|THE BLACK LIST: STILL A BARGAIN AT THREE BUCKS A GALLON!|
|By The Black Table|
| We got to drive a car this
weekend. It was awesome. Such a small thing, a car. But giddily liberating.
Half of us live near La Guardia Airport, and our car-owning friend had an
early-morning flight on Saturday. So she dropped the car off and left it
to us for the weekend, despite our warnings that we were going to get all
Ferris Bueller with it.
Poker game in Brooklyn? Screw you, G Train! We'll waste a crapload of energy but get there in a third of the time! Feel like Philly? Yeah, we can decide to go at 5, leave at 6:30, and be at our friend's house by 8:15. You can eat it, NJTransit. Bonus: The car was a stick. We were interstate ninjas, slamming into fifth.
But now the car is gone and we're back on the subway. It's a fine system and we adore it. But we don't get to drive the subway. We're just one of the chumps in the back. So join us in our quest for control by submitting via the form on the left.
WATCHING BASEBALL ON TV WITH THE SOUND OFF: Hooking up the TV to a stereo system means it's nigh on impossible to use both at the same time. A major downside, then? Heck no ... consider the possibilities: tired of mind-numbing in-game baseball "analysts"? Put on a Nouvelle Vague album instead! Not having to listen to announcers, analysts and players toss out pap about "giving one hundred and ten percent" and "being a gamer" and, well, any and all fawning over Derek Jeter immeasurably amplifies one's enjoyment of the game. That, AND getting to listen to some really good music at the same time? A -- SEF
SUMMER: I Hate Summer. I hate Summering people. I hate Summer wheat beers. I hate sweat. I hate sand. I hate sunglasses. I hate mesh shirts. I hate shorts. I hate flip-flops. I hate feet. I hate the fucking Beach Boys. A Midsummer Night's Dream is Shakespeare's shittiest play. My worst job ever was a Summer spent cleaning out foul factory smoke stacks. My first heartbreak was a Summer camp counselor. It's a lazy porn star name. I would love to meet a blonde named Summer, fuck her in the ass, spit on her ass, and dump her ass. Buh-bye Summer 2005. Don't let the screen door hit you in the ass. F --
THE 'SFIGATO' GUY: Ask my friends what I was doing three or four months ago and the majority of them will say "Poor bastard spent six months in an Italian prison". You say, "Wait, Italy has prisons? I thought men there spent their days beating off to photos of Monica Belluci outside
the walls of the Vatican." It's true, I had an affair with an Italian girl for nearly a half year. As it goes with most international cuisine, it started out hot and luscious and ended up in my freezer, confined to a doggy bag. During our tenure as spaghetti and meatball, and I totally fucking jest, she came to call an acquaintance of mine 'sfigato' for the way he seemed to carry himself. It was clear to me that she hated him. Fucker was always copping a stare when we were out together. I liked the envy, who wouldn't? For those without Google, 'sfigato' translates, literally, as 'unlucky' in Italian. However, we all have our slang and I dug a bit further to find out that it can also mean 'blowjob' and 'tasteless'. I took to calling this guy 'sfigato' behind his back like a good man should. Thankfully, I've since escaped from that Italian prison and have come to know that my Olive Oyl, again, a fucking joke, has been fooling around with 'sfigato' on the side. Men, take a second here to applaud the woman who shags a bloke she once called 'blowjob' to his face. Ah, doesn't that feel better? Your chances aren't so bad after all. B- -- JD Stone
HAVING A MOMENT OF CLARITY: Having been permanently ejected from a regular haunt that nobody could get kicked out of, I was rather angry about the fact for some time that I could no longer pay their rent every month. Over years, there was gallons of cheap vodka, flat tonic and "sorry...it's habit to put the lime in there". Pitching backwards off of bar stools, arguments, vomiting and pain. Realizing that a week before I had been forced to watch a stubby little ugly guy get jerked off by a guy with Down's Syndrome while a drunken and consonant-challenged Asian howled karaoke to "Rhinestone Cowboy" and then finally deciding to move the fuck on with my life: A --
THE VAGUELY RACIST ORKIN AD: I know Air America Radio isn't exactly a powerhouse right now, and it probably goes without saying that it's difficult to sell ad space in between the cranky mumblings of Al Franken (as opposed to say, Rush Limbaugh, where erectile dysfunction pills always feel at home.) But if I had a million bucks I would buy every minute of dead air just to avoid hearing "Ask the Orkin Man" again, a 20-second skit modeled after a call-in radio show where a gruff, cartoonishly Southern old man calls in to complain about his neighbor's termites. Told that "aaabsolutely" he should be worried, the crotchety old fuck on the other end yells to his wife, "Honey, I told you they'd ruin the neighborhood!" Maybe it's just me, but this commercial always conjures mental images of pesticide-burned crosses poured onto lawnswhich is a decidedly un-liberal way to sell me your services. I much preferred the neo-Nazi exterminating machine that was the Orkin man years agothe one who looked like Dolph Lundgren in Universal Soldier and never said anything. D --
THE STUMP GAME: Drinking games have mutated since my carefree college days. What were once frantic power struggles intended to belittle your opponents into finishing 12 beers in under an hour have matured somehow. Gone are the days of Asshole, Turbo Cups and Century Club. Throwing up is a thing of the past. Don't get me wrong, you're still going to finish those 12 beers, but nowadays, why not take two hours instead of one? The pinnacle of this Zen approach to binge drinking? The Stump Game. Discovered by my cousin during a two-year stay in Germany, the object is simple: Two to Four players stand around a tree stump of moderate girth. Each player gets one nail, the tip of which is barely inserted into said stump. A hammering tool of some sort is then selected, but make sure it's challenging. An actual hammer simply won't doI suggest a socket wrench turned on its side, giving players about 3/4 of an inch of contact surface. Players then take turns taking one swing at their nail. No practice swings! Just hitting the nail is easier said than done, but when you connect? Sweet satisfaction. The last player to hammer their nail completely into the stump has to pound a whole beer, but considering everyone is drinking the whole time anyway, this is more a formality than anything else. After a few rounds, the game gets progressively harder due to loss of balance and hazy vision, but in the end, everyone's a winner. Getting drunk while playing a relaxed game of skill AND feeling like a strange hybrid of world traveler and white trash: A+ --
DATING A MAN 10 YEARS YOUR SENIOR: Wow. Just wow. Polite, resourceful, still spontaneous (he's still in his 30's), property-owner, career-person (Huh? What? At a job lasting longer than 2 years?), oh, and a thoughtful lover. Okay, so we were born during very different administrations (he: LBJ, me: Carter. Lord, I love Jimmy Carter). There's a formality and sweetness to the courting, the first move, the first sleepover. Timidity, but certainty. Sure, you wonder why they're still single at nearly 40. Sure. But really, you soak up the affection, the wonder, the whole "a girl-her-age-wants-to-sleep-with-me?" thing. And in the end, well, you realize the silly boys you'd pined over in recent years are not only a distant memory, but not nearly as thrilling as the prospect of a man in your life. A man. Conventional? Anti-feminist? Sappy, sappy nonsense? You bet. A man who's able to choose the perfect bottle of wine, embraces commitment, and who truly understand the importance of real foreplay: A-fucking-plus -- smittenkitten
NATIONAL TRAGEDY SPARKING MINI-CONCERTS: It's a funny thing that in our country when tragedy strikes we do our collective mourning through...live television concerts. Just like we did a few days after 9/11, we once again were taught a valuable lesson on the true essence of the human spirit: Thanks to pop stars keeping it real and imploring us to help, help, help those in need during a national crisis by serenading us with their most earnest and downtrodden renditions of their songs. As if the constant CNN loops showing families of four floating in pup tents through a river of poop weren't jarring enough to make people donate moneywe need a star-studded musical event mixing Jerry Lewis-style telethons and MTV Unplugged to really get us motivated. Who better to spring a rigid emotional coil inside a dumbfounded nation than Kanye West? Maybe Rob Thomas. D --
AMAZINGLY CONSCIENTIOUS STAFF OF POLITICIANS: Conscientious and competent too! Maybe it's just grassroots Brooklyn or maybe it's 'cause election time is coming, but GODDAMN people are helpful at the offices of my local politicians. Gotta question? Well if I can't answer it, I'm gonna put you in touch with someone who can! And if they don't, please call me back or here's my email. I'll find someone else to help you find out! And it's not passing the buck, even, or blowing smoke up one's ass. They genuinely want to help! Email responses within ONE day! In the middle of August, no less. A human being answers the phone and actually seems like they know that World War II is over. Jesus. I almost feel like New York has a chance! A- --
SUMMER CATCH-PHRASE: The induction of a summer catch-phrase seemed like a clever idea at the time*#151a lively way to relive our youth, indeed. But what? The summer was just beginning, the weather forecasts looked great, a three-week trip planned throughout Europe, loads of parties and engagements to attend, etc. What simple yet iconic union of words could mold itself to the exponential range of trouble we would be embarking on? Simple: "Why not." To put it simply, it was an all encompassing term but definitely not for the faint hearted. You may have been drinking heavily all dayis a Jagermeister drinking competition in order? Why not. She's not the most attractive girl but...? Why not. We have to go back to work tomorrow but we could stay out all night and get retarded. Why not. I have not spoken to this ex in ages, don't you think it's a good time to give a call? Why not. The phrase: A+. The damage done: C-. -- Joe
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