|THE BLACK LIST: WEREN'T THOSE YAWN OSCARS SOMETHING YAWN?|
|By The Black Table|
We were going to start this week's intro off with a rundown of the Oscars, but we realize that we don't have much to say. Chris Rock was kind of funny, Renee Zellweger looks like someone drained her body of all fluids and Robin Williams should go swimming with something heavy tied to his ankles. Pretty much sums it up.
We would like to note, however, that both Marisa Tomei and Eminem have won more Oscars than Martin Scorsese. Just saying.
Also this week, Martha Stewart gets out of jail. We are desperately hoping she has converted to Islam.
We have 10 reviews this week. We've been stuck on 10 for a while. We'd like to go flying past that next week, but ONLY YOU CAN HELP! Use the form on the right and make our lives more worthy.
HEARING ONLY THE BORING PARTS OF YOUR OFFICEMATE'S PERSONAL CRISIS: I really couldn't care less about your recent breakup with your asshole boyfriend, and God knows I don't need to hear the real-time account of the doomed relationship's last six months for the 14th time. But if you're going to spend all day every day on the phone telling it to every South Asian in the tri-state area, at least do it in fucking English. Or all in Hindi. But not in that God-awful Hinglish where you tell all the boring parts in English and the juicy parts in Hindi, so I can't entirely tune it out but I don't get any good dish either: "Tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka sneaking feeling tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka walked in on them right when tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka so I tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka with the first guy I saw tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka called the police tikka tikka tikka tikka tikka ..." D -- Dave
GRAFFITI ON "THE GATES": Far be it from me to say what art is. But as a lifetime New Yorker, I found the biggest public art display in my city rather mundane. Saffron curtains. In a row. What a sight. The Christos might be surprised to discover that their wonderful gates, though, have allowed a long time -- and illegal -- art form to work its way back: graffiti. If I were still a hooded 16-year-old whipping around on a skateboard, I might have inked the metal beams with my long forgotten, long ago scrubbed tag. (I can't say what it was. The mayor might come looking for me on back fines. Cigarette importers, beware.) Walking through Central Park the other day -- coerced to
go there with a buddy's happy-go-lucky gal pal -- I took in the scribbled spray paint on the metal frames. My friend's girlfriend: "People have no respect for anything anymore." Yeah, she's from Connecticut or Rhode Island or something. Clearly, an act of vandalism. But what a nice kick in the balls to the high art world. The perpetrators, no doubt, get an A, at least in my art class. -- dan (soulstatik)
GETTING A KIDNEY STONE AT WORK: Imagine a mundane Tuesday morning consisting of the standard 15 minutes of actual work followed by three hours of Internet, personal email and mumbling things to yourself. Then imagine someone duct-tapes a brick to your lower back and starts ramming it into your spine like they're Canseco on a three-day 'roid bender. The only thing my growing state of panic was good for was to carry me to the hospital. F -- Frank MacPherson
TERRORIST PIGEONS: Generally speaking, when I visit one of my friends in a city other than my own, I don't want to do any of the tourist stuff. I'm an easy houseguest: All I want to do at night is go somewhere nearby and have a couple hundred drinks, and I can sleep anywhere -- on the sofa, on the floor, standing up in a closet, you name it. (Come to think of it, these two factors might be related.) But this weekend, while visiting New York, I had one touristy thing I desperately wanted to do. I really wanted to see the Gates. As punishment for my uncharacteristic enthusiasm, New York sent a messenger in the form of pigeon who dropped a big, juicy deuce all over my fancy winter coat. Fortunately, I was able to go back to my friend's apartment and clean up before getting on the train. Unfortunately, this prevented me from using my shit-spattered sleeve as a biological weapon to ward off the hoards of slack-jawed mouth-breathers who were also in town to see the spectacle. Dysenteric pigeons and slow-moving tourists, both: F -- Jen Hubley
FINALLY, A COOL CHURCH: I won't go into why I like going to church. I know it's uncool, but I do. The problem is finding a church that suits my personality. So after many abortive attempts with racist, sexist and intolerant churches, I found one that seemed to suit me. Great music, down-to-earth preaching and all done in under an hour. Even better, there's a Saturday service, "Same music, same message, sleep in on Sunday." I think we've got a winner here. So last Saturday found me at church. The A/V featured Dilbert cartoons, and I was getting the impression that there was something pleasingly subversive going on. When the pastor got up to deliver the message, he pointed to the mocked up "cubicles" on the stage and said, "They're perfect, aren't they? Right down to the TPS report covers." A small giggle swept the congregation. "Come on, you've seen Office Space, haven't you? It's only the BEST movie ever made about working." Finding a church where not only is there no hellfire and damnation, but a pastor with a great sense of humor. A -- Bunny
DOVE DEODORANT: All I've ever wanted in life are smooth, hydrated, attractive underarms. If I use Dove, not only will my underarms be touchable, but that sexy boy playing bass in that band I love will fall head over heels. Is it not enough that I shave, wax and tweeze every inch of my fake-n-bake body? No longer can I take consolation in the fact that there is at least ONE part of my body I can relax about. Thanks, Dove. For giving women one more body part to obsess about: F. -- Sophia
ANYTHING BEING DECLARED "THE NEW BLACK": White was the new black 10 years ago. Fine. Then it was gray. Whatever. More recently, zombies, gays, online shopping, death, porn, dachshunds, minimalist-chic interiors, Buddhism, pirates, anal sex, bowling, David Beckham and a hundred other things have all taken turns being the new black. It's only a matter of time before someone declares "calling something the new black" as the new black. But it won't be me. D -- Harris
THE RONALD V. DELLUMS FEDERAL BUILDING IN OAKLAND: So there's this greenish, newish, twinnish building dominating the Oakland skyline, which you could see from my old apt in Berkeley. My wife and I always referred to this landmark as The Robot Titties, but we had no idea what happened there. So I MapQuested the address and found out the RTs are actually the Ronald V. Dellums Federal Building, named for one of the most vocal Congressional leftists (Red Ron, he was called) of the last half-century. Berkeley Radicals delivering the federal pork in the shape of Robot Titties: A -- J.S.
SLIPPING BACK INTO YOUR LONG ISLAND ACCENT: I made a conscious effort, more than 10 years ago, to stop "tawking" and start "talking." It worked out pretty well; so much, in fact, that when I tell people I'm from Long Island, they say, "Wow, you don't have an accent." I take pride in that. But every once in a while, I slip up. The other night, my wife and I went to a pizza joint, and I told the waitress that we were going to split a medium red sauce pizza with pepperoni and green peppers. Except it sounded more like "We're gonna haf a red sawce pie wit peppuhronee and green peppuh." My wife, who has the type of Southern accent The Beach Boys once sang about, has not let me hear the end of it, but I don't fault her for that. Making sure don't buy some hair gel, a gold chain, a wife-beater; or get a tattoo that says "Made in Italy" right below my neck is her part of the whole "love, honor, and cherish" thing. Mine is taking a diction class. C- -- Tom Panarese
MOPPING SHIT: It's been brought to my attention lately that I'm a better custodian than salesman - no fucking surprised look on my face. The pleasures of labor that has a means and an end is something I've never taken for granted; the normal day job of selling classified ads is an eternal abyss of misery and corporate drudgery. Cleaning bathrooms is not. I've spent every Saturday night since July babysitting drunk assholes and then cleaning up after them at three in the morning. I take pleasure in the work. I can smoke and drink freely, something long since abolished at my day job. It's quite an eye-opener when you discover that cleaning vomit and shit from a bathroom floor is more satisfying than selling $10 classified ads to geriatrics in Waltham, Massachusetts. Quit your day job and pick up the damn mop. Humility is a currency long since forgotten. C+ -- JD Stone
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