two-twenty

stella mccartney mania | joanna • post/haste

H&M clothing is like crack: it's cheap, provides a short, intense high, and, over time, becomes a regrettable addiction difficult to break. Stella McCartney's collection for H&M is like cocaine: it's "chic", a bit more expensive, and, apparently, everyone in New York is openly doing it.

As a recovering H&M addict, I generally limit my forays to the shop(s) for essentially disposable accessories, namely, the wide black hair elastics, and the stockings (fishnet, opaque, sheer, whatever), but the siren song of Miss Stella proved too difficult to ignore. I swear, I tried to stay away, and even attempted to solicit dissuasion from my friend Liz in the form of an e-mail: "I try to stay out... but they keep pulling me back in." Her response? "Well... this is special! And worth it!"

Fully enabled, I arrived at the H&M on 34th and Herald Square at around 11:30. I knew Lagerfeld's collection sold out in minutes, but Stella's? Surely not.

Gone. Seriously. Everything but some ridiculous bikini with a rhinestone encrusted triangle bra that to any woman with a cup-size bigger than an A looks like two pasties conveniently connected by a string (you know, so you don't lose one of them). Apparently, there were women lined up at the Herald Square shop at 8AM. Okay.

At this point, I'm jonesing. I remembered that there's another H&M on 34th and 7th. I walk in, and there are, I don't know, 100 women standing by the escalator. At first I thought they were in line to check out. No. They were waiting for the next shipment of coke merchandise.

Suddenly, the escalators switch directions, and like highly suggestible lemmings, the more optimistic junkies glide upstairs, albeit wearing utterly confused expressions. Others see the escalator flip-flop as a ruse and remain downstairs. At this juncture, I'm no longer interested in the clothing; I am utterly fascinated by how strangely everyone is behaving.

The traffic flowing upstairs allowed more people to gather in the allocated Stella section...

...inciting the ladies who went up to return downstairs.

When I left, there were about 200 women still waiting. According to a clerk behind the counter, the shipment would be arriving within minutes, and would be the last of the day.

Still curious, I returned to the Herald Square shop. It was dead. I approached one of the workers there to inquire about future shipments. According to her, the Herald Square Store will get more product in at 8AM tomorrow morning, and the 7th Avenue shop is due to replenish at 3PM and 8PM today.

I'm not going back. Can't do it. Not giving in to the Scandinavian ski demons. No no no.

But if you see the blue dress — is it a dress? I don't care, whatever it is in the window — in a size 8, can you get it for me? And those boots, too, if they even sell them, in a size 7.5. Yeah, those. I'll pay you back. I promise.

an open letter to the asshole who swiped my wallet from Lucky Cheng's this past Sunday | joanna • post/haste

Dear Fuck-wad,

It took thirty-two years for this to happen, thirty-two years largely spent in New York City, for you or some thief like you to pluck my wallet from my bag. That's right, no one has ever stolen my goddamn wallet before, nor have I lost it — never — despite having gotten flagrantly inebriated, many, many times in some of the City's most delinquent-ridden establishments.

Do I now count Lucky Cheng's as among those venues? I honestly don't know. I didn't before.

The only beef I've ever had with a Drag Queen was down in Austin, Texas. She pointed at my tits and asked if I'd always been a woman. Catty bitch. But I can deal with a little nasty venom from a DQ; it's part of the schtick, right? Well, sometimes. Anyway, I think she was just jealous that I'm from New York. Whatever.

Look, I'm not assuming that you are a Drag Queen. The chances in this scenario that you are one, however, are significantly higher than they would be otherwise.

But even if you're not a New York City Girl, you fucking stole my wallet at one of the coolest, most well-established retreats for Drag Queens and Friends-of-the-Drag-Queens in the entire City. Shit, maybe even the world.

That fucking pisses me off. I resent you not only for stealing my wallet, but for prompting me to question — should the mood arise — whether or not I'll go sing Karaoke on stage with six-foot men in foxy Barbie-doll gowns, for possibly preventing me from receiving more lip-liner tips from a mocha-skinned diva with the most exquisitely drawn pout I've still ever seen.

Have fun with your MetroCards, and please, stay the fuck away from me. I know you know where I live... but I also know at least one place where you work. And if you don't think that the New York City Girl Community is going to be pissed off that you robbed me at one of their joints, sister, you are a fucking moron.

Joanna

mister hamburger's weight loss regime | mister hamburger • post/haste

After years of research and months of dutifully writing hamburger reviews, Mister Hamburger has been forced by management to explain his long absence from two-twenty.

Mister Hamburger, dedicated as they come in the World of Hamburgers, was happy to sacrifice his usual sharp looks for an extra tire and love handles. However, Mister Hamburger became concerned that the future Missus Hamburger was not excited about his extra girth, shortness of breath, and potential likelihood of heart problems.

Mister Hamburger has started running. Look for the guy on the East river some afternoons wearing his hamburger hat and puffing and panting his way down to the Russian and Turkish Baths. Mister Hamburger gives the baths .

The running, however, only gets because it is so hard for Mister Hamburger to get motivated to go out as New York gets so goddamned cold. Mister Hamburger gives New York's relative lack of Autumn .

Mister Hamburger has some travel plans over the next fifteen months or so. Stay tuned for Mister Hash Cookies, Mister Dim Sum, Mister Kebab, and Mister Spaghetti.

Mister Hamburger has not quit though, he still has hamburgers now and then.