|THE BLACK LIST: WHO WILL BE PREZ WHEN DREW TURNS 30?|
|By The Black Table|
The presidential debates kick off this week, on Thursday night. If this is anything like past presidential debates, it'll be the only one anyone watches: By the third one, the novelty of seeing the candidates in the same room together is gone, and you find yourself flipping back to that show where a bunch of strange people wearing goggles remodel some poor person's house.
But you really should watch the debate on Thursday, because one of these people will be leader of the free world when Drew Barrymore turns 30 years old. We at The Black Table find this an enormously important event, and it is not something that should be left in the hands of amateurs. So look close, and make sure the complacent press asks this vital question on Thursday night. They cannot ignore the real issues!
Feeling patriotic, The Black List has 10 entries this week, just like the number of stars on the flag. (Right?) If you want to make your vote count next week, just use the nifty form on the right.
THE PONCHO: What idiot decided that we need to be wearing ponchos this fall? I thought this crappy spring trend had been quashed by the hot summer months, but no such luck. Ponchos are back with a vengeance. Cotton, cashmere, plain, fringed you can't step outside without seeing a chick who looks like she's been attacked by Grandma's sofa afghan. Why the hell are women across America so eager to buy the one item of clothing that has the uncanny ability to make a skinny woman look obese and an obese woman look like a circus tent? The only explanation is that the same evil knitting cabal behind Phase One: Giant Scarves has moved on to Phase Two. Ponchos. This fashion atrocity is neither cute nor sexy, and it's not even all that warm. Please, for the love of God, just say no to the poncho. F -- S Baker B
THE SOHO HOUSE FOR THE PAMPERS SET: Citibabes -- the new, private SoHo club -- will employ the same obdurate admission standards and exclusionary claims for rich kiddies as it does for adults at the original haunt. The 15,000 square foot complex will house a gymnasium, a café, a salon and a boutique for toddlers. The perk: Parents can now dump Dakota and Hamilton, and CoCo and Apple, at the pool with the other mini-socialites, while they get their mani-pedis and lament about children being last season's accessory. The drawback: If junior can't hack it with the baby elite, Mommy and Daddy will have to deal with the imminent threat of not being asked to renew the membership. Pauve ti
bete. Pass me that silver spoon, would you? Avec plasir, I'd like to show you where to shove it. F -- J.Gerba
FLAVOR FLAV ON "THE SURREAL LIFE": During the summer of 1995, between high school and college, I worked for an indoor children's playground called Discovery Zone in a mall in Yonkers, N.Y. One of the somewhat-regular weekend customers at this store was Flavor Flav, who would come in with a battalion of his children. During that summer, I befriended Flav and found him to be a curious, friendly face who really took the time out to talk with me, a curious 17-year-old, about a wide variety of things. That's why I'm so happy to see him on "The Surreal Life." Yes, he's still the quirky, flamboyant hype man. But now, he's showing the world the generous side he showed a pimpled-out, chubby teenage boy those years ago. And still taking the time out to infuriate a childish Ryan Starr while playing pool with a bloated New Kid. Word to YOUR mother, Flav. A -- Dan Dunford
PARIS HILTON'S CONFESSIONS OF AN HEIRESS: It's all too easy to knock girls like Paris Hilton -- look at what a fool she made of herself making that video, why does she dress in such skimpy outfits, she's such an airhead. But after breezing through her new book, Confessions of an Heiress, I have to say, the girl is funny. And more than a little bit ballsy. What other size zero chicks are out there advocating for us to eat as much fast food as we can and to basically do whatever we want? Yes, she has a rich girl's sense of entitlement, but somehow, for her, it works in a way that doesn't make you hate her, but want to go shopping with her. Also, she completely disavows black, saying it's for boring people (the greatest sin of all), and clearly loves her family and her dog and manages to dodge the details of her infamous sex video, gliding right over it with a kind of devil-may-care attitude that puts her countless miles ahead of her slimy ex Rick Salomon on the grace scale. So what's not to like? For all its over-the-top-ness, her wacky advice and its perfectly pretty glittery pinkness, this girlie girl has to give Paris's book an A -- Rachel Kramer Bussel
THE BENEFACTOR: Thanks, ABC, for giving the pseudo-intellectuals who distain reality television a couple more cartridges for their holsters. It's one thing for the ADD-afflicted generation to force its jump-cutting sensibilities on TV and movies; it's another thing entirely to take such a personality -- Dallas Mavericks owner and noted douchebag Mark Cuban -- and put a steadicam on him, watching him twitch around in search of someone interesting to talk to in a car, as a team of mutants attempt to "entertain" him for five hours to win a prize. It's a argument for every criticism of our generation all at once: the neediness, attention-grabbing, celebration of faux success, and the attention span of your average goldfish. This show is abysmal, but the pre-Monday Night Football lead-in ratings will mask that for a while. Cancel this immediately, if not sooner. F -- David Gaffen
PURPORTED LOVE LETTERS THAT READ LIKE RESUMES: You wanted to be my boyfriend, so you wrote me a letter. A long letter. All about you. How good-looking you are. How well-read you are. How kind, thoughtful, patient, funny, generous, hygienic and smashing in the sack you are. The letter went on and on, page after page, plaudit after plaudit. You even went so far as to include some bulleted points, in case it wasn't yet clear to me what a phenomenal being had graced my presence. If it was written in the past tense, it could have been your eulogy. Well, our apologies, sir, you were a fine candidate (as you well know), but the position has been awarded to someone else. Someone who knows that a love letter should include at least one reason why the intended recipient is, indeed, loved. At least one reason why your life is better for knowing her, rather than all the reasons why her life will be a waste if she chooses not to be with you. You might think you're the finest thing to come along since Jesus H. Christ, but I don't need an enumerated power point presentation to bring that to my attention. Oh, and by the way, you might want to pad that hygiene part a little -- the scum in your bathtub, after your unbridled egotism, was what put you out of the running. Better luck next time. D- -- ty
DISCOVERING THE SECRET TO HAPPINESS: One night, I received cunnilingus comparable to a gap-toothed bunny gnawing at a piece of dry lettuce. The next day, in regaling a male friend with the tale of my anticlimax, he said, "Well, he just didn't know what he was doing. I'm so much better than that." Of course, I wanted proof. So desperate was he to verify his claims, my friend went spelunking for a good 45 minutes in some fucked up macho efforts to prove his worth. Not that I cared about his ego. Since then, I've tried this on several boys. I simply claim to have received mediocre oral, and they get right to work. Ego is a delicate thing, I've learned. Oh yeah, and sometimes I reciprocate. Of course, it helps when they tell me that their last date gave head like a nun on lithium. I'm better than that, right? C average on the oral, A for effort. -- Happy G.
PETER GOODRICH: Got my Contracts grade today, and I wanted to give a shout-out to the prick professor who permanently fucked over my GPA. Why, thank you! I'm thrilled I studied my ass off to get a C! Smashing! While we're here, let me add that I really loved your idiotic lawyer jokes. My girlish laughter was absolutely genuine. Surprise! I wasn't listening to your anecdotes about Roman law or your pretentious translations of obscure Latin phrases; I was trying to calculate the size of your dick by gauging the length of your fingers (5 inches?). I officially retract the promise I made to my best friend that I would screw your brains out as soon as class finished and rescue you from that frigid provost wife. You are dead to me, Peter Goodrich. You can take your contracts exam, your weekly therapy appointments and your endless stories about being a Barrister in London and shove them up your ass. Just know that my nubile young body would have ridden that 50-something ass of yours until morning. That should hurt more than my C. F -- J. Wassar
FINDING OUT VIA A BLOG THAT YOUR BABY BROTHER DOES DRUGS: I was a wreck when my little bro -- the last of our line -- took off for college a month ago, and it was all I could do to not imagine him doing all of the things that I did as a college freshman. When I found a link to his new college blog on his IM profile, I took a casual look, thinking it'd be something about streaking or drunk sorority girls. And yeah, I should have seen it coming with this kid: the converse sneakers, the long hair, the weird taste in music, the high school delinquency he screams "Stoner" from 100 yards. But did I need it spelled out for me? And did I need to find out via an online journal? Not so much. D+ -- Cristin
DISTRACTIONS DURING PAINTBALL SEASON: Sweetheart, I've loved you tremendously, even before our recent nuptials, and realize that you're going through a very difficult and painfully emotional time right now, but I just don't see how canceling my paintball outing with the guys is going to bring your dead grandmother back to life. You know that if we come in third place or better this weekend, then we qualify for regionals. I suspect that your dearly departed granny knew this as well, which is why she picked now of all times to up and croak; she never could stand it when the limelight wasn't focused squarely on her and no one else. It's not like I can't still make the actual funeral on Tuesday; I just have to pass on the viewing this Saturday and Sunday. What is she, anyway? On sale at Macy's or something? Why do we all have to parade by and gawk at her like she's some window display? I have even tried to compromise, offering to approach the team about wearing black memorial armbands or "Gone But Not Forgotten" T-shirts on the battlefield, but that still isn't good enough for you. All you do is sob uncontrollably in the fetal position while blubbering, "I miss my Nana!" For better or for worse? Stand by your woman? Respect your elders? Bury the dead? That dogshit all gets the finger during paintball season. F -- Scott Evans
Each and every week, Black Table readers like you write the Black List and get absolutely nothing in return. Ain't that some shit.