It is 95 degrees here right now. Do you realize how hot that is? That's the hottest day in New York City since 2002. If it gets up to 97, it will be the hottest day since we had two huge buildings downtown. Right now, our desk is sticking to the floor; right now, our couch has smoke coming off it, right now, everywhere we sit ends up with a sweat ring beneath us, right now, we wish Van Halen were back together and that video had never been made.

We shall survive it, though, the way we survive everything: By using the weather (and local sports teams, and city politics) as conversational fodder to avoid anything actually worth discussing. Hey, why else do we have jobs?

We have 10 Black List submissions this week, all beaming celebrations of sunshine. If you want to play next week, just use that convenient little box on the right. The one next to the toilet.

-- BT

The Black Table needs your help! Every week, we need reviews of the latest media-related crud, new products from Capitalists and odd idea, concept or trend. All you need to have is a sharp opinion that you can distill down to one paragraph of 150 words and give a letter grade. To submit, please fill out the form below. Entries may edited for length, style and clarity. Hit us with your best shot. Fire away.

HURRICANE REPORTING: They're the original one-name celebs. Donna. Hugo. Andrew. Ivan. And now Dennis. Yes, hurricanes blow in every sense of the word. And yes, it's the price we pay for living in Florida and for an average temperature of 78 degrees. I get that. Nature is fair and balanced. What I don't get is junior-grade network talking head assholes who climb out of their studios to "brave" the storm, then can barely disguise their disappointment when it doesn't deliver the promised death and destruction. Sorry you didn't get footage of my house lifting off for Oz, dickhead ... next time I'll just hit you in the head with a two-by-four and we'll call it a day. D- -- B3

ALL DRESSED UP AND NO ONE TO BOINK: Tonight is the night. I'm determined. It is. It's too perfect NOT to be. After four years, I'm finally single, he's in town on business, with a hefty expense account and a king-sized bed that will be anonymously re-sheeted in the morning. And I have tomorrow off. After a year of shamless flirting and suggestive double-entendres, I am finally going to satisfy my curiosity of gettin' down with my "close guy friend," or as Chris Rock so eloquently put it, "dick in a glass case." I use my special occasion citrus sugar scrub (a gift from France), wax EVERYTHING and wear my free-drink skirt and little lace underoos with matching bra. Red. It's. So. On. But when I walk into the bar and see my break-in-case-of-emergency with his arm around another not-as-cool but cuter girl ... the game is off. So very, very off. I immediately order a shot and a

beer and pull my skirt BACK down over my ass. Having a sure thing turn out to be the most unsure, humiliating moment in my slut-phase to date: F -- unlaid

BRINGING YOUR IPOD TO THE MOVIES: It's not just for adding a better song to the end credits anymore. When the cards are down during the summer blockbusters, slip them buds into your ears and mix it up a little. Bored with the geriatric lead of Howl's Moving Castle? Try throwing some tracks from the new System of a Down onto the soundtrack. Can't stand the family drama invading War of the Worlds? Drown that shit out with some Sigur Ros, and you've set up a nice backdrop for the apocalyptic landscape. C'mon, nobody really cares about the story. Summer is all about the visuals, so just bring your own sounds. Of course the pinnacle will be watching Last Days with In Utero on repeat. B+ -- daniel goslee

TAKING SOMEBODY ELSE'S GIRLFRIEND OUT TO DINNER: You haven't had any decent prospects for a while, let alone a girlfriend, and you really feel like going on a date. That great girl you really like is back in town again from Boston for a week. She has a boyfriend going to school somewhere in N. Carolina, but you ask her to dinner anyway. And you are glad you did. The meal is drawn out because you can't stop talking. The conversation is terrific. She leans in. She touches your hand. She looks into your eyes. She's smart. She's sexy. She obviously adores you. You are about to be king shit because you stopped by the restaurant earlier that day and arranged for her favorite non-menu dessert to be served to her. The whole goddamn thing is just fucking perfect. You walk her to her car and she gives you a sickly sweet hug and drives away. Fake date: C- -- Damien Angle

VOICE-ACTIVIATED HOTLINES: Right now, I am on the phone with my healthcare provider. All I need is an address. I am being directed by the voicemail system. It has told me that I have to answer its questions using my voice. Apparently, typing in numbers is no longer an option in some voicemail systems. This has happened to me with various services lately. How stupid do I sound to the rest of my office yelling, "MEMBER!" "YES" "YES!" "CALLING ABOUT A CLAIM!" "NIXON!" "GUMBY!" "ANNUAL CHECKUP!" "ECZEMA!" "PSORIASIS!" "HEATSTROKE!" Now I long for the days of communicating through impersonal numbers. D -- Caren Lissner

SUCKING UP ROACHES WITH THE VACUUM CLEANER: Some euphemistically call them waterbugs, but we all know what they really are, and we all know that nobody is immune. Whenever I hear the pitter-patter of six little cockroach feet on the linoleum, my tendency is to become so blinded by fear that I forget that a) I'm much bigger than they are; and b) I have access to much more advanced technology than they do. I have figured out the weaponry potential of my trusty Black and Decker. I fire it up, stalk the little bastard until I'm close enough to suck it up and SLURP, it's gone. No touching, no smashing, no disposing of its innards. This would definitely top my list of life's supreme pleasures were it not for the fact that I can't stop imagining I have not actually killed the roach, and it is instead quietly sitting in my vacuum bag waiting for me to empty it, at which point the roach will doubtless give birth to hundreds of little roach babies that will swarm over me and devour my face. B+ -- Jessica Liese

THE THREE WEEKS LEADING UP TO YOUR BACHELOR PARTY: The most recent emails in my Inbox would be considered "threatening" by most law enforcement officials. "Dude - we are going to ruin you." "There is no way you will survive the weekend if I have anything to do with it." "We'll do our best to post your bail." "Be warned, somehow, someway, we're gonna get a stripper to punch you in the nuts." These people who I have considered my friends for close to 30 years were apparently my enemies all along waiting for the moment to pounce. And I love them for it. A -- lucas

KIDS AT HAPPY HOUR: You fucking people with your kids. What is it, exactly, about the phrase "cheap tequila night" that indicates young children will be welcome? Look, I understand you're still REAL people with REAL social lives (or whatever), but THIS IS NOT THE TIME NOR THE PLACE. I don't want to climb over your space-age Raytheon strollers and ergonomically designed baby haulers (incidentally, how is it that an eight-pound infant now requires the spatial footprint of a 350-pound NFL defensive lineman? Explain yourselves). I don't want to be mindful of my language or steer the conversation away from adult topics, particularly while SUCKING DOWN HALF PRICE TEQUILA. And I don't want to be concerned for the safety of your unattended, saliva-and-corn-chip smeared offspring as they wander out of your sight while you order up another pomegranate margarita. My advice? Hire a sitter or treat yourself to a bottle of Cuervo and a Barney video until you can return to my favorite Mexican bar unfettered. F -- MG

"SPECIAL" PARKING SPACES: OK, I'm all for handicapped parking. The Jerrys blew off your shins in Doubleyew Doubleyew Two, so you get to park close to the door, that's cool. You really shouldn't have to walk or roll your wheelchair any more than is absolutely needed. But as anyone who has gone out to the burbs to shop at their favorite big box store knows, suddenly everyone has their own special parking spot. One Target that I frequent has handicapped parking, expectant mother parking, mother with children parking and senior parking. WTF? Where's my "lazy ass who likes to get a spot near the door" parking? Even when all the "special" spots are empty I get dirty looks if I park there. Everyone getting a special spot but me: F -- Vic Colfari

"DO YOU HAVE ANY CONDOMS?": It's rare that I drink. Summertime is my only off season, and that's when the Regular College Student in me comes out -- bar crawls, toga parties, 80's parties, parties on a Monday night -- it's summer and I'm getting sloshed early and often. This inevitably leads to drunken hook-ups, but for a prude like me, it never leads to drunken sex. The poor boys don't know this before they take me home, and more than one loser has fallen when he utters this phrase: "Do you have any condoms?" This is usually said in what he imagines is the sexiest way possible: whispered in an ear or breathed on my neck, but never with direct eye contact. Cue the sound of a needle coming off a record abruptly. Excuse me? Do I have any condoms? One, you are assuming something pretty big here, buddy, even if we are both drunk and therefore terribly horny. Need I point out that we're both still fully clothed. Two, I'm the lady and I'm 99.9 percent sure that is not a penis in my crotch. If you're going to assume I'm going to have sex with you when I'm drunk (WRONG!), you could at least have the courtesy to assume you should bring the condom. And please, don't pull out that one that's been in your wallet since fifth grade in a last-ditch attempt to get laid. We both know it's not happening. D -- Julia

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