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
