|THE BLACK LIST: DAMN YOU LIVER!|
|By The Black Table|
The liver is the most underrated organ in the human body. Everyone is always up in arms about the heart, but if your liver goes out, that's it, brother, you're toast. We here at The Black List have a bad habit of hammering our liver repeatedly, including this past weekend, which went by in such a blur, we just remember waking up Sunday morning wearing chaps and covered in African war paint. Anyway, the drinking destroys our liver, obviously, and we compound the problem by injecting Aleve into our veins all the next day. Our liver just aligned itself with Al Qaeda. You hate to see that happen.
The Black List has 12 root-tootin' reviews this week, all edited up and polished to maximize their fruity goodness. As always, you can cash your checks on the right side toolbar to contribute. Cash money, baby.
COURTNEY LOVE'S BREASTS: Let's face it; they're everywhere. They're
being flashed repeatedly at sad old men, bared at Union Square fast-food
joints and suckled by the masses.
Overall, her mammaries graduate alongside George W. with a solid: C -- alex
TAKING YOUR NICKELS & DIMES TO THE PENNY ARCADE AT COMMERCE BANK: Oh my God, what a great way to start a work week! I filled up an above-average-sized Tupperware container, waltzed into an East Village branch and just dumped that shit in like I'd worked at a mint my whole life. After pressing the big GO! counting button, I experienced about a minute of sweet metallic rattling, and then, bingo, I had a receipt in my hand for $120.59! That particular minute, I figure, was about as close to true happiness as I'm going to get. I marched over to the teller, got the bills, put 'em in
my pocket and walked out with a big ass grin on my stupid face. Fuck yeah!! A -- hillmarky
SEEING THE NEW YORK TIMES WEDDING ANNOUNCEMENT OF YOUR COLLEGE NEMESIS: She dated your boyfriend AND your cousin. Now she's marrying her college sweetheart, who you happen to know (from personal experience) is one of the more lackluster men around in terms of personality and prowess. You hate her, but deep down you feel bad for her; she's consigning herself to a life of minivans and boring political dinners. You remind yourself that your life of new boyfriends every few months, fabulous settings and great conversation on your worst day outstrips her existence on its best. You reconfirm with yourself that you would never, ever want what she has, or to be her at all. And yet that announcement is one last middle finger, pointed right at you. You wish her the best, you guess, but you wish you didn't have to know. F -- Miriam Parker
RELIGIOUS TENDENCIES OF AMERICAN IDOL CONTESTANTS: After watching last Tuesday's two-hour American Idol special, which consisted of sugary contestant bios and competent, yet strangely vapid song-singing, I have come to the conclusion that the television phenomenon has been wrestled from the snarky arms of gay British males by Ralph Reed and the Christian Coalition, in an attempt to infiltrate the minds of unsuspecting young viewers and establish a connection between "success" and religion. I say this because nearly every single contestant's "package" (as the bio clips are called) highlighted participation in some kind of church, and this religiosity inevitably garners bogus credit for what simply amounts to genetically-superior, well-practiced vocal chords. Even the kid who looks like he might be a pot-smoking hipster is, in truth, a Mormon - Jon Peter Lewis, you seem like a nice guy, but I can't believe I voted for you! Here is how I suspect they differentiate between the Christian soldiers and the heathens: At the audition, they offer hungry folks a choice between a burrito and a communion wafer, and they wave goodbye to anyone who chooses wrong. Either that, or there is a simple answer: Perhaps the same people who believe that water can be turned into wine are also likely to be the same people who think they can become a genuinely respected star by performing on American Idol. D -- jph
COLON POLYPS CAMPAIGN: Colon polyps are serious. They're also kinda dorky, and you don't want to be the lameass that hosts their wild, silent parties, do you? That's the tone of the American Cancer Society's "Colon Polyps: Stop them before they go bad" campaign, which shows a geeky guy in a big, red polyp suit, posing solemnly for a mug shot. Since most Americans that are not your decrepit great-uncle can't swing serious colon talk without a whole lot of embarrassment, I applaud the ACS for attempting to demystify ass-rot by literally putting a human face on polyps. The ads are chock-full of information about the little beasties. Apparently, colon polyps are almost six feet tall, nearsighted, have opposable thumbs and look a lot like your company's accounting guy. Insidious, indeed. I can't wait for the follow-up campaign: "Get a colonoscopy! The drugs are freakin' great!" A -- Carissa B.
THE STRANGE PUPPET FROM THE FANDANGO COMMERCIALS: You know which one this is, but we're gonna have to reprint his entire speech here first: "I love the movies ... that make me CRY! (Followed by inexplicable laughter). When I got a DATE ... when I got a big date ... me and her...go first!" Zaaaaaaaa?!? The "idiot man on the street" has long been a staple of news broadcasts, but it's unclear, exactly, how a product gets sold by an illiterate, never mind one that was created, intentionally, by advertisers. Mind you, the audience for this commercial -- moviegoers -- is presumably already holding their tickets, which makes this kind of a tough sell. Perhaps an interview with this paper-bag puppet is warranted at some point. C+ -- David Gaffen
DEADWOOD: To me, movies about the Old West, gunslingers, or wagon trains are about as appealing as being drawn and quartered and then being raped by the horse. I had to watch Lonesome Dove as part of a high school homework assignment, and I blame it for getting me hooked on No-Doze. I've ignored "Unforgiven," "Pale Rider" and any other movie set in the 1800s that had a ten-gallon hat, a mustachioed villain or a brothel. So HBO's "Deadwood" had little chance of being seen after "The Sopranos" unless the batteries on the remote control went dead. They did. And guess what? Deadwood is captivating. Its unrelenting violence, ridiculously profane language and quirky characters made it the most entertaining 54 minutes I've had watching television in a very long time. Don't let the cowboy crap keep you away. This show is bananas. A -- A.J. Daulerio
MISCHA BARTON'S BLACK HEART: If you've read the April Elle interview with Mischa Barton, the 'rexy moron from the O.C., then you may be why someone this disillusioned and coldhearted is adored by so many teenagers and apparently, Matthew Williamson. In the interview, Mischa disses a soldier who's had his leg blown off and finds comfort in watching her show ("I mean,like, WHATever...that's nice"), her "overtly sexy" costar and anyone who happens to cross her path and speak to her royal highness. Correct me if I'm wrong, Mischa, but haven't you only been pseudo-famous for, like, A SECOND? Maybe the producers of your show will get wise and curb your whole "unscripted speech" disorder before the entire viewing public pelts you to death with Chrome Hearts necklaces and high heel flip flops. F -- Amber Finlay
STAGEDIVING: Look, lead singer dude, stagediving is kind of like anal sex: You need to know what you're doing, or the other person isn't going to let you do it again. And not being allowed to stage dive by a crowd is way worse than taking the poontang consolation prize, since you're literally falling flat on your face. When done right, stagediving is divine. We all get to touch someone we're excited about anyway, it raises the energy level in the crowd and we all feel like real rock 'n' rollers. But if you're going to: a) kick a girl in the head and draw blood to the point that your bassist's mom (a.k.a., your publicist and the only reason you got this gig) comes out after the set and gives her an icepack; and b) head-butt some other guy in your attempt to be a stagedivin' rock star, well, just keep pouring Bud Light over yourself onstage, asshole. Next time, give advance warning to the crowd, and go backwards, so your toes don't knock anyone. And while we're on the subject, do you really think that much eyeliner is a good idea? C -- Michael Barthel
THE JFK AIRTRAIN VIA QUEENS: AirTrain, I had such high hopes for you. I dreamed of a smooth and fast train ride from my Manhattan apartment directly to the terminal of my choice. Alas, reality intruded. First there's the cost: $2 for a subway ride out to Sutphin Blvd. on the E line, then another FIVE dollars for the short hop on the AirTrain itself to the terminal. Why does it cost $2 for 90 percent of the trip and $5 for the remaining 10 percent? The second problem is LUGGAGE. In my mind, I pictured the connection between the subway and the AirTrain as a short walkway, or perhaps a ramp of some sort. After all, you're going to be taking your luggage to the airport, right? Wrong! To get from the subway to the AirTrain, you have to climb an escalator, go through the subway turnstile, climb another escalator, walk down a long corridor in front of the LIRR trains, climb another endless escalator, go through another turnstile and walk down another corridor. There are elevators along the way, but they were either out of order or not actually constructed yet when I just took the train. AirTrain, my arms are aching and my feet are sore! On the plus side, the trip only took an hour and is still cheaper than a cab. C -- Philip J. Hollenback
THE CONTINUING PRESENCE OF MONICA LEWINSKY: Just when my obsession with everyone's favorite presidential intern and Archive Building resident has died down (see my erotica story "Monica and Me"), I find that I can't escape her. There she is in Jane, buying Magnolia Bakery cupcakes. There she is in Page Six, flitting about from party to party. There she is at a Chelsea deli with a sandwich named after her for being "Best Wide Receiver." There she is spotted at a West Village café ordering hot chocolate and causing a commotion. And although I've never met her, I feel like I have, since almost everywhere I go I meet at least one person who's seen or knows her. Monica is the kind of New York girl everyone loves to hate but secretly craves and although her handbag site is currently down, I know she's still out there hatching up designs and extending her 15 minutes of fame as long as she can. And I'll be there all along the way, cheering her on from the sidelines. B+ -- Rachel Kramer Bussel
AMAZON.COM'S GOLD BOX: Amazon.com's tagline should be: "Suffer
the weird gimmicks." First, there's "Carissa's Store,"
which is about as good at guessing my tastes as the lowest tier of B-list
relatives. But even more unsettling is "Carissa's Gold Box."
This sparkly treasure chest wants my attention so badly, it actually shakes.
Hoping to find a proper tribute to my fly nether regions, I click on the
eager icon, only to be presented with a baffling collection of "deals."
This coffer of crap never fails to disappoint. Recent offers included
a graphing calculator, a silver bracelet with a heart-shaped American
flag charm and the ubiquitous reward for being fucked sideways by the
American Dream -- a set of steak knives. To dismiss a selection you have
to click on "pass on this deal forever," as if years later you'll
find yourself sighing dejectedly about all the topaz earrings and landscaping
tools you never purchased. When you're done browsing, the little gold
bootyshaker disappears from the screen, presumably to be re-gifted by
a fearsome band of Midwestern pirates. C- -- Carissa
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