The Black Table had a big party over the weekend, and even though it's already Tuesday, we still can't feel our feet. This was one of those classic parties, the ones that you'll look back on when you're 45 and old and have nothing to live for but Sunday night dinners at the Outback Steakhouse. This party featured:

• Two people vomiting off the roof.
• Someone standing in a bathroom line screaming, "I DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM!"
• Three people having a contest to see who can shotgun a Zima fastest.
• A woman using a cooked-but-soggy hot dog as a Q-tip, thinking no one was watching.
• Three different couples making out on the roof, all thinking they were the only ones up there.
• One Black Table editor drunkenly shoving another Black Table editor and then stomping off like a little freaking baby.
• An impromptu karaoke of Guns 'N Roses' "Dead Horse" of the Use Your Illusion I album.
• Not a single death. Amazingly.

Thanks to everyone who came. Next time, it's personal.

BIG IMPORTANT BLACK TABLE REQUEST FOR HELP: Next week, the Democratic National Convention invades Boston. The Black Table has a couple of reporters covering the conventions and -- more specifically -- the wackiness that will engulf the city, but, frankly, we need more. If you're in Boston next week and are looking to get your byline in The Black Table, contact Will Leitch at leitch@blacktable.com. We'd love to put you to work.

We have 10 smooth-as-a-mountain-stream Black List reviews this week. If this is your first trip here, the link to the right is how you submit. If it's not your first time here, thank you for coming back, we love you, really, we do; now please give us our pants back.

-- 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.

KEN JENNINGS WINNING OVER A MILLION DOLLARS ON JEOPARDY!: Nobody, until now, has won this much money on what has always been the hardest of game shows. We're amazed. We're wowed. Except that this isn't "Jeopardy!" Not the "Jeopardy!" I watched as a nerdy teenager, hoping that I'd one day be able to say, "I'll take Potpourri for $200, Alex." This is some bastardized, easier version. What were they trying to pull? First, Trebek shaves the moustache. Then the questions' dollar values are doubled. Finally, the "five

wins and you're gone" rule, which would have kept Jennings from capturing all that coin in the first place, is eliminated. Anyway, I hate to break it to ya, Kenny, but the love affair is over. You did your Top Ten on Letterman and your morning show appearances. Now it's time for people to stop watching to see how much you'll win, and start watching to see if you'll finally lose. C+ -- Tom Panarese

UNWITTINGLY APPEARING IN GLAMOUR: A friend told me I was in this month's issue of Glamour, and there I am, on page 214. I was on vacation, pasty, covering a hangover-induced yawn. Oh, and I'm ogling a woman in a translucent swimsuit. Apparently, according to the caption, I'm about to faint from the sight of rare and shocking sight of almost-naked flesh in South Beach. My look is described as "long and shameless," which I suppose it was. Is that wrong? Is Miami not packed with attention-craving hedonistic exhibitionists on display? Apparently, the puritans at Glamour would have me avert my eyes. Well, I finally made it into a high-circulation print magazine, alas, as the unwitting pawn in yet another of Glamour's insidious sociological experiments. D -- Scott Sand

I LOVE THE '90S: With my oversized Hanson T-shirt and my Furby in hand, I was eagerly anticipating the airing of Vh-1's newest decade clip show, "I Love the 90s." But this show is a complete travesty. Not only should the show be called "Michael Ian Black Loves the 90s," it is nothing but a proliferation of people singing out-of-tune versions of one-hit wonders and superfluous masturbation jokes. There are the occasional witty comments now and then, but for the most part the show is a montage of unknown comedians and '90s television stars giggling while reciting lines from "Ice Ice Baby." If I really wanted to see a bunch of B-list celebrities try to be humorous, I could just watch Hollywood Squares. Or, you know, every other show on VH-1. C -- Lauren L.

JOINT BACHELOR/BACHELORETTE PARTIES: To goad all your friends into shelling out a ton of money to spend a wild weekend with you is one thing. To forget to mention that the whole bridal party will be joining us, flying on the same flight, staying on the same floor in the same damn hotel, is not only unconscionable and absurd, it's fucking shitty as hell. Fine, if you've decided to spend the rest of your life with this megalomaniac, that's your business, but for her insecurities to get the better of you and ruin a perfectly good weekend with your boys, man, that's just wrong. Now I have to contend with the goddamn maid of honor pounding on my wall, telling me to keep it down, while I'm slaying a showgirl at 5 a.m.? See you at the altar, Bitch. F- -- Dr. Rosenrosen

SHAVING YOUR LEGS FOR A REASON: Thank you, summer and super-cheap miniskirts from Old Navy -- finally, my daily labor has a purpose! No longer will my smooth, shiny legs languish unseen beneath heavy, opaque denim. Now they are free to greet the world in all their hairless splendor, thanks to five daily minutes in the shower that have been superfluous and unappreciated for far too long. Who needs a boyfriend or even a one-night stand? The world can now look at my legs and see that yes, dammit, I shave all the way up. Don't believe me? Well, come on and see for yourself; those teensy Old Navy miniskirts are useful in other ways, too. A -- Rachel Sklar

GETTING BUSTED BY YOUR BOSS WHILE WATCHING THE CAMERON DIAZ VIDEO: Sure, we all know better than to watch this kind of thing at work. Yet the "corporate culture" at your office is so relaxed, and you do have your own cubicle. So you when you happen upon the link, you're idly curious, and don't give it a second thought. Yep! That sure does look like Mary in that topless black leather corset and fishnets blowing compressed air at her own nipples, and HELLO! YEAH, HERE'S THE BILLING REPORT RIGHT HERE! WHAT? OH, NOTHING! Somehow, being a girl doesn't make it any easier. D+ -- A-LO

INTERPOL "ANTICS": Interpol got a ton of mileage out of its last record, front-running a movement that, for the last two years, had trend whores sniffing around for white belts in thrift stores and free space on the coke mirror. Anticipation is high for "Antics," and the leaked, unmastered version of the record, due out in September, is so all-over-the-place that even I have a copy. After listening to the record, it becomes clear that "Antics" is something of a misnomer. There are no "antics" to be found here; no wild nights, no rock-and-rolling, no monkeys jumping on the bed. This is the day after the coke binge, people, and it's a total downer. All there is: a long, droning mass of vocals, some keyboards and a distinct lack of danceable, pounding 4/4 bass that would inspire one to shake their ass. The atmospherics are cool for what they are, but in the end Interpol's second record is painfully boring, like waiting for hours in the hippest doctor's office in town. C- -- Eric Gillin

PILLOW HUMPING: It's 4:42 in the afternoon. I slide the pillow between my legs, trying not to rustle the sheets too much, because my door is open and my roommate is in the next room. I lay on top of it, squeeze my thighs and pull up on the pillow, gripping the edge of the mattress with my toes. I don't know what it is -- the friction, the pressure on my pelvic bone, the rub of the ergonomic pillow -- but something rubs me the right way, and I get the sensational feeling of orgasm with no muss. And this orgasmic delight is achieved in less than a minute. So why do I feel like I'm the only one? A, for the pillow; D, for the guilt. -- Laura

TAKING YOUR THREE-YEAR-OLD NEPHEW FOR A HAIRCUT: I didn't think it would be so bad, but then he became less interested with me showing him pictures of a weeks-old People (apparently Mary-Kate's supposed drug use is of little interest to someone not yet in preschool) and more about trying to grab the clippers from the stylist's hand and hurl them across the room. Then he started screaming and beating himself about the head like a tiny little Rain Man, after which I -- and the frazzled SuperCuts employee -- pretty much gave up. Haphazard doesn't even begin to describe this kid's hair, though it was more than a little fun listening to him attempt to pronounce the word "anorexic" just before all the crying started. D- -- Brian Graham

TOOTING YOUR OWN HORN: So I started doing yoga, ostensibly to bridge the Cartesian gap between body and mind, ease the inevitable aging process and sow some peacefulness in my life. Really. All right, fine, I figured it would be a great way to meet like-minded people with breasts like lotus buds and butts like little buddhas, possibly six arms and an interest in poses like "reclining dragon" and "bend over." Sue me. Alas, my tantric dreams were shattered by spandex stretched almost to transparency on middle-aged women and recent mothers complaining of stretch marks vast as chasms of unknowingness. Asses so big they were outsourcing farts to India. Still, I stuck with it, actually enjoyed it and started to make progress with regard to my ostensible intentions. Now, I'm so flexible, I can literally suck my own dick. Oh, don't get all up in arms, Onan: It's a slippery slope, so spare me your disgust. Would it help if I said I taste like pancake batter? Anyway, my grander, yogic perspective says fuck what you think! Now I can get a hummer whenever I want, and the only strings attached are between my face and my dick. So I've become cross-eyed. Big deal; you don't need 3D vision to lick your own balls. B+ -- Don Jon

CLICK HERE FOR THE BLACK LIST ARCHIVE.

Each and every week, Black Table readers like you write the Black List and get absolutely nothing in return. Ain't that some shit.