|THE BLACK LIST: TRIPPING THE BLUE LIGHT FANTASTIC.|
|By The Black Table|
We went shopping the other day in K-Mart. Personally, we didn't know they had K-Marts anymore; we thought Wal-Mart had swallowed them up, you know, like everything else worth having on Earth. (For example, a soul.) But apparently they're still around, and there are even two in Manhattan. Needing some crappy temporary furniture for a new apartment, we went to one of them.
We don't know if all K-Marts are like this, but we think it's very possible that the air in K-Mart is 85 percent asbestos and 15 percent Chee-tos. We inhaled once and felt like someone had pumped paint thinner into our lungs and then sewed up every orifice. The place was so dead, spiritually, aurally, emotionally, that it made us want to sell all our worldly possessions and move to Uganda, where a fella can be left alone. We looked at the cashier, whom we think used to be human until the K-Mart air turned her ashen, like a faded statue covered in bird poo. And then, of course, we bought a shelf and plastic thing in which socks may be stored.
To cleanse ourselves, we have 12 Black List reviews this week, a solid, robust, healthy number. To play along with us, use the form on the right. It'll be fun, promise.
THE PRESIDENT'S ENERGY SPEECH INSTEAD OF THE O.C.: I don't ask for too much out of life, but when things don't go my way you do not want to be near me. So last night I did what I always do on Thursdays: leave my shitty job at 5 on the button and race down to the beach to play some volleyball. Then I race home so that I am on my couch in time for The O.C. You see, people, I am the O.C., I live there, I went to college with the guy who created the show, I am pretty sure my best friend's dad is the real life Caleb Nichol in short, I need this show. So when I get home, turn on the tube and see that the brand new episode of the show that is my heroin will not be aired due to the earlier energy speech by that a-hole we keep electing president, I want to cut my own throat. Now mind you, it's not like I actually got to see the energy speech either; that was on at 5:00 my time, when I was sitting in traffic in my car that currently costs $50 to fill up with gas, so I would have liked to, you know, hear what he had to say about this mess. Instead, I was stuck with an episode of King of the Hill Didn't I already tell you I live in the O.C.? Clearly I don't want to watch rednecks. F -- Kate
WOMEN AND SHOES: We're in the checkout line at Target, having had minimal success in finding shoes/sandals for my
nine-year-old daughter (we had found one "acceptable" to her, a pair of sandals w/ unsafely thick soles). Anyway, while waiting to pay, and hoping to avoid shoe purchase failure, I say, "I guess since we're up here already, we might as well go over to Payless Shoes," to which my as yet unenlightened son understandably replies "What for? You already got her some shoes." "Kevin," I sagely say, "you will come to learn, that a girl needs shoes." At this point, all women within earshot at Target, about six or eight, murmured in agreement or smiled warmly at having seen actual evidence of a man who "gets it." The woman behind us in line chimed in helpfully, "I've got two pair right here!" Shopping in general: C. Visceral reaction of women to shoes: A -- noodles
INADVERTENTLY SHOWING YOUR MORNING WOOD TO AN ASIAN CONSTRUCTION WORKER OUTSIDE YOUR WINDOW: So, apparently there's a building being constructed right next door to the bedroom I've lived in for three years, and I've had no idea until the last week. Sure, I noticed the perfect view of the Empire State building becoming less and less perfect in past months, but I assumed that there was some maintenance being done and that the metal girders and blue plastic drop cloths that began to hinder my sightline were temporary. However, last Monday morning, as I prepared for a shower and began to do my usual strip-down-wrap-a-towel-around-my-waist-and-look-out-the-window routine, well, there was an Asian fella in hard hat approximately five-feet away, eating a sandwich and staring into my window looking directly at me. I don't think he did this intentionally; he seemed to be in the middle of some sort of daydream state, just as blissfully unaware of what went on right next to him for however long he'd been working there as I was about the 10-story building being constructed outside my window. But, here we were: Hairy, naked, American man and Asian hardhat fella simultaneously realizing that we should probably pay more attention to our surroundings. I suppose it's time to invest in a nightshade. C- -- A.J. Daulerio
CHELSEA ALBINO COLONY: So I've seen eight albinos in the past week and a half. Yes, you heard me: EIGHT ALBINOS. In all of their pale-skinned glory. I realize most would proclaim themselves to be a goddamned multi-million dollar lottery winner if they saw just one shuffling down the crowded sidewalk, their ivory hair flowing in the breeze, but I know better. I'm not that lucky. Obviously, there is a colony in Chelsea, the area I've seen them all in. What other possible theory could you come up with? No, there's no circus in town, you bigot. Some wonderfully kind and generous souls have taken it upon themselves to establish a colony for working class albinos. A colony without ignorance. A colony with a strong sense of community. A colony with dim lighting. May God keep shining his light upon you Chelsea Albino Colony! But not too bright. A+ -- the jzl
NEW GROUND ZERO POEMS: Dear Poet Who Wrote on the Walls of a Temporary Walkway Near Ground Zero -- Congrats on the ingenuity of using a white paint-marker to write on walls painted black (to deter graffiti). But you, Sir or Madam, are a pompous ass, and here's why: You have no doubt seen the makeshift corner where site managers have allowed people to tie ribbons and keychains and whatnot, but for whatever reason, you consider this venue unbefitting for your work. Look, I probably don't have issue with your poems' content -- I haven't read them -- but I use this narrow walkway every day to get to my job, and the congestion created by tourists is bad enough as it is. Unless site managers paint over your poems, I and many other World Financial Center workers will now have to put up with tourists standing in the middle of the walkway as they soak up the profundity of your work. So, Poet, how about next time you take that piece of paper you used to transcribe your poems and tack it up in the designated area? I'm sorry, but you get a big, fat, red Ms. Krabappel-style 'F.' -- keith h.
AWESOME SPAM EMAIL: My heavily spammed boss went on vacation, activating the handy-dandy autoreply feature on her email, conveniently listing my contact information. Spammers delight! She'd been gone a mere hour when I started receiving messages. Now, it took me a few days to realize that the annoying spam was coming from the most incredible people. I was getting emails from exciting characters such as Mistreat K. Infuriate, Piddling L. Booze and Mental I. Grocery. Deductions T. Lavender wrote to me about his gr0wing c0ck. Decoder S. Hen caught Britney on tape. Juiciest P. Chamomile wanted to give me free weight loss drugs. What fascinating new friends I have! And such names! I tried to write back to Narcotics J. Attention, but the email bounced. Gotta go -- new mail from Blackhead M. Tulip. Being the only person on the planet to look forward to spam email: C-. Fucking absurd word generator: A+ -- Beh
AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HOME VIDEOS SANS BOB SAGET: So, I'm at the gym the other day, and I'm on the elliptical, headphones intact, when my gaze lingers over to one of the TV screens. I see toddlers plummeting to the ground from tabletops and teenagers forcing their young siblings to watch horror movies, and as the clips were on, I found myself becoming more and more disturbed. I'm thinking, "Great, I am so not in the mood for a 20/20-expose on parental negligence," when suddenly I realize that I'm actually watching America's Funniest Home Videos. What happened to the days of Bob Saget poking harmless fun at adults hurting themselves and children doing "cute" things with food? America's Funniest Home Videos sans Bob Saget: D. Second-rate parents watching third-rate parents abuse their children on TV to pump up their parenting egos: F -- melanie a.
SERENDIPITOUSLY LIVING ACROSS THE HALL FROM YOUR EX-GIRLFRIEND: It was all looking up for me. New place, fancy job, kind roommate, cheaper rent: All coming together, together in a BIG way, first apartment in Manhattan EVER. One week into it, I see a pretty blonde walking up the steps of our landing, face blocked by her grocery bag. But the hands, the hands stick out, and I think, "Wow, those hands look familiar. I'm pretty sure they've been wrapped around my neck before." Sure as hell, it's her. We're cool now and all. I mean, it has been awhile. She's forgiven me for breaking up with her to date a C-list celebrity who shall remain nameless. And I've forgiven her for telling me she loved me on the phone while there was ANOTHER GUY LYING NEXT TO HER. Sigh, not that there was any chance of me getting laid anytime soon anyway ... not being able to have sex or bring women back to my apartment for fear of enraging my jealous and petty Ex: F. Chance of make-up sex? C -- M.M.
BLEEDING ALL OVER THE FILES AT YOUR TEMP JOB: Thanks to the schmuck who had the job before you, the file cabinets are filled to maximum capacity. Even one sheet of paper requires a good 15 minutes of cramming. It's so difficult that you fail to notice the fact that you've scraped a cuticle and dripped blood all over files GE thru GU. You try wiping it off, but it's useless. You run to the kitchen to fetch some soda water, but the closest thing is a can of Sprite, which you dump over the files your boss walks by. You pretend to be really thirsty, and you loudly glug your uncola. After she turns the corner you realize that you've only made some sort of weird gazpacho out of a little bit of you, lemon-lime soda and a good 50 or so employee evaluation forms. D- -- Matthew Rorem
LED ZEPPELIN ON SPRING CLEANING: Everybody knows that things fall apart. Relationships, of all things, seem to break louder and more devastatingly than anything else. For me, a relationship is never truly ending unless it is screaming full throttle in my ear. My most recent relationship has entered this "ill" stage, the point where like a car crushed in a crash, it will never be the same no matter how much effort, time or money is spent in the repair. There are subtle signs that tell me so. First she's calling every hour. Then she's breaking down to a point of absolute despondency, crying uncontrollably over the most trivial matters every time we do actually get to speak on the phone. It's like she's testing me and hoping I'll fail. Waiting five minutes too long to call her back or telling her that I already have plans sends her downward spiral freefalling, and I have to prove "that I care" by putting up with it. Now whenever I'm at her apartment Zeppelin's "Babe, I'm Gonna Leave You" is continually playing on her iTunes-fueled stereo; I even hear it playing in the background when we're on the phone. But she blew it last night when I got up to change the CD and she asked me to play it, specifically. I get your oh-so-clever and astoundingly covert innuendo, babe; I got it before you threw it in my face. And you're right it's good song, too. And it predicts so perfectly how you're gonna leave me when the summertime comes rollin'. Yet the only reason you've been flaunting it is because you know that it's not completely true. Knowing that I've pushed my inherently tolerant girlfriend way past her threshold to deal. D+. Realizing that in two months, I'm the one leaving to Spain for the year, and all this will simply seem so foreign. A+. I ain't jokin woman. I've got to ramble... -- Eli Ceale
DISCOVERING THE COUNTRY OF NEVER NEVER: I'm in Costa Rica, bored of monkeys and dying to see a movie, so I'm combing through the local paper. The movies are months behind the US, and the translations are awkward, bordering on ludicrous. Finding Neverland is called Descubriendo el Pais de Nunca Jamas -- literally "Discovering the Country of Never Never." Million Dollar Baby is Golpes del Destino or "Blows of Destiny." I drive by the movie theater and see that Meet the Fockers is simply called Los Fockers, but when I find it in the newspaper I can't believe my eyes. It says: LOS FUCKERS. And this beautiful typo in the Costa Rican national newspaper gets an A -- Chris Goldberg
STEALING YELLOW RIBBONS: Every time I see a ribbon, I get the strangest urge to barf; seconds later I get an even stranger urge to steal. For me, any kind of ribbon does it, even the pink cancer ones, but common courtesy forbids stealing those. The yellow ribbon brings out the worst in me, and frankly, it should bring out the worst in you. It isn't just that it's disingenuous; the yellow ribbon is a fashion violation. That canary yellow is a provocation, an invitation to vandalize, I feel like Sylvester going after an overzealous Tweetie bird. Also, the yellow ribbon looks like a Jesus fish if turned sideways, and although this only happens half the time, I can always visualize that come hither look the Jesus fish exudes, urging me to convert. This is why, sometimes, when I'm feeling blue, I get into my 1998 Volvo with my best friend and other hangers-on and drive through hospital parking lots late at night stealing every single ribbon that I see. I always deposit a huge pile in front of my Mormon neighbor's door, but feel free to improvise on this last bit. A -- Erik Maza
Each and every week, Black Table readers like you write the Black List and get absolutely nothing in return. Ain't that some shit.