two-twenty

you — not i — will always have paris | joanna • post/haste

On December 31st, 2005, I resolved that for twelve months, Paris Hilton would not exist for me. It was not as easy to pull off as I thought it would be.

It didn't matter that I lived more than half the year abroad, often without access to the internet. I had to force myself to cover up her photo in the Herald Tribune's People column a few times. I had to cover my ears, sometimes figuratively, occasionally literally, when people gossiped about her seemingly constant string of antics. During a particularly dicey drive from Tuscany to Rome, I had to switch radio stations five times in two hours. It would have been six, but I didn't know that she was singing the first time Ash and I heard her song. It was a catchy song.

Yesterday Ash told me about her latest public modeling session in Sydney, and how fashionistas on the Vogue.com.au site are questioning her LV-sprinkled bikini's authenticity. I finally looked at the pictures today.

I don't care at all. About the swimsuit's provenance, about her trip to Sydney, about anything that she does, anywhere.

Not to sound surly — or surlier than I feel — but I no longer have any interest in the rest of them, either. Lindsay and Tara, Ashlee and Jessica. I can't help myself when it comes to Nicole Ritchie, but that might be because I think the chick has a personality.

It's a relief to be able to say her name, to write it. Paris Hilton. But it feels dirty, in the bad way. And though as of January 1st, I'm off the hook from my own decision, this is probably the last thing I think or have to say about... um... her.

hanging my threads | joanna • post/haste

Contrary to some very compelling evidence, I am not -- well, not exclusively -- a disorganized mess.

No, dear two-twenty reader, I am an organizing-idiot savant.

And here is my latest flash of intelligence: hangers that work.

Just a little bit of paper taped to either side of my hangers. Presto: no more slip dresses slipping off slippery hangers.

In retrospect, I could have used the cool Muji clips I bought for no apparent reason. Would have been more aesthetically pleasing and easier to undo.

Ah, retrospect.

why darwinian evolution created copywriters (and editors) • post/haste

Perhaps the popularity of The Apprentice has given headhunters and prospective employers an inflated sense of importance. Witness this craigslist post from KLK Staffing (web site pending, apparently):

Prestigious Advertising Agencies are seeking talented and proven assistants. To be considered a qualified [sic] you most [sic] possess the following minimum requirements:

College Degree, Associates or Bachelors; 3.0 GPA or Better; 6 months Advertising Agency Work Experience or Advertising Agency Internship... If you do not possess are [sic] minimum requirements, do not apply. Your resume will not be considered and will not be held on file.

Very tough. Clearly, we are dealing with professionals here. What kind of rewards can we expect if we make it through the grueling vetting process? Well, there's the good news:

These are positions that require a dynamic personality, high level of dedication, and professional polish. You will be rewarded with Bottomless Benefits and Topless Growth.

Baby, you had us at "Bottomless" - "Topless" is just gravy.

Supreme College Graduates Only! | craigslist.org

remember opposite day? • post/haste

At first we thought the below-linked craigslist post was a bored junior ad exec's rant. Then we finished reading and realized it was simply a moderately clever attempt by ad agency digitas to attract disaffected copywriters. Wait a sec... disaffected copywriters... we are so totally applying for this. Disregard the above. What we have here is quite simply the:

Best. Craigslist. Copywriter wanted ad. Ever.

Copywriter | craigslist

Related: house of wigs blog

mother fucking working mother, a rant | joanna • post/haste

As you've probably figured out, two-twenty is on Summer vacation. Or has just gotten really, really lazy. Or preoccupied. Or whatever. No matter...

About a week ago I spied a telephone kiosk poster advertising Working Mother Magazine. Redundant, no? Hell yes. Isn't the fact that it's a titanic job to raise kids -- especially ones who don't turn out to be peer-shooting, crack-smoking monsters -- what the non-monkey members of society have learned over the twenty-five years that have elapsed since the magazine's inception? I certainly hope so. I also may have been overreacting (perhaps strangely, as all members of two-twenty are the progeny of "Working Mothers" -- their definition, not ours).

But when I took a gander at executive editor Betty S. Wong's advice on how to pitch to the mag, my temporarily lowered hackles shot back up.

According to Wong, "Our readers want to know about women like themselves -- someone who had to go back to school while juggling two kids, women who are one cog in a big machine, but who have still carved out some success."

Okay, fine, but here comes the qualifier: "Not women who are too successful or too entrepreneurial." At the same time, she adds, don't pitch someone who's too average: "There has to be a lesson learned from this woman."

Lessons I've learned from Betty S. Wong and her magazine:
1. A woman is only a working mother if she has a job that she has to balance with raising children.
2. Balancing a job outside the home with raising children is only interesting to 25-49 year old readers if the working woman has to "juggle".
3. Reading about women who have some degree of success offers lessons to learn; reading about women who are "too successful" does not.

God my head hurts. I didn't see that piece of glass.

Articles: How to Pitch: Working Mother | mediabistro.com (access restricted to members of Avant Guild)

to do: women holding court edition • post/haste

If there is any chance that Courtney Love is hanging out in New York this weekend after her court appearance, then obviously your plans are set. You must stalk her like a mother-effing stalker, and see if you can get her to rant randomly at you from her perch on a bathroom floor. Again.
 
If, however, C.Lo declines to grace us with her presence (and attendant words of wisdom), you will have to look elsewhere for entertainment and inspiration over the Sabbath. May we humbly suggest the Trampoline Hall Lecture Series, which arrives in Manhattan this Sunday at Marquee, 356 Bowery, at 7:30 pm. Everyone loves a good non-expert opinion from time to time (George W. especially, apparently), and the premise of Trampoline Hall is exactly that: accomplished professionals offer short lectures (followed by Q & A) on topics that have nothing to do with their field of expertise. Pop culture-related topics are disallowed, ensuring that the evening will at least begin by establishing lofty cultural heights from which to fall. You can read about the 2002 lecture tour at McSweeney's.
 
For various reasons, of varying relevance to you the reader, two-twenty is particularly looking forward to gallery director Sheri Pasquarella's treatise on the Hoover dam and its connection to Man, Nature, and Greek Mythology. And possibly Star Wars.
 
In related news, we would be remiss if we did not recommend that everyone go see newly-employed
Eurotrash, newly-housed Lindsayism, and newly-politicized Ultragrrrl at the WYSIWYG Talent Show next Tuesday. TMFTML sightings are likely. Oh, and bring a spoon.

build gates • post/haste

On April 6th, The Metropolitan Museum of Art will present "Christo and Jeanne-Claude: The Gates, Central Park, New York", an exhibition detailing the couple's plan to adorn NYC's green oasis with saffron-hued fabric panels.

For those of you who, like Joanna, were once so inspired by Christo's earlier work that you wrapped your childhood bedroom in duct tape thereby preventing your mother from entering when "quiet time" was over, there's even better news: you can volunteer to be among the thousands of New Yorkers they'll need to complete the project.

lookin' for love on all the blog pages • post/haste

There has been a recent spate of somewhat disturbing "featured personals" on sites that two-twenty is fond of stalking. To put it simply, we are concerned that there may be some miscommunication going on. As a public service to you, our readers, we thought we might offer translations (at no charge, mind you) of some examples whose coded delivery may mask particularly nefarious subtexts. Keep in mind that we are, if not pros, at least not total strangers to the possible pitfalls of the New York dating scene. Anyway, onward:  
 
From Gawker

some_body_sam writes:"There is nothing more attractive than a man who knows how to take care of a woman, yet let her be independent at the same time."
Translation: I am extraordinarily high maintenance and probably passive aggressive. You will never know what I want but I will always expect you to give it to me.
 
gryn writes: "Last great book I read: People's History of the United States, Rules for Revolutionaries." (A quick peek one level deeper into gryn's profile reveals a third pick: Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree.)
Translation: You had best read this before you think seriously about dating me. On a related note: I will go down on you for hours.

From Gothamist

makeupgirlmac writes: "Song or album that puts me in the mood: Norah Jones, Santana, Joni Mitchell, Stevie Nicks, John Mayer, Bob Marley, Tori Amos."
Translation: You will never have anal sex with me.
 
From bunsen.tv

passion8 writes: "What I'm looking for: You have to be able to take a brutal beating with a smile, rock the beard, and look good in a torn loincloth. A direct line to God doesn't hurt, either."
Translation: You will only be having anal with me, at least until we are married.
 
Like our friendster profile says, we're just here to help, people.

from indie rock goddess to just plain goddess • post/haste

Liz Phair writes about sex. The only thing to say about this is... Uncle Grambo's palms are right this very second in the process of becoming, if possible, even hairier. Schmears.

Oh, wait, there is one other thing to say... Liz answered one reader's question incorrectly. We fixed the problem. The question, and our (correct) answer, follow:

Dear Liz:
I'm in my late 30s, female and basically gay. I'm cute (in a Mary Lou Retton-at-a-Pink-concert kind of way) and in my sexual prime, but I live in a small, semi-conservative college town. There are no gay bars, no "out" crowds. However, I contend that every woman is a few beers away from bisexuality. Is it appropriate to flirt with, cruise and try to pick up random girls if I find them attractive, regardless of their sexual orientation?
— Exiled in Guyville

Dear Exiled:
Get a clue. "Small, semi-conservative college towns" are where basically 90% of the gay community lives. You are practically drowning in pussy-loving, muff-diving freaky-deaky card-carrying BGLAD girls. The kind of girls who can prove to you that female ejaculation is not a myth. The noises coming from across the hall that keep you up at night? That is the sound of hot girl-on-girl action. What we are trying to say is that the problem here lies not in a lack of lesbionic hotties in your neighborhood... it lies in the fact that, by your own admission, you look like a small furry bush pig. Sorry. A hint that may move you a little bit closer to at least getting the fat, sexually-frustrated A/V girl to let you eat her out: never, ever use the word "pink" again unless you are specifically referring to the color. Actually, not even then. Just, don't.
Love,
two-twenty

Sex Advice From . . . Liz Phair by Liz Phair | Nerve.com

cashing in on a literary trendster | alex • post/haste

It doesn’t seem fair that Joanna should have all of the Sunday Styles-inspired fun this week, so I thought maybe I’d add a little sumthin’ sumthin’. Besides, we ducked out of our Sunday Styles obligations last week since we thought it was the annual joke issue and parodying it would therefore have been superfluous. It was only a couple of days ago that a friend told us she was pretty sure the whole thing was meant in earnest.

So, last week no SS fun, this week a double dose. My contribution is in honor of Kate Zernike’s article about the new genre Miramax the publishing world is trying to foist on us: “Lad Lit”. Born, apparently, of some unholy union between “Chick Lit” (Bridget Jones’ Diary) and “Laddie Mags” (Maxim) or “Lad Culture” (naked chicks and beer), I can only assume that it involves chronicling man’s struggle to balance his inner tenderness and vulnerability with his unquenchable thirst for pussy and liquor (heh. that was like a slant pun), not necessarily in that order. I haven’t read any of it, but how hard could it be to write this stuff? I am, after all, a man, and I read “High Fidelity” when it came out, like, thirty years ago (Nick Hornsby being some sort of patron saint of these laddie-come-latelies). So Joanna got to have her conflicted feelings about the final episode of Sex and The City analyzed by a computerized therapist; I offer you an excerpt from my new Lad Lit novella, titled “Poontang Nation: Curing Depression the Old-Fashioned Way”

Excerpt from Chapter 2: “Top Three Reasons I Will Never Die Old and Alone”

The twelfth whiskey shot went down like it was gilded with shards of glass. I stared across the bar at the witch of a bartender… she looked like she might have it in for me. Just looking at her made me think of my Mother, ball gags, and vulnerability. I tried to chase the venomous shot with a slug of beer but the bottle refused to reach my mouth, rebelling instead with an accusatory crash on the floor. A series of bleary events ensued, none of which I could relate to you with anything approaching objective veracity.

I woke up on the floor of my bathroom, cool tiles burning my naked belly. My tooth was chipped. I vomited explosively, remembering how my father, dead these last four years, used to chastise me about my paltry tolerance for booze. I had shown him. Judging from my state of undress and the stench surrounding me, I would have had to guess that the previous night’s endeavors involved at least a couple cases of beer and no small amount of bourbon. Probably some crank.

I stumbled to my bedroom, only to be greeted by the sight of two naked women in my bed. One of them had a butter face but a rack any man might kill to bury his face in while reciting his Hail Marys. The other was prettier, and her pubic hair was trimmed in such a way as to mark her unmistakably as a senior Psychology major at Barnard. Perfect, I thought, seeing for the first time in months a light at the end of the tunnel. I lumbered towards the tangle of sheets and limbs, openhearted. Just then Butters rolled over and stared at me. Something in her eyes froze me in my tracks. She nudged Psychology Pussy awake.

I slumped down on my sweat-soaked sheets as the girls dressed. Psychology Pussy turned to me.
“Um,” she started, “Um… I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
“Jake,” I said.
“Jake. Ok, Jake, I’m sorry, but there’s something you need to know. Meredith and I are both emotionally unavailable right now.”

With that the two vixens turned and left. The last thing I saw was Pussy Power’s magnificent ass disappearing beyond my door, the thong she had used to lure me into her trap (ingeniously constructed in my own bedroom) still peeking up above the waistband of her low-slung trousers. I comforted myself with the knowledge that this was my fourth threesome in as many weeks, and that although she had won the war, her ass had lost a battle or two the previous evening.

On a morning like this, the only thing to do was to call my Mother and let her berate me back into health. I reached for the phone, then got a better idea. I would compile a list of the lists I needed to compile that day. I began:

1. Top ten scenes in avant-garde French film involving either animals or bicycles.
2. My three favorite bands who either A. have released a record album the market value of which (mint condition) currently hovers between $350 and $375 or B. have released two consecutive albums on which appear songs whose titles contain twelve or more words.
3. Top ten items I need to buy at the market today.
4. My five favorite Finnish phrases.
5. The three absolute best ever break up songs, in honor of Butters and Psychology Pussy. “Always Something There To Remind Me” (Naked Eyes, Naked Eyes, 1983, written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David) pops into my head as I eye a thick yellowish stain on the bedclothes.

I prepared to settle into a long, comfortable Saturday of record listening, list making, meaningful introspection and heartfelt calls to ex-girlfriends (and the one ex-boyfriend) to see how life is treating them. That’s when I noticed that in fact it was Tuesday and I was thirty minutes late for my job at a Wall Street investment firm where I while away my afternoons doing rails off my assistant’s inner thigh... as an editor at a large Manhattan publishing house where I specialize in offering bookdeals to streetwalkers... as a reporter for a major newspaper where I write almost exclusively about clown sex at a small underground factory in Chinatown responsible for producing most of the fake plastic food examples you see on display at many Asian restaurants. I specialize in fake sushi. To be more specific, I daub the red paint on the plastic imitation crabmeat before it is inserted into mock display-case California Rolls. I am pretty goddam good at it, if I do say so myself, and if there is anything that living through the 90s has taught me it is that America’s enduring taste for the California Roll will never, ever die. I am very comfortable in my job security. This, if nothing else, gives me the confidence I need to pursue women effectively.

To be continued(!)…

Oh, to Write a 'Bridget Jones' for Men: A Guy Can Dream | NY Times

allow myself to interview... myself • post/haste

Reading this is kind of like watching "Showgirls". We're not at all sure where the reflexive irony ends and the prospective "Hire Me!" begins (p.s. hire us! We're funny too! Sometimes!).

Speaking of which, some guy sent two-twenty his resume yesterday. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Ron Mwangaguhunga Interviews Ron Mwangaguhunga | The Corsair

in the name of science • post/haste

Two-twenty's ongoing commitment to serve our community -- even if it means drinking a lot -- incited us to purchase a box of the supposed hangover preventor, RU-21. Though we sincerely doubt that it will work, we will be your guinea pigs. Because we love you.

gearing up for valentine's day massacre • post/haste

Fott Kathy forwards on a deliciously precocious little evite to The Tigress Den Premiere Party, billed as "The only singles party where women come first."

We assume they mean "premiere" as in "first of its kind" as opposed to "premiere" as in "celebrating a movie's opening". A cursory imdb search reveals a 1977 "erotic adventure" film entitled "Tigress". However, as the only on-site review calls Tigress "the worst of the Ilsa movies" and complains that although "[t]he deaths at the Siberian camp are entertaining... the chainsaw/arm-wrestling scenes [have been] cut..." two-twenty assumes that this party is not a celebration of a nearly-lost cult classic. Too bad.

Instead, Tigress Den appears to be a party where women are encouraged to shop and gossip about guys for two hours, before the very guys they have been gawking over show up and fuck them. Or something like that. Other neat ideas from Cosmo Parties: eating food in pitch darkness with your hands while people wearing night-vision goggles stalk around you (Afghanistan Night!); something called a "Message Party", which is basically Friendster without the all-important feature of being able to anonymously ignore the senders of icky messages you don't like.

Try our mix... and get blended! - Home | Cosmo Party

so orwell was off by a couple decades • post/haste

Fuck, we're turning into Wonkette over here. If you ever have wanted to read a concise, well-written, well-reasoned critique of neocon extremism, read this article (two-twenty to reacquire sense of humor shortly):

"An End to Evil" by David Frum and Richard Perle | Salon

kulture klub • post/haste

Alas, the world is not made up merely of gossipy sound bites, ironic reruns of decades-old television, and Paris Hilton’s blurred out (or not, obvs) asscrack. Feeling that perhaps two-twenty had steeped itself too long in the bitter brew of self-consuming metapop, we recently set out to find a balance, a yin to our yang, if you will.

The perfect opportunity arose last night with an invitation to an event representing the low end of high art (baby steps, people): the 11th Annual Outsider Art Fair at the Puck building. And so it was that we left behind a one-hour Friends, Scrubs (with Tara Reid!), and a democratic debate sure to be rife with comedy to trek our ass downtown and get ourselves some (subba)cultcha.

Highlights: Henry Darger, Benjamin Jones, Scott Griffin, and the open bar. Darger, who some readers are probably aware of, clearly wins the “crazy obsessively religious dead guy who is so ‘out’ that his pieces go for $50k and up” award.

Most of Darger’s watercolors and drawings exhibited at the Art Fair come from the 15,000+ page opus he wrote and illustrated during his life, entitled, "The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinnian War Storm, as Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion". 'Nuff said.

Examples of each of the above-mentioned artists, so that you may admire, snicker dismissively at, or decry two-twenty’s aesthetic sensibilities:

Henry Darger: "At Jennie Richee Waves Lure them From Stand and They Stand Still as Wave Recedes"

Benjamin Jones: "Tall Clown"

Scott Griffin: "Code Orange"

Phew. Time to go TiView. We all could use some Tara Reid after that. Once you have cleansed yourself in the purifying pop pool of Tara, consider sullying yourself again this weekend. The Outsider Art Fair runs through Sunday. Tickets are $15, and tucked amongst the overpriced kitsch (which is entertaining in its own right) are some real steals.

so much monkey love • post/haste

Two-twenty loves monkeys (really, who doesn't?). So imagine our glee when friend of two-twenty (fott!) Reverend Tom informed us that tomorrow, through the wondrous magic of the Chinese Lunar Calendar, we will enter the Year of the Monkey!

This Sunday afternoon, from 1 to 4 pm, there will be a "Year of the Monkey" themed parade in Chinatown. We cannot promise that there will be actual monkeys there, but we can aways hope, and we can promise that two-twenty will be there, vigorously looking for monkeys.

sugar-free mental accuity determinererer...er • post/haste

Finally, a real, no bullshit online IQ test! I knew I was MENSA (All caps? No caps? Obviously I'm not a member. Heh heh. I said "member") material! This is from a funny site that also features Rating The Lesbians, which we discovered through fleshbot, which we so only read for the articles.

Fleshbot, incidentally, is part of the Gawker media empire. Have you noticed that all the posts here today germinate from only one or two sites? That is because two-twenty is hungover.

The Classic IQ Test | Progressive Boink

when good sex happens to bad writers • post/haste

Salon is sponsoring a bad sex writing contest! That is, a competition for the most poorly conceived depiction of the act, as opposed to the best description of the worst execution of the act. Copying and pasting from craigslist not allowed.

The point is, they were inspired by a passage written by Fox New's Bill O'Reilly, which you can read in full over there. A highlight: "He gently teased her by licking the areas around her most sensitive erogenous zone." Delicious.

Wanted: Bad sex writing! | Salon

another excuse to drink champagne • post/haste

Design Within Reach is holding a contest for the best mini-chair made from champagne cork hardware. The winner receives a thousand dollar DWR gift certificate. Seeing as we need a new pullout sofa and have had our eyes on the Frank Sofa Sleeper, we've decided to have a little contest of our own. Send your chair ideas to us, and if we pick yours and win, you can crash on our new couch for a week. Or just send us your ideas so we can copy them. Yes. Do that.

Holiday Champagne Chair Contest | Design Within Reach

three's company, more's an orgy • post/haste

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but sometimes a thousand words is worth a three-way. The Post today reports on high society swingers parties, or, in the words of one proprietress, "high-class adult playground[s]". We assume they are talking about high society as opposed to high society, although there is so little difference these days (warning: a couple of those links are only marginally work safe). These events promise "the cream of the crop" (no word on whether pun intended or not), so obviously the vetting process is thorough. Auditions require not only photos, but in some cases telephone interviews or written essays as well. At last, another outlet for the pornographic prose of all you craigslist casual encounters posters.

Sex on the Brain | NY Post

w4m - must meet my mensch • post/haste

Two-twenty is an equal-opportunity matchmaker. That is why we have paired yesterday's WASP-ortunity of a lifetime with today's hot tip: ladies, Adam Mesh's loss on Average Joe is your gain. Looking for a nice Jewish boy with an above-average net worth and a riverview apartment in midtown (who by his own admission is now thinking about settling down)? Get posting! You already have some stiff competition on craigslist though, including this one:

I HAVE TO FIND ADAM MESH! I can't believe she didn't pick you?

m4w - iso mayflower mademoiselle • post/haste

Despite our general disapproval of the renovations taking place at the Pierpont Morgan Library, two-twenty attended a cocktail party at the New York Yacht Club on Friday night in support of said institution’s young associates. We should note that our disapproval is based solely on the fact that jackhammers are going to be waking us up at 7 am for the next four years, rather than on anything having to do with the design. Anyway, “free” booze was consumed, canapés were eaten, and beautiful models of America’s Cup boats and pleasure yachts of yore were ogled. Also of note: an ascot and not one, not two, but three smoking jackets were spotted!

What, asks our solipsistic reader, does this have to do with moi? Well, what should turn up on craigslist’s missed connections on Sunday but a lonely (read: single!) WASP’s plea for love in this urban jungle – love wearing a blue blouse, and possibly named Jennifer – love that might have been his one snowy Friday eve at the NYYC. So ladies, whether ye be Jennifers or not, hop on this bandwagon. You could be spending xmas in CT, a midwinter week in the BVIs, and by the end of next summer ACK will be as familiar to you as LGA!

Met you at NY Yacht Club on Friday night (12/5) - m4w

next must-have drug dealer accesory: phd • post/haste

Apparently, ex makes you want to "speak and connect with other people". And this may make it a useful tool for shrinks. Huh. Does that mean rates are going to go from $100 to $120 an hour?

Interestingly, this is coming up because a killjoy "doctor", who is infamously anti-drug, recently admitted to basically faking the results of a "clinical study" that had "proven" that ecstacy "eats away at the the human brain" (that last one was a real quote). To be more specific, he gave his lab rats not mdma, but rather massive overdoses of speed! Surprisingly, this had a somewhat deleterious effect on the rodents' gray matter.

Ecstacy: Out of the Club, Onto the Couch (at msnbc.com)

will work for degree... or not • post/haste

Hey kids, you no longer need to "work" (or "learn" for that matter) to "graduate" from "college"! In fact, the same level of web-savviness that allows you to locate your next loveslave, and a little cash (apparently useful in both cases), will now allow you to make your academic dreams a reality.

Write a Research Paper on Shakespeare and Make $300