|THE BLACK LIST: WEEE! IT'S TIME FOR THE BIG FUN CANOE TRIP.|
|By The Black Table|
The other day, we walked into a store that was dedicated entirely to the interior of your bathroom. We have never thought of the bathroom as a room that required much interior decorating; our idea of "decorating" involved getting up in the middle of the night after drinking to pee. But we were wrong. There are apparently stores just devoted to this stuff.
And the staff was different than we would have thought too. In the past, all the people we've met who make their living in the bathroom inevitably show their asscrack when they bend over, whether they're a plumber or just someone needing some crack-rock. But nope: This store has people wearing light blue blouses and Mommy Hair. And they sell things like "sink skirts." We think we might have been in the wrong store.
Anyway, we're back at the right place now, and we've got 10 reviews that will make you happy. You can make us happy by using the form on the right. Let's get crunk!
LOCAL NEWS: The current state of local news, with the nonstop unnecessary liveshots ("I'm standing here LIVE where something happened five hours ago! There's nothing happening here now, and I certainly had plenty of time to drive back the station, but that wouldn't give you a false sense of immediacy, now, would it?"), the Live From the Newsroom! shots (the assumption being that the reporter is working so damn hard on this story that they don't have time to walk across the hall into the studio and give the report ... more false immediacy ... ) the desperate pleas for viewers ("Make sure you check in with us throughout the day for updates on this important story!"), just make me sad. The anchors look so desperate, pleading with you not to change the channel. One of my local stations now has two TWO! weathermen on their evening broadcasts. If one is good, two must be even better. One day they'll surely come to blows over a disagreement about the seven-day forecast, chaos theory be damned. Now that'sentertainment. F Dave Bittner
CHICKNOT: In their continuing efforts to confuse the living shit out of every consumer over 40, Burger King's ad people have now concockted (oh, I kill me) a fictitious, mask-wearing heavy metal band (called - I guano you not "Coq Roq") to sell its new "chicken fries." You have to admit, like it or not, the concept took more brainstorming than did the idea of changing the mold shape on the Chicken Parts
Reconstituting Machine™ to make fry-shaped sticks instead of vaguely Oahu-shaped nuggets. And really, does a mosh pit full of grease-eating heshers rocking out to a fake band in rooster suits make any more or less sense than that giant fake-plastic-head King waking up next to a hapless breakfast lover? Or that office full of morons fighting over the last Whopper with cheese? Eating our lunch at Panera Bread with a vague air of smug self-satisfaction, Coq Roq be damned: B- Bergman
ETHOS WATER: Trapped in the local Starbucks by the evening heat, I bypass the frozen nonsense and opt for a bottle of water. Not just any water, mind you, but Ethos Water, the well-packaged and socially conscious alternative to the other merely well-packaged ways of paying too much for tap. Your faucet can't quite match this karma, though: Ethos Water donates five cents from every bottle sold toward developing safe water projects around the globe, including Bangladesh, Ethiopia, Honduras and, for those aid workers with Kurtz-sized balls, The Democratic Republic of Congo. Our friends at Ethos claim that, at this rate, they can help Starbucks raise $10 million for global water relief over the next five years. I bet they're right. I'm also willing to bet that they could do a hair's breadth better than that, considering that I shelled out $1.83 for a bottle of Ethos. Minus tax and the five cent donation, what happens to the rest of the dough? Who's digging their wells? Halliburton? Let's not forget, either, that Starbucks recently sold $495 million of product in July alone. I'm as eager as the next guilt-ridden liberal to pretend that the market can solve the problems it exacerbates on a global scale, but $10 million over the next five years? That's a tall bullshit latté in a venti cup. D Joshua
BECOMING THE MAN: It's all been downhill since I decided to trade in my mouse-ridden NYC studio for an actual house out west. As if by magic, the stolen dorm silverware and rusty Schlitz trays were replaced by actual china. I bought matching towels and a hummingbird feeder and began cutting late-night boozing short in order to come home and water the rosebushes. Yet I still believed I'd retained some semblance of my youth. After all, I drive a car with a steel beam for a front bumper, and I recently chose a ski pass over health insurance. But this evening I crossed the point of no return. As I tried to read the paper and relax after a 72-hour work bender, some goddamn teenagers started racing mufflerless tanks back and forth down my street. Endlessly. And after suffering 45 minutes of Bruckheimerian madness in my shuttered and sweltering living room, I picked up the phone and dialed 911. As the sirens passed my house, I said goodbye to my last trace of street cred. While having a peaceful and fulfilling life is worth an A, turning into my crotchety old grandmother gets a D- Jenny Rhodes
SHOPPING IN THE MIDWEST: I'm looking at sheets in Marshall's behind a mother-daughter duo doing the back-to-school thing. The selection seems unnaturally good. I'm trying to understand why a Queen-sized Wamsutta sheet set with 450-thread-count would cost only $24.99 when I hear the mother say "Frette? I never heard of that brand," and throw something disdainfully back onto the rack. I nearly herniate a disk lunging for it and am rewarded with a double-stitched Frette duvet cover made in Italy for $29.99. I snatch it up and clutch it possessively to my bosom, but nobody around me looks inclined to fight me for it. I later notice that it has been marked down several times, indicating that nobody in this whole community knows what a Frette sheet is. As I'm gloating over my find I hear the daughter sneer, "Hotel Collection? Who wants to sleep on hotel sheets?" They both laugh and toss a set of Bellino Hotel Collection 100 percent Egyptian cotton embroidered sheets at the rack. Clearly we haven't been sleeping in the same hotels. As I scramble for the sheets, the mother says, "Let's go to Target." Great idea. I could use some faux-fur socks and a 44-pound bag of dog food. A- Kate Andrews
GETTING INTO THIS FINE COUNTRY: Unlike half of you punks, I'm actually trying to get INTO the USA for a couple of years. As a reasonably benign grad student from a reasonably benign country with no WMDs (in fact, without any military to speak of), I thought it would be pretty straightforward. I was wrong. After filling out official forms and reading fine print till my eyes bled, I was recently informed that I have to fly to the other end of the country just attend a 20-minute interview at the American Consulate, where I will be fingerprinted by dudes with guns. People don't HAVE guns in New Zealand. But hey, the consulate is officially American soil, so I guess they can have guns and pledge allegiance to their hearts' content. The final indignity, however, was the fact that I had to pay $3.49 a minute just to call the Consulate and make my appointment. $3.49 a minute! I know you guys are all "user pays" and stuff, but hell, I can get phone sex for cheaper than that. Moving to somewhere warm for 2 years: A. The endless hell of user-pays bureaucracy, with guns: F Kelly Pendergrast
NOT BEING ABLE TO HATE YOUR EX: He was a friend you once spent a lot of time with, but never had a thing for. Years later, shortly after breaking off an engagement, he seduced you with drinks (of course); a well-designed apartment (you always had a soft spot for men with a good aesthetic sense); weekend trips (to houses of friends of yours with pools); and lots of attention and compliments (of course). He unfailingly put his arm around you at parties and talked about traveling to Spain. He asked you not to see other people. Months later, he tells you that he's still in love with his ex, mopes about it when you're not around and doesn't have the "emotional availability" for a relationship with anyone. Realizing, amid your own pathetic tears, that your ex has just transmitted his exact problem to you: F limedietcokefiend
PHOTOS OF PUPPIES ON FLICKR: My mom is afraid of dogs. I never had one growing up. Now that I'm in my twenties, I lack the work ethic to actually own a dog of my own. I want a puppy, but without the trouble of feeding it, training it, taking it to the vet, cleaning up after it, etc. The solution? Photo sharing website Flickr. The site allows users to tag their images; a simple search allows me to look at hundreds of photos of cute puppies without having to take care of them. I can even save my favorite doggies, creating my own Internet pet collection of labs, spaniels and hounds. The only drawback? They're so cute, I'm thinking of getting myself a little beagle. B+ Daniel McQuade
SPANDEX MIGRATION: Everyone expects to see various aspects of the world: the good, the bad and the oh-so-fucking ugly it makes you want to cry. Well, as I was walking around Wal-Mart and minding my own business, the latter happened to me. As I reached a checkout line, I glanced down the bread aisle and was visually accosted to the point my retinas burned. A woman was walking among the bread with her pink spandex pants wedged so far up her ass she could have covered her head. But that was not the issue, oh no. The woman had the GALL to wear no fucking underwear. None. Ever heard of the great migration? Well, her snatch could have been in a nature documentary. Not only had it migrated south, it made a trip around the world. Christ, woman, tuck that shit in! Wanting to claw my eyes out slowly with a plastic spoon: D. Having a woman in pink spandex put Droopy Dog to shame: F.
THE SKELETONS IN QUEENS' CLOSET: Queens, she's OK. I mean she's not the popular one (Brooklyn), nor is she trying to be. Queens is the shy girl in class; you know, the one with glasses and a cute ass, and her cell phone clipped onto her jeans. She's not interested in wearing cowgirl boots and flowing skirts. What she mainly wants is to go swimming at the city pool with her baby nephew and she doesn't mind waiting for 2 hours to get in, either. Do you think Queens goes home and writes in her diary about her dirty secrets? Like the destructive 28-inch-long Snakehead fish that they found in Meadow Lake? They're the ones who dart out of underwater holes and devour the life out of bodies of standing water with their razorblade teeth. Or what about the guy who rides his bike around on humid summer mornings wagging his dick for all the joggers to see? Damn girl, you best keep those dirty, dirty secrets to yourself. C- Pjamma
Each and every week, Black Table readers like you write the Black List and get absolutely nothing in return. Ain't that some shit.