|THE BLACK LIST: KIRSTIE ALLEY IS SO FAT, SHE'S EVERYWHERE.|
|By The Black Table|
Kirstie Alley scares us. She doesn't scare us because she's overweight. We know a lot of overweight people, and we find very few of them scary, and certainly not at a higher proportion than the rest of the general population. And it's not because she was on "Cheers," though Woody Harrelson did scare the crap out of us, not just in Natural Born Killers but also with the maniacal zeal he displays for the rope-making qualities of hemp.
No, Kirstie Alley scares us because: a) she's everywhere; b) she looks deeply uncomfortable "joking" about her weight gain; and c) we heard a story once about her making her recently pregnant assistant milk a pet goat. We don't know if that's true but just the notion of it scares us. Plus, we don't have Showtime, so Kirstie, we're not gonna watch your show anyway. We're going to hide from you, all right?
We have 12 reviews this week, because last week we accidentally re-ran one, making a bunch of people mad at us. We're sorry. It won't happen again. To be a part of the rigmarole, use the form on the right. Yah!
MOTLEY CRUE AT MADISON SQUARE GARDEN: Yes, there was a (fucking awesome) lighter-waving sing-a-long to "Home Sweet Home." But sadly, no, it wasn't the encore. Yes, the band looked as hot as ever. And no, Vince didn't look that bloated. Yes, Tommy got all the chicks in front of the stage to show their titties. But no, I didn't flash mine (too far away from the stage for Tommy to have seen 'em). Yes, the audience was filled with old school Motley Crue fans. And no, there weren't any annoying hipster-ironic nerds (thank god). Was I all horny and drunk on Jack Daniels and hell-bent for destruction throughout the concert? You bet your ass I was. Did I totally party all night long after the concert? Err, no. Passed out with all my clothes on before midnight. What can I say? I'm old now. Whatever. For midgets, sluts and Crue? A fucking plus -- Amy Blair
YAHOO TURNS 10: Happy Birthday Yahoo! Years ago when Al Gore invented the Internet, who knew anything as great as you would show up. Free email, free fantasy sports, shopping, news, the list goes on. You're easy on the eyes and easy to deal with -- even my mom has an account with you. Also, I can't help yodeling your name just like the commercials (Yahoooooo!). Sure, Google has been getting all the hype recently, but I only have eyes for you. To top it off, you're giving members a free scoop of
ice cream and it's your birthday! Sure, the upcoming teenage years can be a little rocky, but you've been a great so far. For being the best the Internet has to offer, Yahoo, you get an A+ -- SMangat
YOUR HOT COWORKER PRATTLING ON THE PHONE IN SPANISH: You know you want it so bad. Ever since you kissed him in a cab one night after too many Miller Lites at the bar after work, it was, like, meant to be. He reminds you of your first boyfriend in sixth grade; you got the Dominican kid when everyone else paired off. So it is only natural to pick up the distinct dulcet tones of the true language of romance from across the office. He could be telling his mother (yes, he lives with mom) about what he wants for dinner, or talking to his cousin about that cold fusion class he is taking. It doesn't matter. Everything sounds like a fast-talking version of what he'd like to do with you if he finally got you alone with some wine and strawberries. Mmmm. A welcome distraction. B -- Jill
MILLIONS: The new movie by Trainspotting and 28 Days Later director Danny Boyle is visually stunning ... to a fault. All the whirly-gigs and what-for-nots just get in the way in what is essentially a rather straightforward story. The child actors are great, but Boyle insists on overdirecting his movie to the point that the whimsy is painfully forced. We're not helped by an unnecessary ending that takes forever and kind of guts everything that came before. We'll say it again: The larger scale Boyle gets, the worse off he is. Next movie: Science fiction! Great. B- -- Will Leitch
SCARY MALL CUSTODIANS AND THE TUNES THEY HUM: I won't go into why I'm terrified of the gray fuzzy-haired, turquoise and khaki pants-wearing, aimlessly wandering, trash cart-pushing custodians that work in the malls of America. But I will make mention of the fact that they are always humming a tune. Not the contemporary top 40 that I listen to on my way to work. Their own tunes, tunes that the aliens whispered in their ears to soothe them during their last anal probe. Oddly enough, I'd like to say thank you to them. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Scary Custodian, for giving me something new to listen to when I'm finishing up my turkey club from "Fit-4-Life." Thank you for making that baby vomit lemony fresh with a smile. And last but not least, thank you for making my life look so great compared to yours. A -- Leola Bell
GOING GROCERY SHOPPING DURING THE OSCARS: I like grocery shopping. I do. Even in Manhattan, where the aisles are narrow. Generally, once you go through an aisle, there is no going back, even if you really need those chocolate-covered cashews. But going grocery shopping during the Oscars brought the experience to a whole new level. I was the only person in the store, except for the poor, miserable cashiers. I could stroll the aisles, dally as I read labels on products that I have no intention of purchasing and I still finish in record time. Being so out of touch with pop culture that it takes you a while to figure out why the grocery store is empty: B. Grocery shopping in peace and quiet: A -- Debra
EX-BOYFRIENDS' LIVEJOURNALS: Even though I'm happily married 10 years later, I still wonder what happened to those losers I used to date. Morbid curiosity makes me Google them, and for two of them I discover LiveJournal accounts! I can read everything about their lives, including their "pagan" girlfriends, the gaming and goth conventions they attend and their unacceptable political views. Is it any wonder I broke up with them in the first place? I'm feeling pretty good about myself. But suddenly, I'm checking for updates every day, and I find myself getting angry all over again about someone I haven't even thought about for years. This is pathetic. LiveJournal, you suck. D -- DJW
FEELING 17 AGAIN: About 10 years ago, I spent much of my time at punk rock shows. Lagwagon, Face to Face, the Bouncing Souls, Pennywise, Weston -- whoever was playing in Philadelphia or its surrounding suburbs, I saw them. I don't listen to much punk anymore. I'm older and happier, and I've conceded that nearly every NOFX song sounds exactly the same. But still, I was eager to see The Queers at Maxwell's on Friday night. Only the lead singer remains of the original trio, but that didn't make much difference. Except for the beer in my hand, that show was like all the ones I loved when I was a teenager. Standing at my usual spot on the edge of the pit, I screamed along to Queers' favorites like "This Place Sucks," "Fuck the World" and "Ursula Finally Has Tits." There we were, sweating and raising our middle fingers in some sort of nonsensical solidarity. People were older and fatter and balder, but forgot about their jobs or unpaid bills or even that the Queers pretty much ripped off the Ramones. For about an hour, we were 17 and thrilled. One of the few things I miss about high school is that sense of abandon. A -- Aileen Gallagher
"THE BEARDS" BY JONATHAN LETHAM: Did anyone else read this long, deep gaze into the very fibers of Jonathan Lethem's navel lint and wonder why on earth it was getting published in The New Yorker, much less in a forthcoming book? Dear Jonathan L: Next time you want to take a boring-ass meander down memory lane, giving shout-outs to your formative literary, musical and cinematic influences along the way (all the while affecting faux-shame at how pretentious you, um, used to be), just write about it on your blog like everyone else does. OK?? Jonathan Lethem's self-aggrandizing ways -- F. Jonathan Safran Foer's completely unrelated, yet similarly obnoxious self-aggrandizing ways -- F. Caring way too much about literary Jonathans' self-aggrandizing ways -- F squared -- Emily Gould
LISTENING TO COUNTRY ON THE GERMAN AUTOBAHN: If you've ever lived in rural America and driven an '89 Buick with nothing but a radio onboard, you've probably faced the fact that 95 percent of the stations there play country all day. At first you bitched and bitched, but after a few weeks you secretly started to like it. That is, with the local grocery store being a mere 40 minutes drive and the occasional road trip of two hours on gravel roads that ends with the realization you'd need a 4WD to get up that mountain. Country is indeed perfect for long, unsurprising drives: It is the music of choice for spacing out, getting high or falling asleep while doing 55. Just don't forget to take the road to Oregon at the intersection, not Canada. Now, in Europe, you get from place to place on the autobahn. You might think it's all the same, but lo and behold if you try to conjure up sweet memories of the days on the American roads: finding the single country station that's still on air takes 10 minutes and when the big Mercedes or the occasional Maserati flashes and honks at you to get the hell out of the fast lane while YOU are doing one hundred and fifty, all you hear from the speakers is some feeble fizzle, and definitely not Johnny Cash. Not to mention that if your attention happens to lapse for a split second at these speeds, you're dead. D -- Zoltan Hajnacs
REALIZING THE GIRL FROM YOUR BAUDELAIRE SEMINAR IS THE STAR OF THE CAMPUS SEX MAGAZINE PHOTO SPREAD ON BDSM: Let's face it. There's a lot of bullshit you have to put up with to get a PhD. Pedantic professors, neurotic colleagues, subsistence wages, old friends who have no idea what you're doing with your life, parents who wonder why you just don't go to law school and a Zeitgeist suggesting your career will amount to cultural impotency and political irrelevance. Like one lonely afternoon in the library, when you opening the new student publication to see your classmate - the one who you thought was shy because she hardly spoke in class - topless, deftly dominating some dude in a utility closet. Now that is fringe benefit. N'est-ce pas? A -- Joshua
DECAL DEDICATIONS: It all started with NASCAR drivers. Then someone thought, "Hey, well, my aunt was just as important as a circular track racer. She drove her car in all sorts of directions. Hell, she even did a trip from D.C. to New York in three hours, while them there NASCAR guys go the same number of miles, but they ain't getting nowhere. So let me acknowledge her death in the only dignified way, the same as any devoted NASCAR fan would do: put a swanky decal on the back of my windshield. It'll be tasteful by stating her full name, time of making her mark on the world, and a sweet lil' message, like, 'Forever in my Heart.' Because when I drive I can be a one-man funeral procession on a daily basis. Heck, I think this memorial would be best placed next to my Calvin pissing on Chevy logo. That's the way Aunt Bobbi would have liked to have been remembered." D -- S. Thornton
Each and every week, Black Table readers like you write the Black List and get absolutely nothing in return. Ain't that some shit.