SANDBOXES IS FOR BABIES

With the exception of "Sad Sundays" which are undoubtedly in a sucidal league all their own, Tuesday nights have to be the most depressing day of the week. Most days you have something to look forward to, whether its the humping on "hump day" or quenching the thirstyness of "thirsty Thursdays" but Tuesdays remain the singlemost blase span of 24 hours ever invented. Thus, we AstoriaGirls decided it was as good a time as any to check out the Water Taxi Bar located along the sandy shores of the glorious East River in our very own Long Island City. Not only is the view of the city skyline supposed to be spectacular, but advertisments promised boatloads of hot, oily, musclebound volleyball players. Throw in a little beer and we figured it was a perfect way to drown out the Tuesday dolldrums.

So off we trekked, far out into the wild west that is the L.I.C., miles from subways and taxicabs, far from the Cafe Bars and Locales of our warm little Astoria, wandering in and out of industrial mazes until we found what had sought: Waterfront skyscape views? Check. Sandy faux beaches? Check. Beer by the kegful? Double check. Gobs of naked, dripping volleyball Gods? Checkity-check check check! This was going to be a Tuesday of most righteous excellence, we were sure of it....UNTIL...two small, meanish looking bouncers stopped us at the door. After proffering our IDs, they informed us that the Bar was closed to a private party, and that the beer in the volleyball pits was only for the players. Considering we were wearing six inch platforms and terrycloth onsies, it was fairly clear we weren't on any of the teams. We were welcome to join the private party for a cover fee of $40.00, which did not include beverages of any kind. Oh. And did I mention the private party was completely empty. Needless to say, our dreams of L.I.C beachiness were crushed, and the four of us hobbled across the sand in platforms with our terry-cloth tails between our legs.

Gwenny Deets made a good point. For $40, we could have made a better party with a kiddie pool filled with sand, my tiger-crotch bikini and a couple Heinekin mini-kegs. And maybe one Volleyball player for good measure.

There happened to be a bar located across the street known as the Crab House. (http://wfcrabhouse.com/catering.html) And if the name itself isn't enough to entice you, the decor most CERTAINLY will. I'm not quite sure what the interior designer had in mind when choosing the theme of this place...something along the lines of boxing gloves, trucker hats, and dead sealife. And a Christmas tree with a bra dangling above it. The musical backdrop was a series of sleepy Carpenter hits, and we soon realized after a pint and a cup of clam chowder that this was most definitely some sort of Long Island City version of the Bermuda Triangle. We had to get out of there fast. Luckily, we stumbled upon a place called Lucky Mojos (http://www.luckymojos.net/), a BBQ/Sushi fusion joint with a killer 2-for-1 drink special and a great classic rock soundtrack. Not only has this been the first Japanese/Dirty South fusion I've ever come across, but it has entertaining bartenders and even one of those stuffed animal Claw Machines. Now most stuffed animals found in Claw Machines appear to have suffered some kind of severe brain damadge, but not at Lucky Mojos! This place has class, man. So, several Raspberry Heffeweissens and one mystery shot later, we AstoriaGirls had salvaged our Terrible Tuesday. Thursday nights are kareoke...see you all there!

-WILLA K

And now a discussion...

Miracles and more! All made possible by eBay

One might assume that the Internet Marketplace is no place for the wily ways of we AstoriaGirls three. Indeed, the likes of eBay and Amazon go against the very grain of what we represent as a people, not merely because Internet shopping removes the human factor, but because its simply way too easy. Queens girls always do it the hard way. We like it rough and we like it rugged. Furthermore, as our disciples well know, the cult of AstoriaGirldom is hellbent on supporting local businesses, the mom and pop establishments that give our neighborhood its color and pizazz. The true shopping experience is cultural and collaborative, one that brings you out onto to the streets and smack into the lives of others, it involves haggling and bartering, adventuring and above all, it upholds the equilibrium of our local marketplace. Commerce on the worldwide web accomplishes none of these things, in fact, it is a looming menace to many of our favorite haunts, sapping the life from the Lovedays and Sites of our small, urban world. Some say eBay is the eVil eMpire to our army of Astorian Jedi. And while they may be victims of bad Padawanian analogies, for the most part, we AstoriaGirls wholeheartedly agree.

For many shoppers out there looking for a deal, the logic is simple: Why bother schlepping up to Steinway, spend hours poring through racks only to come home sweaty, snarling and empty handed. Nowadays, all you have to do is log on to Google, type in the make, model and price and BINGO, one credit card number later, you're seeing exactly what that Brown can do for you. Which may sound all rough and rugged, but, in reality, is just a nasty hook used to dupe QueensGirls like you and me. But before I go off ranting and raving about the lazy ineptitude of the typical American consumer, let me make a startling admission: Willa K hearts eBay. I heart it so bad it hurts.

eBay is a little like crystal meth, or so I'm told. The whole concept is just seething with enticement. You're curious. You think it might be fun. Eveyone's doing it, and you think, why not? Why not give it a go, just once, just this time, and before you know it, you're sucked into a spiraling vortex never to return again.

Like any hardcore barbiturate, I try to stay far away from the computer when the shopping fever strikes, but there are instances where it comes in handy. Like the time I found out Kara Janx designed a bikini with a tigerface on the crotch, which is probably the most awesome thing ever invented to stamp on the bottom half of a bikini. Suffice it to say, Willa K had to have it. I couldn't quite condone dropping $150 on scrap of lycra, tigercrotch or no, so imagine my glee when I scored it on eBay for a mere forty bucks. I also utilize eBay almost exclusively for technological purchases. When I was robbed in the godforsaken wasteland that is Cleveland, Ohio, I was able to replace my hot pink ipod nano for a mere $60. The thing was brand spanken new too, never out of its box. And it doesn't stop there. Digital Cameras. LeSportSac bags in discontinued Tokidoki "Foresta" print. Hard-to-find Tivoli Radios. Cell phone cases in shocking pink. Vintage pinball playfields. All for a reliable 50% of the original price, and in most cases the shipping was included.

But for every eBay success story, there is always an unfortunate incident that sours the eUphoria of a virtual shopping experience. An eBay overdose, if you will. It usually happens soon after an eBay "win," you know, where you're lolling around in a state of eCstacy, heart pumping with adrenaline, gibbering in an addled state of gigabyte bliss, like you just won the Powerball or American Idol. Or something. I believe the accepted phrase in the Internet lexicon is to be "high on " windorphins" or something demented like that. Not quite as hot as what Brown could do for you, but it gets you there. So you're high on windorphins, and you think, just one more. One more. That's all. And its usually something dumb, like a pair of Hudson jeans you've been coveting the last week and a half, and they happen to be in just your size for a fraction of the retail price. You see the words "Buy it Now" and BAM. You've hit the button without even glancing at the seller's reviews or country of origin. You could be buying from some eleven-year-old Guatemalan packing an AK-47 and you wouldn't even know the difference.

Fast forward eight weeks, and you're still waiting for $55 worth of denim to come through the Canadian Mail. Or even worse, you realize that, in your excitement, you've mistyped the shipping address by one digit, sending your cargo to far off Uzbekistan or something, and even though the seller insists they will re-mail it to you should it ever get returned to sender, you never hear from them again. Then you have to decide whether to file a dispute, which is more or less like declaring nuclear war on the free rePublic of eBay. After weeks of weighing your options, and a solid month of non-contact with this duplicitous faux-Canadian vendor, you make your move. You form an alliance with Paypal, and together launch a passive-aggressive assault via email, which in eBayland is more along the lines of launching the A-bomb. For a moment, you're on top of the world again, you've won the advantage, but just as you're about to shoot off some rocket artillery in celebration, you receive this in your inbox:

i wish you had waited one more day to do that. the package was sent back to me today. i was going to send them to you on my own dime, but it seems you prefer to terminate our business transaction. as you wish.

And then Gerry Butler kicks you down the pit of death.

Blast.

Yeah, I BET you just received them today you crafty, faceless, nebulous eForce. But what can you do? You eat your hand-pecked words, withdraw your claim, offer to pay for UPS and hope they don't douse your Hudsons in Manitoban Caribou pee. Plus you'll probably end up on some Internet blacklist for impatient, inexperienced dopes like yourself. You've been forewarned.

So the question remains: to eBay or not to eBay? It's one for the ages. You can adhere to your rules, check seller ratings, refuse business with those overseas, and maybe you'll come out of it unscathed. Triumphant even. And perhaps you can live with the fact that with every Internet purchase you are robbing your neighbors blind, snatching the food from their babies mouths, the doggy treats from their whimpering pups. Maybe you can swallow the fact that you're sapping the lifeblood from the very place that provides you shelter and food for sub-Manhattan prices. And you know what? Kudos to you. As for me? I prefer to use it for mindless, superficial things that cannot be found in Astoria. eBay, like the Force, is a powerful thing that should be used for good against eVil, corporate conglomerates. Use it to sap the life from the Bergdorfs and Louis Vuittons of this world, not the street fairs and artisans. Leave the little man alone already.

One Love.

WILLA K

JUST SAY NO...TO QUINOA

For every 20-something female in this city and beyond, June is universally known as panic time. The Point of No Return. The Red Zone. The first warm day in the month of June strikes fear in every young girl's heart, because it is the official deadline by which you should have achieved that perfect BBB. That is, the Bangin' Bikini Body. Now sure, we've had months to get this done, its been in the calendar for weeks, and it shouldn't be all that hard, in theory. Get a good running regimen going around March or April, maybe do some Pilates, an ab class here or there, some kickboxing, get a spray tan, a Brazilian wax, and wham, you're good to go. Astoria Park, here we come. Except now its midday on June 7th, a sweltering 95 degrees, and all you see in the mirror is whole lotta ghostly muffin top jiggliness. Yeech. So you launch into Plan B, which includes an obscene amount of All-Bran and water, you start flushing all the carbs in your cabinet down the toilet, and start buying organic, wholestic type foods you once read about in Women's Health. In my own effort to drop the spare tire, I'd adopted a menu of whole grains and vegetables, which not only proved to be surprisingly delicious, but also ridiculously cheap. For example: 1 can black beans + 1 can corn + avocado + a few grape tomatos+ mozzarella + a lil' balsamic vinaigrette = a pretty tasty $6.00 meal.

When reducing oneself to the nuts and berries consumed by our hard-bodied predecessors during the Mesolithic, you really gotta' get creative. You have to open your mind and palate to knew and interesting grains, because honestly, you're going to get sick of Romain lettuce after the first week. Cue my brief romance with the South American seed, Quinoa. Originally found growing high in the cliffs of the Andes Mountains, Quinoa is a delicious alternative to couscous or rice, jam-packed with healthy, satiating carbs and a fairly quick cook-time. I'd run across an Indian-inspired recipe combining it with chickpeas, almonds, carrots, dried cranberries, and a nice lime curry dressing. Like I said, when subsisting entirely on feed intended for ferrets, you need to mix it up a little. The results weren't half bad, (filling, flavorful, one might say a little peaty)...until I awakened the next morning with a stomach ache of EPIC proportions. Turns out Quinoa seeds are coated in an oily substance called saponin, which you're supposed to remove by rinsing and soaking for an hour or so. Thanks a lot, Women's Health. Would have been nice to include that on the recipe card. Or the instructions on the bag, for that matter. For those of you who've never delved into the world of exotic grains, be assured that a Quinoa hangover is probably worse than coming off crack. Something not even a crate of fruit flavored Tums can fix. It took me a sleepless night and most of my workday overcome, thank you very much. And so, I present you #7 on my list of Things That Are For Losers. From now on, I'll be sticking to my gateway grains, things like bulgur wheat and steelcut oats. This South American schwag is way too hardcore.

- WILLA K

MARBLE SAYS...

Friends, mutts, mongrels and pups! I've finally returned from a month-long vacation in lovely Paris, and am pleased to see the warm weather has finally arrived here in Astoria. After a too-long hiatus, I figured you've more than earned a two-for one deal. As the AstoriaGirls have explored much of Brooklyn lately, I'd like to throw in my 2-cents about two particular spots of merit. If you're a fan of Loveday 31 and Candy Plum, you must check out the Park Slope versions, if ever you find yourself on the other end of the Q line: Legacy (http://www.legacy-nyc.com/), located on Atlantic Ave., is an exquisitely edited boutique with a vibrant array of vintage dresses. Several weeks back, Willa K found a deep violet and fuschia number from the 1970's she couldn't say no to. Prices are on the high side (about $300-$400 for a frock), but she scored hers for $125. My personal favorite, Redberi, (http://redberi.com/) has a spectrum of eclectic accessories, shoes, dresses and denim. Again, bring a credit card, you'll spend about $100 a piece. Queens still wins for affordable vintage chic, but all in all, I give Redberi and Legacy a resounding 4 pawprints.

WALK TWO MOONS IN ANOTHER MAN'S HEADPHONES

It was one of those classic New York mornings: 8:35am. I'm late, per usual, and sprinting down Broadway, my worn down heels clickety clacking along the pavement. I hit 31st Street and can already hear the incoming Manhattan-bound train rumbling above me. Sh!t. Joining the throng of commuters, I take the stairs two at a time. Like lemmings climbing our cliff to the sea, we wrangle for the lead. Just as I reach the top, a flash of precious metal catches my eye: beneath trampling feet, lies a shiny new i-pod Nano, shimmering iridescent green in the morning sunlight. I have only seconds to process, the rest of the lemmings streaming past, fighting to get to the turnstiles, clawing at each others throats! And I do what any normal person would do when you see a $200 scrap of candy colored technology underfoot: I took it. Now, please note, kind readers, that Willa K did pause a moment. I am no petty thief, snatching at any opportunity to profit off the misfortunes of others. I even attempted to ask a few passersby if they'd dropped it, but you know how it is, all Neanderthal grunts and shoves, and before I knew it, I'd been thrust through the turnstiles, dragged up the platform and onto the packed N train.

Now, while some God-fearing individuals would do anything in their power to return an i-pod to its rightful owner, I cannot tell a lie. I may as well have been Gollum with his Precious, slobbering over that chunk of metal. There was a split-second of indecision, mind you. You know, where Steve Jobs appears on your right shoulder in a halo and wings, and Gerry Butler appears on your left, in full "300" regalia, complete with the cape and leather Speedo. It went down something like this:

STEVE JOBS: Now Miss K., to find this i-pod's rightful owner, you should log on to apple.com and type in the serial number --

KING LEONIDAS: No, no. Remember this day, Willa, for it will be yours for all time. Give them nothing, but take from them everything!

STEVE JOBS: It's actually really simple. You just type in the number and --

KING LEONIDAS: PERSIAN COWARD! THE WORLD WILL KNOW THAT FREE MEN STOOD AGAINST A TYRANT, THAT FEW STOOD AGAINST MANY, AND BEFORE THIS BATTLE IS OVER, EVEN A GOD-KING CAN BLEED!

STEVE JOBS: Who is this guy anyway? You're not making any sense, mister, you're talking crazy --

KING LEONIDAS: MADNESS??? THIS. IS. SPAARRRRRRRRRTAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

And then Gerry kicked Steve down the endless pit of death, along with any residual feelings of guilt. Besides. Some punk stole my digital camera a few weeks ago. This is karmic retribution, man.

Now that Jobs and his Macintoshy moralisms were out of the way, I began to wonder just what kind of person had owned this i-pod Nano. Considering its color, I first surmised the owner to be female, but under closer scrutiny, I realized I was sorely mistaken. Although the device seemed relatively new, (only 100 songs and 3 films), it wasn't particularly well taken of, and it had no protective case. The wheel was scuffed, the corner chipped, and there was an appallingly large dent in the metal backing. The i-pod could have suffered this damage from the fall, however, I could only conclude that the total sum of such negligence was undeniably male. John Doe's musical taste ranged from Reggaeton to gangsta rap, and included such artists as Daddy Yankee, Don Omar, Lil Wayne, and Young Jeezy. The film titles only further confirmed my assumptions (Four Brothers, Disturbia and Team America World Police.) My conclusion? Young, male, high school student, aged anywhere from 14-19, and most likely of Latin descent, as most of the songs were in Spanish.

As my penance for taking, I mean, liberating this i-pod from certain demise, I decided to spend my day listening to the young man's playlist. And did I ever. As I walked through the doors to my corporate, Midtown office headphones blaring "Die fo' my N****z.," it dawned on me: Why pity this vulnerable, absentminded schoolboy? I had liberated this wayward youth from inappropriate, violent and hyper-sexual content that would otherwise cloud his impressionable brain. He's better off without the i-pod. On to bigger and better things! Things like studying in libraries and shooting hoops after school.

This kid's going to Harvard on scholarship and all because of me.

- WILLA K

P.S. Steve Jobs is officially #6 on the Things That Are For Losers list.

THAILAND DOES BROADWAY

You know the scene. Its 11:15 at night, you're in your zit cream and shortshorts watching Family Guy on the CW11, and you're hit with a sudden case of the munchies. All you want is an order of chicken pad thai, delivered right to your door, some shrimp dumplings and maybe a beer. I don't know how many times Janie B-Starr and I have found ourselves in this predicament, and there has never EVER been a good enough Thai place up to the job. Until now.

An unprecedented new restaurant just opened up on our very own Broadway, smack dab between Viva el Mariachi and OK Fruits and Vegetables. It's called Leng, http://www.lengthainewyork.com/and we AstoriaGirls were absolutely floored by what these guys came up with. If you know Broadway (I'm talkin' Bikini Night at Bungalo kind of Broadway), you know the kind of establishments that usually make their home here. Leng, on the other hand is an exquisite little spot, with beautiful decor atypical to the usual techno-euro-land garbage that lines this way. I hear the menu is comprised of old family recipes, and I believe it. The litmus test of any great Thai place is its Pad Thai, and Leng's got one I still dream about. Huge portions, low prices, and warm service make this a great experience all around. The sweetest part is the outdoor area, lit in soft neon blue, and encircled in bamboo 20 feet tall. The only downside I can see is there's no liquor license as of yet, although I did notice that BYOB is tolerated out back. 2 entrees, 1 appetizer (aptly named "small plates"), 2 Thai
i lemonades and dessert all added up to a whopping $35.00, so you can be sure to make this a repeat offense.

If you're not sold already, you need to check the place out for its fried bananas and ice cream (pictured below.) For this and this alone, Leng will always have a special place in my heart.

SOMEDAY, MY HEART BELONGS IN REDHOOK

Rusty Trolleys = Babymaking Time

Today I've decided to forgo the cynical, bombastic attitude all too frequent in these posts, and take a moment to reflect upon more tenderhearted fare. Back in the days before my heart was blackened by the hardscrabble streets of NYC, I used to imagine myself in fifteen or twenty years, as the remarkable person I wished to become. Now don't get me wrong, I was not the type of girl who fantasized about her wedding day, mapping the details of her honeymoon down to every last lace minutiae. I didn't build my dream man from celebrity appendages, nor did I design my own Barbie Dreamhouse. While I feigned infatuation with Joey McIntyre to keep up appearances, I never understood what was so freakin' hot about the New Kids on the Block. Instead, I was the sort of tomboy who had crushes on the Ghostbusters and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, partly because they were so wisecracking and irreverent, but mostly because I secretly wanted to be them. Why crush on a bunch of white boys Roger-Rabbiting around in hammer pants when you have four musclebound mutants kicking a$$ and taking names? Naked, no less. Yeah, that's what I thought.

But when hot fantasies of Raphael and Peter Venkman weren't enough, I would dream about the future. In it, I was always tanner and hotter, with colored contact lenses and breasts like torpedoes. I was perennially strutting in and out of happenin' parties, skipping 'cross continents, working CIA operatives or acting in infomercials. There was an unfortunate phase where I compulsively enacted cleaning infomercials -- Look, Ma! No Streaks! I also had a killer one for Wonderbread, which expounded the merits of making bread balls with your own spit. (Now you see why I had to pretend to like Joey.) The Willa K of the future was running corporations, writing articles for National Geographic and trading dirty stories at the bar. I planned out the apartments I might have, the houses I would own, the flashy cars I'd drive, the people I'd micromanage... and somewhere, beneath all that, there was a husband with a bevy of kids running around, if only because that's what you have when you're twenty-six or thirty-two. It kinda came with the territory.

Fast-forward sixteen years, and BAM. You're suddenly at that wretched age. You know. The age the child-version of you never cared to imagine. Where you're supposed to be all set, basking in the glory of your awesome life. So here you are, all uninspiringly age-ed, and lo and behold, there are no kids. No sexy parties. No six-figure salaries or shiny new Audi's. It's just you, standing on the street trying to figure out where that $81 is going to come from to buy your monthly metrocard. I'd all but given up on those flighty, flimsy dreams long ago, somewhere around my second lay-off, or my third mugging, or the time I went to the emergency room sans health insurance. All visions of nuclear harmony had long been dead and buried, until I happened to find myself in Red Hook.

Yes, Red Hook.

That forgotten land of industrial mayhem, its vestigial warehouses blooming with new life, fresh purpose! Most folk in their reproductive prime aspire to spawn their brood in nurturing, wholesome places like Park Slope or the Upper West Side, the grassy slopes of White Plains, or dare I suggest the likes of Long Island or Montclaire, NJ. Bah! My kids will be reared in the dark recesses of Brooklyn's most curious locale. No sooner had I found my way down those battered trolley tracks and cobblestone alleyways, than I was sold. Now THIS is a place for raising the progeny! It's the Red Hook Romantic. My nouveau pastoral. If Bed-Stuy is the post-apocalyptic phantasm of Ray Bradbury lore, then Red Hook is a decade later in the sequel. I can see it now: Wilhelmina K, AstoriaGirl extraordinaire, meandering about town with her vagabond tots, and a Red Hook man too -- hey, why not? All biceps and bad tattoos, he'd be my Grade A hunk of American beefcake. Revision. Brooklyn Beefcake. Can't you just see it? Don't you see the appeal?

Okay, let's put it this way. There are three things I expect of good child rearing locales. #1. The Sea. #2. Deep-seeded history #3. Strange and provocative people. I'd decided this way back in my 10-year old Gostbuster wisdom, and had forgotten until the fateful day I wandered past the Gowanus. Red Hook, my friends, has the whole shebang.

Of all the wonderments and mysteries of Roode Hoek, perhaps most compelling is the contrast between the architectural remnants of its industrial past and the natural beauty that has survived it. Like a flower reaching its leafy tendril through a crack in the concrete, Red Hook's inhabitants have not only formed a community that is breathtakingly lovely, but also left its historical origins intact. Where else can you find warehouses transformed into lofts, graineries split into habitable dwellings, trolley tracks weatherbeaten into walkways? Not only is it home to the largest Fairway grocery I've seen in my life, but an IKEA's even on the way, its garish Navy and Yellow somehow at home amidst the rubble and rust. Perhaps what's so beautiful about Red Hook is its ugliness, its brokedown past, its crumbling remains. It's a place ripe for exploration and discovery, a place littered with questions and hidden answers, a place with the same uncanny draw as a Coney Island, only quietly so. Its an abandoned stage on which to play, a black canvas to paint stories and people, a place to both fear and learn.

True, Red Hook may not be the safest area in all of B-town, nor are its subway stops terribly convenient. Perhaps in another ten years, we will see some of this change, although I'd hate to see it turn out something like DUMBO. Lucky for me, at the rate I'm going, there won't be any kids until I'm sixty-five, so I should be all set. Until then, I'll just have to work on getting a dog, and explore the capital of singledom, (oh Astoria), by myself.

Or with my AstoriaGirls. You know. Whatever works.

- WILLA K

I dream of Fairways by the sea...

A PIG ROAST IN BED-STUY

Well it just so happened that we AstoriaGirls had the brilliant fortune of attending what may have been, hands down, the greatest urban event of the summer. Now before you accuse me of making the overstatement of the century, (I am well-aware that it is only Mid-May), answer me this: What, on god's green earth, could possibly top a Pig Roast blazing deep in the heart of Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn? And not just any Pig Roast. I'm talking 2 hogs, 100 dogs, 100 hamburgers, 100 chickenkabobs, 5 kegs, 5 gallons Jungle Juice and a freakin' partridge in a pear tree. Give up? That's because the answer is nothing. Nothing could ever top a Pig Roast in Bed-Stuy, and anyone who disagrees gets a roundhouse kick to the face. Twice. Okay, okay. I will concede that a hunt for wild boar in Bed-Stuy would probably trump all, especially if we did it Heart of Darkness-style, and I could play Kurtz to Tom Brady's Marlow...but I digress. Unless those pesky mole people are farming razorbacks in the sewers these days, I don't believe my "Lord of Flies" meets the New England Patriots fantasy will happen anytime soon.

We can all agree that a Pig Roast, in general, is pretty much the most righteous idea ever devised. Whatever caveman thought it was a good idea to stick a pig on a skewer and throw it in a bonfire for 26 hours deserves way more props than the dude who invented the wheel. Combine this awesomeness with the fact that BBQs are prohibited in NYC, and you have to realize how bada$$ it is to pull something like this off. How we AstoriaGirls lucked upon this fine adventure, I can't immediately recall. I suspect it was Jax who first introduced us, but I have to give sole credit to Gwenny Deets and Janey B-Starr for not letting this crucial connection slip through our fingers. And by connection, I mean Salomone, Master of Pig Ceremonies.

We AstoriaGirls had planned to meet halfway on the nefarious G-train at the Clinton-Washington stop; I from my adventures in Brooklyn, and they from glorious Astorialand. Admittedly, the prospect of riding the G-Train had me so welled up with excitement, it clouded any sort of rational thought. It's not every day you get to ride the G-train. Wallowing in the success of my Atlantic Avenue shopping spree, and buzzing off a 2-pint pregame, I'd completely forgotten to use the little girl's room before embarking on this green line epic. By the time I reached my stop, my pup-addled glee had dissolved into an agony only an ale-engorged bladder can incite. As I walked up Clinton, my eyes flitted over the barren landscape -- surely there must be a Dunkin' Donuts or a White Castle the next block over. At this point, I'd even take a Kennedy Fried Chicken, but this was a land untouched by casual dining. Not a bodega to be found. As I wandered in the general direction of the promised Pig Roast, the pangs from my ale-ing bladder growing more insistent, it dawned on me that not only was this a land without franchises, but one without any architecture at all. It was as though I'd wandered into some post-apocalyptic city, overgrown and barren, all crumbling buildings, chainlink and graffiti, the state of things growing more destitute with each passing avenue. My head was spinning, my stomach cramping, and I'd just begun looking for an alleyway suitable for some desperate crab-crouching, when the words "Hello Snowflake" echoed off in the distance, and that internal compass veered me around in the direction from whence I came. I was now running, nay, sprinting, $500 worth of Park Slope shopping in hand, fleeing I knew not what, but feeling in my gut, I must escape it. Give me woman. A wayward child. A Subway Sandwich shop! Something. I felt myself scouring playgrounds. Churches. Anything. But alas, all public restrooms were padlocked, and the puzzled Church Ladies were so intent on inviting me to their service, I hadn't the heart to say I only needed a restroom. I had terrible visions of a lost, little white girl pissing her miniskirt in the middle of Bed-Stuy, the shame dribbling down her legs, as scandalized children and churchgoers looked on in horror - THE HORROR! - when all of a sudden, I spotted an empty divebar on the corner. The next few minutes were an utter blur, punctuated with relief, then embarrassment that the toilet would not flush, then abject mortification as my "Big Poppa" ringtone jingled loudly inside my handbag.

My AstoriaGirls had come to the rescue.

And then we were together again, the AstoriaGirls, walking down Hall Street with Queens authority, paying our $5 entry fee, and stepping into the houseparty of a lifetime. And when I say house party of a lifetime, I actually mean house party of several. Seriously. People in Brooklyn know how to get down. Hundreds of kids, from all walks of life, squashed into a run-down duplex, spilling out the front door, out of windows, onto the deck and into the backyard. There was no room to breathe. Luckily there was plenty to drink.

I am convinced that Brooklyn parties are the best parties in all of NYC for 5 reasons:

#1. Brooklyn natives tend to stay friends with people for life. They are consistently the only people I know who hang out with their entire Kindergarten class well into their golden years. If every kid brought their entire Kindergarten class to a party, you know, hands down, its gonna' be a banger.

#2. With multiple Kindergarten classes mingling with college friends, work associates, and random walk-ins, its pretty much guaranteed that the chances you run into anyone you do know are slim to none. This presents the illusion that no-one actually knows anybody. Which is awesome. There are no cliques, no wallflowers, no boring "remember when" stories. Everyone is reduced to the basics here. Eating, drinking, laughing and general debauchery.

#3. Brooklyn Boys Are Hot. Period. You've got your local boys, your ThugLife boys, your Italians, your Fratboys, your Boys Next Door Boys, your Homeless Guys, you name him, he's there in every race, nationality and species. Plus the male to female ratio is generally 60/40, so there's plenty to go 'round maybe three or even four times.

#4. Speaking of the females...have you seen the Brooklyn ladies lately? Ha. 'Nuf said.

#5. Having a party in Brooklyn ensures there is plenty of Jungle Juice and/or Malt Liquor, which in Bed-Stuy mixology means:

(JJ + ML + Kegs) X 6 hours 'til the pig is done = Party Magic.

What actually went down at this Pig Roast in Bed-Stuy will forever be locked in the AstoriaGirls vault. Although I will give you a few highlights: One local chick with a Hello Kitty backback stuffed an entire pile of napkins down the back of her panties, while her best friend stood dutifully holding the stack. In the kitchen. (I told you, Brooklyn girls are wacked.) Even more impressive was the dude who swallowed all four pigs eyes RAW for a mere $75.00 USD. I should also mention those very same pigs eyes had been fermenting all day in a half inch of Devil's Springs. But that's all you get. You'll just have to find your own Pig Roast some day. Or better yet, join us and good ol' Sal at this one next year.

Until then...

-WILLA K

SUSHI PRINCE DOES ASTORIA

Well we did it. We found it. They say it couldn't be done, but it's did. The AstoriaGirls have located the best damn sushi spot Astoria (and perhaps all of Queensdom) has to offer. It was Sammy Deets who turned us on Watawa Sushi located on Ditmars and 33rd, and I'm telling you its worth every minute of that longa$$ delivery time. The Watawa special rolls are off the hook, and you never be disappointed with ye old standards, you know, the spicy tunas, eel avocados and philadelphia rolls of the world. A Sunday Night must-have, this menu's one for the takeout rolodex. Better yet, head down to Ditmahhhhhs for the full experience.

'SATC' = A PLATE OF SUGAR-DUSTED POO

I know, I know, I've been a slackardly, negligent blogger, I know. My Backwoods Guide has fallen by the wayside the past few weeks, and I take full responsibility. You have to realize that people from the Backwoods fall off the bandwagon sometimes. We are an easily distracted people; prone to getting lost in the bracken somewhere, squatting in the dirt, communicating with little woodland creatures, and weaving our hemp necklaces. We can't really help it. Plus, I have a really good excuse. One involving vision quests, time travel and lots of malt liquor, but who wants to hear that noise? No one.

I've decided the theme of this post will continue a recent debate on this whole "Sex and the City" phenomenon thats appears to be sweeping the western world. If you hail from a state beginning with "M", you will most wholeheartedly agree that, not only is this the most obnoxious show in the history of television, but the most inaccurate, superficial depiction of New York ever concocted. This was never made clearer to me than when my father caught the episode where one of Samantha's boytoys mentions she has a few stray pubic hairs in need of waxing. The look on my Dad's face only confirmed that this is the stupidst sh!t ever put on TV. When an entire city, nay, an entire culture, is reduced to a strand of pubic hair or lack thereof, you know we're regressing back to the monkeys here. This does not mean we AstoriaGirls haven't backlogged hours of episodes during our college years (you know you're still pissed Carrie dumped Aidan in Season 4). We all own the seasons on DVD, watch the reruns on TBS, and you've got to admit that everyone's played that insipid roleplaying game. You know the one I'm talking about, where you ask your girlfriends: "Which one am I? Which one am I? The horse-faced nitwit with the bad fashion sense or the septuagenarian slutbag?" Fine. But aside from the oh-so-original idea that your friends get you through the hell that is your life, we all need to agree that this is merely bad chick-lit some choose to view as reality. Now, I'm not going to spend half an hour pulverizing the type of young woman who makes "SATC" her roadmap to life. We've all seen them around town, we know what they look like. Poking fun at the wannabe Carrie Bradshaws of this world is like leading a blind sloth to water in a cactus field. In Chernobyl. It's just way too easy.

What I am going to do, is shamelessly plug my pitch for a new show altogether. It will be called "Gettin' Down by the East River" and star four hot young ladies making their way in NYC, only here's the catch: it will be, gasp!, true to real life! First and foremost, the characters will be played by actresses actually in their mid to late 20's. No anorexic midlifecrisers here. While their careers will still be irrationally awesome (I mean, who wants to follow the sexlife of some 30-something actuary crunching numbers down on Wallstreet?), their positions will all be commersurate with experience, as well as reflect the current economic status of our bankrupt, Post-Dubya nation. (i.e. The one working in Fashion is a receptionist/fitmodel. Another working in Entertainment PR is actually the mail girl. The working actress has a nightjob tending bar somewhere by Queensboro Plaza, and no one really knows what the last one does, even though she somehow always pays the rent on time.) Instead of plugging Manolo and Prada, these girls sport duds from H&M, Steve & Barry's and Forever 21, except no one will know the difference because it all looks the same anyway. Each episode will consist of our fearless heros dodging scumbags and SouthShore boys, NYU kids and sleezy old men, looking for love, and getting into mischief in the strangest of places. Because that's what we women like to do in our spare time. Fall in love and get into all sorts of wacky shinanigans. There are the Queensboys whose pickup lines seem limited to vindicating their hood. (Yeah, yeah I know all about the beergarden, buddy. I haven't lived in a bucket the past four years.) The Southern ibankers attracted to the girls' quirky sense of practicality and down-to-earthiness, but who also secretly wish they'd put on a DVF dress once in awhile for the "show off your trophy girl" happyhour sesh. There will be lay offs and evictions, brunches and eating disorders, and all the other exciting things women get off watching other women suffer through. Ohh look, she just snapped her stiletto, got mugged in the subway, and now has no way to buy her metrocard! That is soooooooo me... Also, there will be a character named Sparkles the Magic Bum.

In case you haven't noticed, the sole purpose for writing this post on "Sex and the City" was to drive more google traffic to my website. So 'Sex and The City." "Sex and the City." And a little more "Sex and the City."

Thanks and have a nice night.

- WILLA K

P.S. You'll be happy to know that 'SATC" has made the #5 slot on the THINGS THAT ARE FOR LOSERS list.

SPOTTED!

WHO: JOHN TURTURRO

WHERE: STREETS OF PARK SLOPE, BROOKLYN

WHEN: 12:15PM, SUNDAY, APRIL 27th, 2008

WHAT: GOING FOR A LEISURELY STROLL

ASTORIA'S BEST KEPT SECRET

It is with great reluctance and gravest reserverations that I post this invaluable tidbit of wisdom. This is for two reasons: #1. I'm selfish. And #2. Divulging the whereabouts of this top-secret locale verges on the criminal. Half the fun of this place is actually finding it. (But mostly, it's because I'm selfish.) Of all the flea markets and glorious sh!tshops littering our fine Astorian hamlet, none compare to the exotic wares found exclusively at The Secret Store. Now, I bet you're all wondering why on god's green earth you've never heard of this place before. Well, you can stop your googling and citysearching. Cease all MapQuests. Quit your hopstopping. Because the place does not exist on any webpage in this lifetime or any other. Some say The Secret Store exists only in the mind...but we AstoriaGirls know better. You have to seek it out yourself, you lazy, pilfering malcontents.

But before you set out treasurehunting, there are few things you need to know about the occult of The Secret Store. First. It only appears on Saturdays. Second. While you must never go to The Secret Store looking for something in particular, it always has something exactly for you. You won't know what it is. You won't even know you were looking for it in the first place. But as soon as you lay eyes on it, you'll know in your gut it must be yours. Third. You will never leave The Secret Store without making a purchase from one of the Secret Spanish muses. And that's it. Simple. I'd wish you good luck, but what I'd really be wishing for is you falling off Rikers and into a radioactive whirlpool in the East River. With mutant pirhanas.

Those who do find The Secret Store's hidden location will partake in the bountiful glory of Astoria's most sacred shopping spot. Those who don't, well, too bad for you. Because that means more for us. Thank you. That is all.

Kisses,

WILLA K

Things meant only for AstoriaGirldom.

SPOTTED!

WHO: COREY FELDMAN
WHERE: TRADER JOE'S AT UNION SQUARE
WHEN: 6:30PM, SUNDAY, 4/20
WHAT: SHOPPING INCOGNITO IN BLEACHED HAIR AND HEADPHONES.

(NO LIE, DUDE!)

BBQ PROHIBITION 2008

Well, it finally happened. That weekend where you wake up, open your window and you're hit with the smell of baking asphalt and blossoming trees. The birds are singing, the Greeks are bickering and all the beautiful people are out. They're everywhere, those beautiful people, the skinny girls in their cuttoffs and cowboy boots, the barechested skaters skimming down the street. And you're like, where did you come from? Where were you beautiful Astorians hiding all winter? But they don't answer you, the beautiful people. They're too busy flipflopping about town, lounging on stoops and sidewalk cafes, laughing and sipping their coffees or cocktails. And you just know, as soon as you step out in that glorious spring sunshine, swishing your sundress and shimmying down Steinway, you'll stumble into some hot European named Rocco, sit down for a bloody mary or three and let the good times roll. That was this weekend, my friends. Only minus the Roccos.

There is only one way to celebrate the sprunging of Spring, and that's with a BBQ. Nothing says summer like the smell of charred beef and a few cases of Corona. While lounging at Cafe Bar (http://www.cafebarastoria.com/) this past Saturday, we AstoriaGirls reminisced back to the Astoria Park BBQ of 2007, when we organized a blowout beneath the Triboro bridge. It was an illegal affair. Janie B-starr and I packed our grandma wheelie cart full of meat and beverages, blankets, frisbees, a tiny covert grill and a guitar perched precariously on top. Like little Pipers of Astoria we lead our guests down Astoria Blvd., past the track, past the pool, and hunkered down in a grassy spot overlooking the East River. We assembled the entire party with a single steak knife, screwing grills together, opening bottles, hacking our jeans into snazzy cutoffs. It was a glorious day and a glorious affair, even if the trip home at dusk was tedious and difficult after a days worth of festivities.

This year, we decided on something smaller and less covert to kick off the dog days: An old-school street BBQ on the sidewalk. The supplies were purchased, the invites sent out, the guests assembled, and we were just about to light the coals when our landlord came flying out of the house like a rabid banshee in a housecoat. Get this: BBQing is illegal in New York City. You heard me. Banned. Prohibited. Outlawed. What kind of backwards, screwed up place is this? It's preposterous. Absurd. Anti-American! Even our baby grill with its baby coals has to be 10 feet away from anything flammable, which is impossible, since, hello, everything burns. That's the freakin' point. Man has been charring meat since the beginning of time in the most flammable places immaginable. When you think about it, the sidewalk should be the safest place ever invented to grill beef. What is wrong with you people? Okay New York, I can accept when your citystreets come to a screeching halt the second you get an inch of snow. I get that even the lightest drizzle is like Kryptonite to your metro system. I can ignore when you insist that we're standing "on line" when the line we're supposedly standing "on" doesn't exist. These are things I can put up with. But no BBQing??? Are you out of your mind?

Not one to let such urban absurdity interfere with our masterplan, we AstoriaGirls bought an extra bottle of Ketel One and brought the party indoors for some houseburgers and boiled hotdogs. And it was good times, man. No wait. Revision. It was great times.

-Willa K

A SPALUNKING WE WILL GO

Maybe its the fact that I come from the sticks, but I really, truly do not understand the purpose of regular, monthly facials. Does it feel good? Sure. Is it relaxing? Of course. Do you leave the place with a face softer than a koala's bottom? You betcha. But how this experience is supposed to be worth the $85 + tip and whatever you spend on products, I have no idea.

As previously posted, Janie B and I had taken advantage of Spaweek to see what its all about at Astoria's own Anasa Day Spa (http://www.anasadayspa.com/.) The place is located on Newtown Avenue between 31st and 32nd Streets, but be forwarned -- its incredibly difficult to find, as its located on the fourth floor with minimal signage. The interior was spalike enough, you know, pristine tiles and flowers and Enigma thump-gasping around in the background. We were offered a glass of white wine (served in a plastic onesie cup) and told to fill out a three-page form, profiling our habits, medications, stress levels and threshold for pain. By the time I disrobed and slipped into my white terry "spa wrap," I was half prepared to clamber onto some table and saddle up in a pair of stirrups. Luckily there were only sheets.

Its usually at this point where the aestetician does the "skin analysis," i.e. she assaults you with a barrage of insulting descriptors, listing everything and anything that's wrong with your face. You have very oily skin with enlarged pores and five, no six blemishes, and the places that aren't oily are scaly and wrinkled and irreperably sundamaged. And while you're lying there, listening to her compare your face to the cryptkeepers rotting great-grandmother, you're filled with this shame and self loathing, knowing deep in your gut that you'll be dying of skincancer by the time you're 30 unless you do exactly what this woman tells you to. Happily, my facialist was kinder than usual, asking only about my current skin regemin and addressing the concerns I listed in my form. There was very little discussion, no chit-chat, which I prefer. It's not a date. We're not solving world hunger here. Its skin, for godssake. A collection of cells and pores and sebum. Get to the facializing already. The Signature Facial is your general run-of-the-mill procedure. The cleansing. The scrubbing and steaming. The masking. Extractions. Extracting is always my favorite part, mostly because its ridiculously painful. You feel like you're actually accomplishing something here. Pain? Bring it. Suck that shizz right outta my face. Give me something worth that $50 USD.

All in all, we escaped fairly unscathed, with personalized "prescriptions," which were curiously exactly the same...drink lots of water, scrub 2-3 times per week, yadda yadda yadda. I hate to admit it, but I was coerced into buying a tiny dropper bottle of tinted zit cream for $32. Blast. When all was said and done, I would have been better off buying those vintage 70's sunglasses I told myself I couldn't afford. Or that unpaid speeding ticket. Idiot.

SPOTTED!

WHO: KATE HUDSON
WHERE: PURL KNITTING SHOP IN SOHO
WHEN: 4:16PM ON SUNDAY, 4/6/08
WHAT: PICKIN' UP WOOL IN HER KICK*SS BOOTIES

THERE GOES THE NEIGHBORHOOD...

FIRE ESCAPE FLORA WITH JANIE B

While it is true I am a girl of a great many attributes, I'm the first to admit that having a greenthumb is not one of them. I have a talent for killing most living things, large and small. I do not discriminate. I'm pretty much a fascist of the plant kingdom. It's a marvel any of the plants we've shared our home with have lasted this long. Lila, Leonard, The Gamork, even the Spartaguys have weathered my abuse and neglect for years and miraculously perservered. Thrived even. You can imagine their relief to have Janie B-Starr around. For years, JBS has entertained the harebrained idea of transforming our dining room into a Garden of Earthly delights. Last year, she planted a variety of species in egg cartons, coaxing the seedlings out of their tiny shells and nurturing them since birth. Unfortunately, it was only the lettuce that made it past infancy, mostly due to my rampant herbacious bigotry, and now that spring is here, she will try again.

Her second attempt is a clever terracotta penthouse designed to house a variety of kitchen herbs. The largest problem with apartment gardening is lack of sunlight, since no matter what side of apartment your place your fledgling crops, its damned to sit in darkness for at least half the day. Due to inclement weather, Janie B's keeping the seedlings indoors for now, but plans to move them to the firescape as its gets warmer. Tomorrow, she begins construction of her fire escape planter, made from the slats of an old bed. We'll keep you posted on the progress.

The forgotten stepchildren. Clockwise: The Gomork, the Spartaguys, Lila and Leonard.

AN ODE TO MARTHA & KING ALARIC I

Great great great great great great great Grandpappy Alaric, 396 AD

In case you haven't noticed, I like lists.

A lot.

This is simply because I am of European decent. Specifically, of Germanic origins, which means I'm unapologetically Anal Retentive. Type A to a fault. Martha Stewart is my hero. Rachel Ray is not. I aspire to be someone as disciplined as Madonna. Rachel Ray does not. It is completely understandable that most of you lazy, incompetent people do not share this same joy, and for this reason, you may not want to continue reading this post. I, on the other hand, derrive great pleasure from daily chores like doing the dishes or organizing my bathroom drawers. Sometimes I realize I've done the dishes six times in one day. Most times I'm washing them before I'm even done eating off the plate; hunkering over the kitchensink and stuffing my face while the water's filling. Nothing compares to the little thrill I get when peeking inside an IKEA closet system or a impeccably stocked refrigerator. Oftentimes Jaxie will catch me gazing inside the linen closet, admiring the rows of neatly folded towels and sheets. I sort M&Ms by color in my spare time. The clothing in my closet is arranged ROYGBIV style so that it mimics the simplicity of a prism's perfection. I can't help it. Its in my bloodline. If you think I'm neurotic, imagine how bad the Visigoths were back in the day, color-coordinating their separates while keeping the Huns at bay. We are multitaskers by necessity, man, its who we are as a people. Give us a break. Cut us some slack. Someone has to be the Monica on Friends. It sucks, but what can you do.

As a direct descendant of the Visigoths, I am a firm believer in the art of listmakery. Not only does it quell the demon voices inside your head, but it keeps you sharp, on top of your game. It makes you feel as though you're conquering the world when you're doing little more than scribbling on a pad of paper. This eliminates any vestigal tendancies we've inherited from our tribal forefathers, you know like firing a maelstrom of arrows and running people through with enameled blades and such. At any given time, I maintain about four or five lists and anywhere from two to five calendars. There's "The Work list", "The Sh!t2do List","The Shopping list", "The Wishlist", and "The Good List." All of these are essential to my sanity and imperetive to securing a functional way of life. "The Work List" obviously pertains to all things job-related -- I keep these in spiral bound notebooks and organize them on a bookshelf by year, occupation and company. Perhaps most crucial of all, is the "Sh!t2do List", where I chronicle a weeks-worth of imperative activity. Shopping trips, appointments, upcoming bills, chores, gym classes, impending purchases -- it covers everything and anything that MUST be accomplished before 12:59 on a Sunday evening. Subesequent "Shopping Lists" delineate exactly what needs to be puchased. "The Wishlist" and "Good List" are more recreational than anything else, with the former documenting items I hope to buy in the future (plasma screen TVs, sunglasses, sugargliders, Kara Janx bikinis etc...), and the latter cataloguing films, novels, and music I deem worthy of notation.

When it comes to Calendars, I've never been a fan of Outlook or Palm Pilots. They're good for reminders, but don't give you the satisfaction of actually crossing things off. In addition to meetings and conference calls, my At-A-Glance Desktop Calendar, is for things I don't mind my coworkers seeing, like my daily gym schedule, hot dates with Tom Brady or awards ceremonies at which I'm the keynote speaker. These are written in hot pink Sharpie. Personal, clandestine or otherwise embarrassing appointments are reserved for the pocket calendar I keep in my handbag. These are written in light pencil, in case any evidence needs to conveniently disappear. And the Dry Erase calendar in the kitchen celebrates the collective activities of the AstoriaGirls themselves: sexy parties, excursions, sporting events, trunkshows, voodoo rituals, you name it.

While I'm sure you all stopped reading at the photo caption, I am only writing this to give a little insight into my psychosis. Visigoths of the world UNITE!

-WILLA K

I SHOULD WORK FOR MASTERCARD

Roundtrip metrocard to Soho: $4.00

Over-priced small cup of coffee at Olive's: $3.75

Swatch of Liberty of London Print at Purl: $90.00

Getting the exact same thing for five bucks in Astoria? Priceless.

The Karma Wheel Goes Round and Round...

A now for a brief Parable:

Yesterday, I stumbled upon some Jersey girl's driver's license on the curb next to our local Chinese takeout place. I was about to sell it to the sixteen year old across the street to make up for my rampant weekend expenditures, when it dawned on me that maybe my string of bad fortune needed a push in another direction. I dug out some old "GOOD LUCK" stickers I received randomly in the mail, and sent the whole package back to the address on the I.D. The Karma wheel goes round and round, my friends. Let's spread the Astorian love.

MARBLE SAYS...

Though a good idea in theory, Buffalo Exchange doesn't quite live up to its overhyped expectations. If your intention is selling, make sure to bring only "in season" clothing, which means the clothing you'd wear during whatever season is three months ahead. For example, BE accepts only spring and summer looks from January onward. This is slightly counter-intuitive, since you typically clean out your closets post-season. Also be sure your clothing is clean and in pristine condition. No stains, no pilling, no snags. Design flaws such as uneven seams or faded colors are grounds for rejection. While they claim to purchase basics, I noticed they shy away from conservative, All-American outlets like The Gap, Express or J. Crew. While they'll snap up designer finds like candy, they're not adverse to buying knockoffs like Forever 21 or Old Navy. It may take several attempts before you figure exactly what brand of oddball attire they're looking for. I suggest taking a moment to study their clientle, and it should be fairly clear to you. If you're buying, plan on spending aproximately $25 a pop for a sweatshirt or tee, with especially trendy items going for more. It's not difficult to rack up a high bill in this place. While the selection is huge, I prefer the paired down array of carefully chosen pieces at Lovday 31 any day of the week. In conclusion, I happily give it:

$5 Worth of Lame

Steps: 14, 887

It's 1pm on a Sunday afternoon. You wake up, your head wedged tight in the grips of some metaphysical vice, jonesing for advil, some gatorade, and a tall stack of banana chocolate chip pancakes. You fumble open your wallet, speed-dialing Sanford's diner, only to find that all you have to tide you over 'til the next paycheck is a five dollar bill and a coupon for a 6-pack of Charmin. Sound familiar? I thought so.

Clearing my head with a strong cup of D&D hazelnut, I racked my brains for a way to suffer through this unfortunate Sunday. The AstoriaGirls had planned an all-out adventure to the new flea market in Fort Greene(http://www.brownstoner.com//brooklynflea/), but a high school tennis court crammed full of vintagey goodness is a terrible scenario when you're broker than broke. There was always the possibility of not shopping at all, but lets face it, what's more depressing than spending a Sunday indoors, stuffing your face with stale Grape-Nuts and watching re-runs of Degrassi High? So I formed myself a contigent plan: if we were schlepping all the way into Brooklyn in the first place, we may as well make a pitstop at that Buffalo Exchange (http://www.buffaloexchange.com/) everyone's so wild about these days. Spending time in Williamsburg always leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but the possibility of making a few extra bucks selling my junky castoffs to some hipster in a fedora made the trip to Bedford Street vaguely stomachable. I'd even title my weekend post: How to spend five bucks and three bags of clothing on the best deal in Brooklyntown!

So off we went, with three whole duffel bags stuffed to the gills with crappy old duds we hadn't worn in decades, all freshly laundered, folded and squashed into three moderately presentable stacks. We showed up around 2:30pm and, surprise-surprise, the line wasn't terrible: Two goaty-looking dudes, and teenage girl with her father. Gwenny Deets and I took our place in line, while JBS took Miss. Marble to check out the racks. At first everything was sunshine and rainbows, everyone seemed happy-go-lucky, flushed and primed for a good ole Sunday barter. I even recognized the $400 petrol blue hobo I coveted last year, shimmering off in the discounted distance. But bit by bit, I started to glean just how this corrupt operation works: At the top of the staircase stood two hipper-than-thou Buffalo Exchange "Buyers" holding court behind matching glass display cases. We plebians lined up at the bottom, and like good little pilgrams, schlepped our castoffs up the stairwell for sacrifical slaughter. The female Buyer was attending to a colossal suitcase stuffed to the brim with colorful fare, which she pulled out item by item, stretching and shimmying before tossing them into a pile. It should be noted that this pile was full of unique, fashion-forward, and dare I say, expensive looking clothing. Surely this must be the pile she tallies, the good pile, the prodigal pile, but my stomach sank as I watched her shove it all back in the suitcase and direct its owner to the nearest Salvation Army. I gulped. Shuffled my feet. Discretely peeked into one of my duffels. Surely they'd buy my stuff. It was mostly namebrand labels, some of them with tags, and nothing beneath a J. Crew or an Abercombie. You know, the type of topshelf stuff people wear when they come from states beginning with "M." Despite her load of Samsonite rubbish, the owner of the suitcase had managed to earn a total of $153, which was heartening -- at least they paid well for the things they deemed fashionable. Fifteen minutes had passed. We moved up a step.

Next, one of the goatish boys brought up a modest trashbag offering of crumpled t-shirts. I scoffed. T-shirts. Like that'll work. A part of me smiled darkly on the inside as the Buyer tossed aside fifteen or so brightly-colored rejects. She then paused at a powder blue number emblazened with a dove and some generic Christian themeology. Oh yeah, she exclaimed, This Jesus stuff is sooo hot right now. Bam. Into the bin. She followed it up with a pink checkered button down, a pair of Timberlands and some lemon-colored Pumas. $53.00. Not bad. Apparently effeminite is in.

I was startin' to sweat. I could see what was going on here. My cool factor was being evaluated in a store entirely populated by people wearing skintight pants and aviators. Acidly ironic, yet oddly nerve-wracking. It was highschool all over again, except you were being judged by the losers who used to get shoved in the trashbins at lunch. I was already scrapping the whole deal, revising my original title to: How to spend five bucks on the best deal in Brooklyntown!, but Gwen and I kept moving, creeping like sherpas up this staircase of shame. A whole half-hour had passed and I was now only moments away from their glass throne, my heart pounding, my blood boiling at the obnoxious paradox to which I had willingly subjected myself. Gwenny Deets rolled her eyes at my anxiousness, ambivilent to the heinousness we were about to encounter. She'd done this kind of thing before, to wild success. And then, there we were: our moment of truth. We stepped up with our bags of abject loserdom, presenting a valid form of ID so we could be logged on their list of the tragically un-hip. I watched with set jaw and hard heart, as the design maven flicked through my bags, item by item, my pile of rejection growing larger by the second. When all was said and done, my cool factor amounted to an asymmetrical top from Forever 21 and an Old Navy trapese dress I accidentally shrunk in the wash. My retribution? $6.00. Which, while in retrospect is more than my original fiver, was a total slap in the face. Plus, you couldn't even redeem it unless you purchased something in the store, so I was coerced into buying that petrol blue hobo for forty dollars. Which technically changed my post title to: How to go twenty-nine dollars in the hole to get rid of two of the crappiest things you've ever owned. (Yeah, I did the math.) While Gwenny and I had our proverbial guts strewn all over the counter, Janie B managed to find $100 worth of goodies in the actual store. Apparently, if you have a closet full of horizontal stripes and extra-terrestrian redemption, you'll make a killing here.

Things that are cool in Williamsburg. (Okay, okay E.T.'s pretty cool in Astoria too)

The four of us hauled our bags to the local Salvation Army, where we handed them over to a homeless man selling things on the street. I take great pleasure knowing that the homeless man will make a goldmine selling our rejects back to those same persnickety Billyburgers. Yes, I watched as my heart grew two times smaller that day, shrinking with the hatred only Williamsburg can provoke. There was no Fort Greene Flea Market. No clever post title. No rejoicing. Instead, I decided it was more worth my while to spend my non-existent $5 on a loaf of bread on which to spread my halfeaten jar of peanut butter. THE END.

- WILLA K