. And I see a little of all seven in me. A — kowgurl

THE DEMOCRATS FINALLY SHOWING SOME SACK: So Harry Reid, in all his subdued glory, throws out Rule 21 on November 1 and locks down the Senate in some sort of Edgar Allen Poe-like secret session. As I watched various Democrats with the subtlest of smiles creeping across their faces (and Dr. Bill "Blind Trust" Frist trying to claw and bile his way out of looking like a total douchebag afterwards), it dawned on me: this is the first time the Democrats have shown any semblance of balls since ... since ... ah, um ... shit. Since Clinton was showing Monica the way of the cigar? Since Clinton stood up to Gingrich in '95 and let the government shut down? Hell, in the past 25 years, I'm guessing anything with the words "balls" and "Democrat" has to relate to Bill Clinton in some way. Rubbing the Republicans' close-minded little faces in it: A — Frank

SINGING EMBARRASSING SONG LYRICS LOUDLY: I've always been the type to sing while I walk. Sort of a compulsion I suppose. Usually it's one of the three Bob Dylan songs that I actually know all the words to, or some other simple, trite and inoffensive folk song. I've never been embarrassed, never really crossed my mind to be embarrassed. This habit works even better in conjunction with an iPod, cueing me on all the lyrics to songs I usually could only sing half of. Except, I just added Townes Van Zandt's "Dead Flowers." I guess based on the faces of passersby that "I'll be in my room, with a needle and a spoon," isn't appropriate to be sung in large audiences. Accidentally singing questionable lyrics loudly: C Singing them anyway: A — Ross Mudrick

SUBURBAN MASS TRANSIT: There's a place not far from here where MetroCards are foreign currency and the subway is where you get an Italian BMT and bag of Fritos. This is suburbia, and those without cars are on the watch list. This is a place where you can get into "the city" in 15 minutes via commuter rail or coach bus, but requires an hour and a half of travel and two bus transfers to travel roughly the distance between the Stock Exchange and the Holland Tunnel. Here the MetroCard's equivalent, the bus card, is a holy grail hidden in remote garages in vaults of red tape. Even when you acquire this precious commodity, it can't be assumed\ that your conveyance will arrive with any regularity. Nevermind the fact that people think you're poor or a criminal if you even dare to ride the buses. It just seems odd that in a place so close to a city where the idea of mass-transportation is not only embraced, but essential, there's a Psy-Ops battle being waged against those who take the bus or train -- and the riders are losing. Not being able to get there from here: F — Jason Notte

MY EVER-EVOLVING CRUSH ON ANDERSON COOPER: First here's how I felt: "That Anderson Cooper--he's dreamy! Yes I admit, it was only after he went apeshit about Katrina that I got the hots for him. Everything about him is lovable! That his theme song is "Marquee Moon" by Television! That he’s a little self-conscious about his gray hair! I must stop and stare and think about how handsome his blue eyes are, what a good reporter he is. But you know what? I’m not fantasizing about having hot, big, easy sex with him, I’m just imagining the two of us, rowing around the gulf coast states, rescuing dogs and handing out bottles of water, maybe hugging at the end of a hard day." Okay hold it right there-- that's a big fat lie. I am fantasizing about having sex with him. All the time. This man is driving me crazy with lust. I can't work, I can't think, I'm ready to go camp out and wait for him at CNN HQ and pay him $20 grand under the ruse of a speaking engagement so that I can rip his clothes off and lick his whole body. B — kowgurl
(Editor’s Note: Should we tell her that Anderson’s … well … nah!)

MIDDLE-CLASS BEGGAR ON THE 2 TRAIN: Just when I thought I'd seen just about every angle of busking and panhandling known to this fair city of New York, I'm shaken to the core by an incident that took place somewhere between 34th and Chambers streets. After hearing the car's door slam shut, the entire car waits for the inevitable announcement, only to hear a nasal, shrill plea coming from a woman too short to rise above the crowd. She says she's hit hard times and needs to feed her children. That seems fairly reasonable given some of the long-winded pronunciations usually offered by those in her position, but something's wrong. As she shoulders her way through the car, it becomes clear that she's a middle-aged white woman sporting a Camelback. Nothing about her looks disheveled or even dirty and, damn this whole BoHo-chic movement, but the peasant dress and slip-ons look downright fashionable. As one young lady near me remarked, "She's dressed better than I am." Is this what it's come down to, Montclair, N.J., lacrosse moms begging along the red line during mid-week afternoons? Could it be that the cost of gassing up the Subaru Outback has priced this woman out of her weekly trip to Whole Foods? Call it reverse racism or just rampant skepticism, but there was very little jingle in that cup when she got off at Chambers Street. A message to all suburban moms looking to ply their trade in the subways... learn an instrument. Playing a medley of Bach and Alicia Keys will go a long way toward feeding those kids when they come home from Montessori. D — Jason Notte

HAVING AN UNKNOWN ONLINE ENEMY: Recently, I was hired to run a professional sports blog. I'd never blogged before, and I wasn’t sure how I'd do. I did know it was important to reach out to the people who had been doing it longer than I had, who knew what they were doing better than I did. Plus, you know, I’m a friendly guy. One guy in particular had a sports blog that I had sporadically enjoyed and seemed to be one of the bigger names in the space. So on the day I launched, I sent him an email, an attempt to be plucky and/or amusing, hey, we're all in this together, let's be pals, so on. He didn't handle the email well; since then (and I haven't checked out his site in a month, so I'm just going on others' reports that it’s still happening) he has proceeded to tear me a new one on his site every single day. Why? Not sure. Maybe he's upset I'm getting paid. Maybe I accidentally slept with his ex-girlfriend. Maybe I really do just suck. But his persistence in the matter is, all told, quite impressive; I figured he'd eventually just get bored and stop. Nope. I have to say, I’ve gone from confusion to anger to slight fear to bemusement and, ultimately, feeling completely flattered. The guy's not publishing personal details about my family, he's not threatening to have me killed, nothing like that; he’s not evil. He just doesn’t like me. This guy, whom I've never met and have only shared that one email with, has just decided that I suck, and that he is going to broadcast that fact to the world on a daily basis. I ultimately have no problem with that. Hell, that's kind of what I’m doing everyday anyway. B+ — Will Leitch

THE CANADIAN HEALTH CARE SYSTEM: I had a thing on my leg. Not a big thing, but still a thing. Then it burst in a very disgusting display of unhappy flesh-ness. So, what do I do? I walk three blocks to my nearest clinic in Canada, I give them a snazzy red-and-white card, and I wait a couple of hours. Some Afghani people come and go. Some dirty homeless French people come and go. Soon, a tiny Chinese doctor sees me, tells me what my problem is, and refers me to a specialist. Cost: Nothing. Nothing at all. Basic and essential health care services are all covered under a particular government mandate. Which means that even pathetic graduate students, poor and voiceless in the cruel tides of capitalist society have a place to go when a thing on their leg bursts in gross fashion. In a very real way, the thing on my leg is the Everything on the Everyleg of Everyman. Everyone eventually has a problem which they need to deal with. The body is fleshy, squeezable, and totally unreliable thanks to the proliferation of sharp-edges and cancers in the modern era. Having a place to turn to when your flesh fails and you've got nowhere else to go is perhaps the finest thing one human being can do for another. As far as I'm concerned, it's only slightly less cool then getting up on the cross yourself. A — Jeremy Mesiano-Crookston

AMERIPHASE COMMERCIAL: I know I just recently was pushed reluctantly off the cultural precipice into the maw of advertiser oblivion with only an AARP solicitation to break my fall. (I turned 50! How did this happen? Banished from the breeding herd. Becoming culturally obsolete. Having telemarketers actually hang up on me after the initial prequalification questions about gender, household income and age.) I just want to slink back under my lap throw with a not too hot cup of tea, denying all the little pains and creaks of life after a 100,000 miles and just rise up every so often to be the financier of my child’s hopes & delusions. The only remaining pleasure is the solace of the great grey light of TV. I am startled out of my personal requiem of youth by the sound of a leslie intensified Steve Winwood Hammond B3 introduction. My dulled senses perk up in anticipation of long remembered song only to be horrified by the images of skinny mud caked hippies and the requisite VW bus morphing into slightly more filled out khaki & polo shirt clad alpha males striding chest out from their minivan chariot. (Could I have known that guy in college? Was he the one with the pot stored in separate canisters by country of origin?) No wonder, now that America has been handed to the Boomers, everybody hates us. Ameriphase: Being reminded the only purpose to life after 50 is to keep on spending, spending, spending: C, Don’t have enough like these guys? Then get the fuck out of the way: D. Peddling, at best, more of the same fee churning ponzi schemes while destroying the sanctity of Steve Winwood: F — Tom Marvel

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