|THE BLACK LIST: MOP, MOP... PUFF, PUFF... SIGH.|
|By The Black Table|
It was a good day for some housecleaning last weekend. What with our bathroom in disrepair and the kitchen floor suitable for growing in, but not eating off of, it was time to freshen up. The tasks were finished by the time Jets to Brazil's Orange Rhyming Dictionary played all the way through, with a couple smoke breaks and some reminiscing during the last two tracks.
For what is fall but a season of change? Sure, it's really about things dying and falling to the ground, but when you don't have a yard to rake killing bacteria will have to do. Thorough cleaning is on-your-knees penance for neglect and partially-obscured mistakes. And when you've wiped away the last biological remnants of an old lover, you stand upright and ready to go on.
Happily, Black List contributors have worked their way out of a post-election stupor enough to think they're pregnant and ruminate about Tupperware. We're all back to our inconsequential existences; join the march to futility by filling out the form on the right.
30 MINUTE MEALS WITH RACHEL RAY: Maybe it's from living in New York City most of my life that I've come to embrace, somewhat, the modern urban female. Or, to narrow the scope for you, the aspiring, upwardly mobile white female who orbits around my dating pool. Here she is, working her ass off at the P.R.-publishing-fashion-advertising firm, with the pointy toed heels, Clinique war paint, veggie diet (except fish), Sex and the City DVD collection, and liberal arts education. Homeboy, she ain't cooking a meal and is certainly not coming to visit your demented ass out in Brooklyn. (But baby...) And so, on most weekdays, I plop myself in front of the TV after work and take in the fantasy of the bubbly Rachel Ray of the Food Network becoming my girlfriend. In the 30 minutes it takes to make one of her kaayuuute meals, I'm living in some domestic cookie dream, far from the post-fem brigade. Rachel laughs with me at our little foibles, drinks a beer to the trivial, then pops out of that suburban costume and lets me eat her creamy vanilla fudge sundae body all over the kitchen. ("You better stick your thermometer in to check the temperature of the turkey.") Oh yeah. A -- dan
HOG VS. DOG FIGHTS WITH WIFE OVER SEGREGATION: It's been over a week since Bush was replanted. My blood runs blue, but I live deep in red country surrounded by morally superior folk. The election has stirred the inner Elmer Gantry among my
co-workers and neighbors. Conversations are tinged with comments such as "Prayer in school is going to save America," and "We may have lost the war (civil), but it took the south to bring this country to its knees". When I heard the latter, I visualized Barbara Streisand doing an unmentionable to/with George Wallace (I know he is dead, but was he ever really alive?). Since the re-anointment, I read the newspapers to see if the moral revolution has begun in its birthplace, but alas things seem the same, if not worse: a couple have been indicted for hosting dog & hog fights (yes, dog vs. hog); woman beat by an aluminum baseball bat by her husband (in front of their two children) for failure to remove a bag of burned popcorn from their trailer; a former district attorney was arrested for domestic violence; and last, but not least -- allegations that thousands of votes were thrown out, increasing the likelihood that a bid to remove segregation-era language from Alabama's Constitution failed. Where does this lead us? Perhaps Madison Square Garden will be the venue for the Hog vs. Dog heavyweight championship followed by the wife beating contests, and both concluding in a fiery worship service screamed by Jerry Falwell. WWJGD? (What would Jackie Gleason do?) F- -- Ros
POST OFFICE PROMOTIONAL TIE-INS: I have this letter. It's from my former girlfriend whom I adore. It was sent right after we parted ways and it beautifully and eloquently sums up our entire relationship. Bittersweet, because we're not together anymore, yet joyous, because it perfectly bears witness to how much we truly meant to each other, it's a letter I treasure and enjoy reading over and over again. And then, the other night, the post mark on the envelope caught my eye. It's always been a little faint, so I've never really bothered examining it. After all, it's only a post mark. But after just a bit of scrutiny, the post mark revealed itself -- it read "Greetings From Far Far Away" with a Shrek 2 image attached to it. Now, despite the ever-increasingly hype-hungry nature of the U.S. Postal Service -- bizarre stamp editions, inexplicable confrontation and resulting queasy relationship with the band Postal Service -- creating and preparing a letter for postal transit has always remained entirely true to the sender's vision and tone that they wish to express. This is sacred stuff we're talking about. People keep letters and cherish them. Sometimes they even become timeless. The sender has no control over the post mark, however. And now, what used to be an innocuous marking that helped date a letter has become vulgar and intrusive. My keepsaked letter now speaks in two voices. One belongs to someone I love expressed with careful choice of stationary, envelope, stamp and penmanship. The other belongs to someone I despise glaring at me from the corner of the envelope with an ugly green ogre. Shame on you, Post Office. Shame on you. F- -- Brendan Corcoran
NOT BEING PREGNANT: My life is rows and columns. It is an Excel
spreadsheet with little room for deviance. So when something goes wrong,
when something doesn't happen the way it's supposed to, things get off
balance and I go just a little bit crazy. Wednesday, I called the would-be
father. "When's the last time we had sex?" "I
SWIVEL LIDS ON TO-GO CUPS: I just encountered the most fabulous invention of my week. I just bought a chi from a local coffee shop (yes, LOCAL Mass. company, not a national soul-sucking chain), and upon my cup was a lovely lid. A lovely spill-proof swivel plastic lid that will save me from ruining shirts and burning my hand as I run to catch the 39 bus. The lid that saves me from splashing a hot drink all over the bus floor and my seat as the crazy Boston bus driver doesn't even wait for the doors to close before zooming off, swerving corners, and screeches to a halt. Thank you swivel cup lid. Thank you Emack and Bolio's for making my Monday clean and dry. A+ with money towards the tip jar. -- Jackie
MOVING OUT OF YOUR MARITAL HOME THE DAY AFTER THAT TRAVESTY OF AN ELECTION: OK, so, after three years of back and forth, husband and I finally decide to call it quits. Oh, don't cry ... it's for the best. Anyhow, since we already had Nov. 3 scheduled off from work since January, we decided to hire the truck (yeah, we split a truck to move to our new apartments. We're cheap). And let me tell you -- barking orders at 8:30 a.m., after getting no sleep and wondering what the fuck happened to our country...only to get a text message -- "KERRY CONCEDED" -- as the mover was fumbling around with a bedframe....it's overrated. But at least I didn't have to take another vacation day. C- -- Stacie
RESEALABLE PLASTIC TUBS: I'd like to use this space to nominate a new phrase, a standard-bearing phrase, as the most beautiful phrase currently in use in the English language. Resealable Plastic Tub. A syllabic countdown to dishwasher safe possibility, the Resealable Plastic Tub can hold just about any good thing. Assorted buttons, chili residue, off-brand Lego knockoffs, or reusable medicated Preparation-H pads. Cream cheese. A lot of cream cheese. A lot of cream cheese that is guaranteed to go bad long before even the hungriest people could eat it all. The Resealable Plastic Tub could contain anything we would want, and is likely to contain more of it than we'll ever need, to say nothing of the fact that your children's children can keep washing it out and using it again. If you slap the top of it, it even says, "Tub!" Happy abundance and infinite utility: I salute everything the Resealable Plastic Tub represents. A+ -- Jim Jazwieki
COLIN POWELL RESIGNING: Colin Powell, you're such a tease. With your honest leadership as chairman of the joint chiefs, I had hope for your tenure as Secretary of State. You were my favorite member of Bush's cabinet. It was like they let someone on our side sneak in. But we were duped and you were the ultimate token. Not token minority, but token middle-of-the-roader. You were ignored and made to make a fool of yourself in the United Nations, pointing at blurry pictures and saying with confidence that they were WMDs. Instead, they were nothing and you're the one who had to show your face to the international community. All that may not be your fault, but what is your fault is hanging around till your boss gets a second term before doing what you should have done months ago. Your resignation means nothing to me now, Colin. It's too little, too late. What a strong leader you could have been, what a soldier, if you stood up publicly and said, "We need to think about this a minute." So now you're out, Colin. You owe us a tell-all book, at least. C- -- Aileen Gallagher
SCOTT PETERSON GETTING CONVICTED FOR MURDERING HIS WIFE AND UNBORN KID: Thank you, Redwood City, CA, for finding that sly, sneering, scheming, fertilizer-selling, wife-and-baby-murdering Scott Peterson guilty. On Friday, Nov. 12, you sent a delicious shiver of hope and schadenfreude through my cold, crime-obsessed feminist soul. I nearly cried with relief, Scotty, when I learned you'd finally gotten what you deserved -- because you made it so nauseatingly obvious, almost from the day your 9-months-pregnant wife went missing, that you'd killed her. You may as well have screamed it over the loudspeakers, Scott, but you did what you do best -- lie -- to cover your ass. Your motive was painfully clear, though. You know, that affair with the blond masseuse, telling her you were a widower, that your wife was already dead...not smart. Then you grinned and back-slapped your way through your trial, never taking the stand or showing much interest in anything except the female jurors' panties. EW, Scott. Finally, for once, a jury saw through an abusive husband's bullshit. It almost makes up for O.J ... but not quite. A -- Laura Barcella
BLOGS MEAN NEVER HAVING TO SAY YOU'RE SORRY: Fewer than two months
into your "I love you," "No, I love you"
relationship she uttered eleven words that surely every man in love wants
to hear strung together: "I'm pregnant. It gets worse. You might
not be the father." You weigh the options: walk out and preserve
your sanity, not to mention your pride, or Do The Right Thing, and risk
being a fool. You Do The Right Thing. She, of course, walks out later,
announcing her betrayal via a "Join me on a Fuck One, Fuck All pub
crawl on Valentines Day Weekend" mass email. After a week of silent
anger you do something similar but different, adding her parents, grandparents
and her rabbi to an "Oh, about those eleven words" Scorched
Earth Policy Fuck You Right Back mailing list. Months pass; both you and
she get as far away from the scene of the crime as you possibly can. So:
the fact that (oh, and this is rich) nine months later your one and only
entry about her ("Happy Birthday! Show us your tits!") has been
Googled to the point where it's the most accessed page on your otherwise
inconsequential, masturbatory blog, less than a week before what would
have been your anniversary: A-. The "She's scurrying about
my life like a cockroach when you open the cupboard" feeling that
comes with trying to ignore your blog stats: B. That "And
you can just kiss my big, black ass" bilious taste of righteous anger
that comes with not quite being able to forget having been a fool: A++.
Each and every week, Black Table readers like you write the Black List and get absolutely nothing in return. Ain't that some shit.