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.