A Backwoods Guide to NYC

ONE FINE DAY IN ASTORIA

2009-10-10T15:24:00.014-04:00

October 10, 2009: A throw-back to the days of old Astorian lore. Awoke on a neighbors couch, in backwards pj pants and tangled hair, slipped on some cowboy boots and picked up the laundry from the no-good laundromat across the street. I've been embroiled in a nasty feud with this place ever since they lost an expensive trench coat of mine three years ago. Was officially banished for not paying my bill, but lucky for me, the owner failed to recognize me in my new haircut courtesy of Toni & Guy. She's a wily one, that Willa K. And also lazy, as this is the first time she's ever dropped off her clothing to be washed for her. There is something sacred about doing your own laundry. The peace, the ritual, the soft, clean smell of lint and dryer sheets. Reminds me of home, of happiness, and sometimes even...college? To be honest, its an irrational fear of strangers touching my unmentionables that bothers me so much, but on a lovely autumn day like today, its easily forgotten.

Later, I sauntered over to the Salvation Army to unload a bag of old clothes I've been meaning to get rid of for the past six months. Happened upon a strawberry-pink terrycloth hoodie vest that probably belonged to an 8-year-old, but still managed to fit fine. Perfect for the skee ball outfit I have planned for later on in the evening. The real score was in the vinyl department: I managed to rack up 7 new albums for the collection. Whitney, Aretha, The Supremes, some Village People, a little James Taylor, Joan Baez, and even a little TJB. Gwenny Deets once told me you always have to pick up one album just for the cover art, and Whipped Cream & Other Delights certainly made the cut. Almost scored a Rush album too, but the record had been lost en route to the milk crates. Next, I meandered over to Broadway to stop by the Mexican Shit Shop on 37th. I was looking for one of those wooden saints bracelets, you know, the ones like mini-frescos with the mary's and crucifixes and angels painted on. My original had already suffered one too many showers, cherry finish worn down, the stickers peeling and missing. Now I'm no Catholic, and hope not to offend any, but I am a firm believer in omens and talismans. For some reason or another, these bracelets are important to me; I never take them off. Not a good luck charm, per se, but a guardian, a secret safeguard against all that could go wrong. And has. Happily, I found one made of hematite which should hold up better than its wooden sister.

Made my last stop at Pema Nails, to see some of my most favorite ladies for some upkeep. Listened to a poor Irishwoman screaming like a banshee while her pedicurist severed an in-grown toenail for her. My how the Irish can curse. You'd think she'd given birth through her big toe. Got painted up right in fluorescent pink, and headed home feeling like a shiny new penny. So what's in store for this evening, you might wonder? Pinball, skee ball, good people, good times? For now, I'll throw on some Whitney and a pair of short-shorts. Spend some quiet time at old 32-82 and wish my AstoriaGirls weren't quite so far away. But you know what, ladies? Today was for you.

WILLA K

BROADWAY STOP BUM RESURRECTED

2009-09-25T12:06:00.006-04:00

Apparently there have been a number of Broadway Stop Bum sightings. Like in front of the bodega and on the train platform. Guess he isn't dead after all?

My bad.

DEPRESSION AFTER DENTIST

2009-09-22T10:40:00.008-04:00

Have you ever found yourself in a dentist's chair at 8:30AM, your hair still slick from the morning shower, biting down on something too large for your mouth and wondering how the hell you got there? You half-remember making the appointment six months ago, remember like it was yesterday, but somehow six months have slipped past and there you are again, strapped to the dentists chair. Lying there lamely, blinking against the floodlight, hearing the scraping of metal on enamel, the faint signs of blood trickling from your gums and you think how did this happen? How am I here already? How have I lived here five and half years, the time ticking off in six-month increments, in bi-annual X-rays and complimentary toothbrushes? How is it I've reached that far-off age, on the other side of 25, the age where you have savings, but not enough for a down payment. The age where you dump bonuses on designer handbags and fall wardrobes and plane tickets south because where else is it supposed to go? The age of bachelorette parties and wedding gifts. The age of bridesmaids. A dark age indeed.

Depressing thoughts to be having in the dentists chair. Willa K, you should know better.

Stopped by the tailor's on Broadway (http://http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&ie=UTF-8&q=world+cleaners+astoria&fb=1&gl=us&hq=world+cleaners&hnear=astoria&cid=4815307308207673102&li=lmd)en route to work yesterday, not the new, splashy place on 33rd, but the old-school tailor next door to the way-old-school cobbler. It's 7:30 in the morning, and they're blasting Fire Burning (Fire Burning) on the Dance Floor. One thing you have to love about the Greeks, even Monday morning is a party, house music included. I'd picked up a beautiful vintage dress at Loveday last weekend, a short little lavendar something from the 80's that fit marvelously through the waist and chest, but clung a little too snuggly in the hips. Seems to be happening a lot these days. Well. The tailor sure appreciated it. In Astoria, too much booty earns you a fresh cup of D&D coffee on the house. And for an old lady that ain't half bad.

R.I.P. BROADWAY STOP BUM

2009-05-16T20:58:00.025-04:00

It was the last leg of my evening three mile run, the last ten blocks, the final stretch. The last bit of sunlight splintered and slipped away as I turned the corner of 44th onto Broadway. A cool breeze cut through the thick humidity and I shivered. It was game time. Cue Lady GaGa's PokerFace, and pick up the pace. This is it, this is what we run for. Let's f*cking do this. Gaining speed, I cut through the congested Astoria traffic, weaving around shoppers and loiterers, cutting through the flow of humanity, willing my legs faster and faster, breath quickening, heart pumping. And then I see him.

The Broadway stop bum.

It's odd how the mind works in situations like these. At first, I only saw the crowd of kids. They looked like a group of hooligans from afar, horsing around, making a scene, and I mentally calculated how to dodge them before the catcalls started. Then I saw the man lying spread eagle in the middle of the sidewalk. A black crucifix reaching out, eyes to the sky, palms opened upwards. I stifled a chuckle. Clearly these kids were playing a prank. Look at them all staring, they're laughing at him too. But as I ran up to the scene, I realized no one was laughing. Just staring. A girl clamped a hand over her mouth, as though it prevented herself from coming apart. I stopped in my tracks.

He was dead.

You always think the dead will affect you in some profound, life-altering way. Shock. Disbelief maybe. Sadness. Horror. But it never happens that way. Its just a fact. There is a dead man lying at at my feet. And there's never a question. You never question the dead. You just know. It wasn't the ashy pallor of his skin, or the empty gaze, the dried-out eyes. They may confirm it, but you already knew. You knew in your gut before your brain registered the proof. Its the stillness. The stillness of a human turned object. And all around us, the city kept buzzing, kept whirring like clockwork, dogs barking, traffic horns blaring, children laughing. People kept moving. And I so did I.

I sprinted the last block home.

The Broadway stop bum had been my neighbor for as long as I've lived here. I remember our first encounter -- the summer of '05. I was walking down Broadway, still trying to master my coldass bitch walk, the kind that discourages catcalls and come-ons, but generally looks sexy as hell. I was wearing a short dress and tall platforms, and rocking a killer pair of aviators. I looked good. He was sitting on a red milk crate in front of the corner bodega. I could feel his eyes. I knew it was coming. I walked the concrete like a catwalk, jaw set, eyes forward, all swagger and seething NY attitude. Here it comes.

Hey Baby . . .

I don't flinch.

You want some a this? Come on.

I keep walking.

Come on. I got fooooooood stamps?

I crack a smile.

Yeaaaahhhhhh . . . I know you want 'em. Come on, Baby!

I'm laughing. He's laughing. The entire city block is laughing. All right. A bum with a sense of humor. I dig.

I saw him every day after that. He usually sat on a scrap of cardboard at the top of the stairs wearing a pair of heart-shaped Lolita sunglasses and pink converse sneakers. He was the one who told me It's gonna' be okay when i walked myself home after surgery sans anaesthesia. I saw him suffer through four bitter winters here on the Broadway platform. Some of them I was sure would be his last, but he always made it through. Somehow.

The last time I saw the Broadway stop bum, I was back at the ER at 4AM. Some flagrant kidney infection, if you really care to know. Triage was an absolute nightmare: The fat kid sitting next to me was convinced he had a WhiteCastle burger stuck in his lung, and a sketchy middle eastern man wouldn't stop staring at my tits. I was still in my pjs, which were probably see-through. Come to think of it, that trip to the ER was the first time I saw a dead man. I was being led into a room next to cheeseburger boy, when a nurse wheeled a body by on a gurney. The body was all propped up and zombie-like, mouth stretched open, as though he'd died mid-scream. And I knew. I registered the stillness. The waxy skin. The rigor mortis setting in. Dead man: three o' clock. The nurse wheeled the corpse by and, lo and behold, behind her, snoring loudly on another bed-on-wheels was the Broadway Stop Bum. Muttering, quivering, burbling in the fetal position, his asscrack peering out of a pair of dusty windbreakers. My heart skipped a beat. I could have done a little dance! Ohhh Broadway Stop Bum! So nice to see you! How's life? How's the milk crate? What happened to your shoes, man? It was only a brief moment, but suddenly I knew someone in this godforsaken hellhole. My neighbor. My friend. My Broadway Stop Bum. A nurse covered him up with a blanket, tucking it tenderly in under his chin. He breathed a child-like sigh. Releasing the weight of the world, if only for the night.

It was the last time I saw him alive.

I'm not really sad. Not all that surprised. It's another marker in my history here. May 16, 2009. The day the cat-calls died. The Broadway Stop Bum is dead. Does anybody care? Will people notice that he's gone? If I hadn't gone for my run, would I have even missed him? Where do the bums go when they die? A cardboard box in the sky? Does life as a bum earn you the life everlasting? I don't know, but that's a lot of question marks.

Rest in peace, Broadway Stop Bum. Keep on rockin' those Lolita's.

-WILLA K

A VOYEUR IN MCCARRON PARK

2009-04-26T21:56:00.016-04:00

Today was one of those sweltering sunbaked days, those intoxicating New York afternoons dreamed up in Fitzgerald novels and old hollywood movies. What everyone thinks of when you say NYC. Its the city the way the city's meant to be. The streets teeming with people, ambling, blinking, soaking up sunlight like lizards caught hibernating a month too long. Hung over and hurting, a hollowness sat like a rock in my stomach, and I knew it wasn't going to be a day for fleamarketing or sipping bloody mary's. No hair of the dog today, Sir. It was a day for soaking in the sun, for soaking in someplace new, so I decided to take a stroll to McCarron Park. An odd choice, considering my distaste for the hipster community, but my cousin had a softball game, and a few hours of quiet seemed in order.

I found a spot on a warm park bench behind home plate, and watched softballs crack across the soft blue sky. A sky turned rose behind the half-tint of my oversized 80's sunglasses. On those hungover, hollow days, there's something comforting about seeing the world in shades of rose. The players were enthusiastic, albeit a little confused, as they both had green jersey's for whatever reason, and I couldn't quite tell who was who. It wasn't long before my focus shifted to the strange tattooed community ambling around me. There's a funny thing about hipsters. They strive so hard to push the boundaries of this banal, normal existence, and that much, I suppose, I can appreciate. It's their mantra to live creatively, differently, in ways that shock or gain attention, and yet, when all assembled in one place like our dear little hamlet of Williamsburg, you find they're all the same. There are the hipsters with headphones, the big buggy-looking 80's throwbacks in a rainbow of colors. There are the hipsters with headbands and the hipsters with nose rings, and the hipsters with their adopted pit bull puppies pulling at their leashes. There are the hipster girls with short-shorts and cowboy boots, some with stars tattooed on their shoulders, some with stars tattooed on their necks. There are the hipsters with skateboards and the hipsters with baby carriages, with their hipster children rocking fauxhawks and skull tshirts. It was a whole hipster paradise out there in McCarron Park; a mirage of happy tattooed skin and over sized nerd glasses writhing around in the heat.

About an hour into the melee, I noticed a tiny, bright-eyed girl with this red wisp of hair, furiously scootering around the park walkway. No older than four or five, she scootered with the intensity of an Olympian, cheeks flushed, freckles blazing, the beginning of a sunburn beginning to sneak across her pale white skin. Around and around, this little girl scootered the circumference of the entire park. Parentless, fearless, breathless. And with each revolution, she kept getting faster and faster, her eyes burning with this intense rapture. And to me, this little girl was the wildest of all, the one bit of precious purehearted life blazing around the asphalt. She was the gem, man. She was the star of the show. And as the last homerun echoed into the hazy afternoon light, I swore to myself that this little flaming pixie would stay with me longer than any one of the players in the freakshow before me.

-WILLA K

MASTERING THE CAMEL

2009-03-23T14:50:00.011-04:00

It's been months. Yeah, yeah, I get it. Negligent blogger, I know, I know. We already established this way back in May of last year. But in case you haven't noticed, there's a recession going on and that affects EVERYONE. Stop crying for those sad bankers and ex-Lehmanites, its we middle class Bloggers who get hit the worst. Yes, the recession has hit the AstoriaGirls hard. First Gweeny Deets got handed the pinkslip, and shipped off to pursue a better life in a state beginning not with M, but W. Even sadder, we lost our beloved Jax last month to what we thought was an accidental overdose. We suspected a cocktail of sleeping pills and painkillers but the autopsy said otherwise. Apparently crack is back, folks. Warn the kiddies. But I'm checking my politics at the door, man. While we AstoriaGirls support all that is American, you know, voting and campaigning and blaspheming and all, that is not what this blog is about. I have far more pressing things to discuss.

Namely Bikram Yoga.

Now I've never been one of those crunchy, holistic types, singsonging about deep breathing and releasing the world through your center. I don't believe in auras or chakras. I can't even "ohm" with a straight face. I can't deal. Its too much, and too slow, and I'm constantly paranoid I'm going to end up farting in my downward dog, and I highly doubt it actually does anything constructive, like say burning calories. Give me something challenging like running or boxing or cage fighting. Give me results. So I admit, yes, I was smug about Yoga. Bemused at best. Until they threw me in the box equivalent to the Seventh Circle of Hell. Try doing a downward dog in 110 degrees. Try doing anything in 110 degrees. Its crazy hard. For 90 minutes you're convinced you're going to die or implode or melt like that dude in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Liquids are pouring out every orifice, orifices you never even knew you had. Your mind and stomach reel with nausea, every inch of your body screams in protest. Needless to say, I'm obsessed.

There are several crucial things to consider before doing Bikram Yoga. The first is what to wear. Obviously sweatpants or spandex are a terrible idea. Be sure to avoid anything that may impede the sweat beading from your loins. Men seem to prefer the ease of a breezy pair of basketball shorts, but we ladies have it a little tougher. One may assume that the less you wear, the better it is for everyone involved, but that isn't always the case.

I once had the misfortune of pairing a preppy white sportsbra with a pair of cotton gym shorts. I was proud of myself for forgoing the tanktop, and I bounced my pontail into class with the pep of a british girl band. By the 20 minute mark, I was completely drenched in sweat, hair slicked back like a newly-birthed sea otter. My spanking white outfit, now translucent, left nothing to the imagination. It was a scenario far worse than that time I wore a plus sized girl's suit to my adult swimming lessons. Apparently sports bras and girls swimsuits have something in common: they do not have linings. But what can you do? I couldn't leave the class. That would only attract more attention, and there was no playing dumb. Try pretending your shiny, happy areola's aren't out there on display. Not with those floor to ceiling dance mirrors reflecting them 80 different ways. So there I was. The Ninety-Minute Nipple Show. The girls on parade. It's times like these when you just gotta' move on with your life. Lesson Learned. Next time wear black.

Then there was the lady who wore a pair of torn, leopard-print tights beneath a kelly-green thong. Man. Her downward dog was a thing to behold. She may have gotten the black sports bra right, but the rest of us were left calculating the number of days 'til her next bikini wax.

Which brings me to the second challenge of Bikram: the vomit factor. Most instructors suggest you don't eat a full two hours before class, and this really should be taken to heart. Just sitting in 110 degree heat is enough to make one toss their cookies, let alone twisting in positions unnatural to the human form. Everyone has a position that's worse than all the rest. You know, the one everyone else in the class tackles with the greatest of ease, but leaves you floundering like a dying mackeral on the mat. For me, its "camel pose." How I loathe camel pose. The diagram below demonstrates the horror fairly accurately. (Please note, in particular, Area #2. Apparently my fear of yoga-induced flatulence is not entirely unfounded.)

When all is said and done, after you've whispered that last Savasanah, closed your eyes, let go of all your earthly burdens, nothing compares to the feeling of the cool night air on your damp skin. Its equivalent to the high you get after running six miles or so. Some say the benefits of this bizarre form of torture far outweigh its discomfort. Maybe I believe it. Maybe we're all just masochists. Maybe in order to love life for what it is, we have to suffer for a few hours a day. If it makes the kiss of a cool breeze feel that delicious, I say bring it.

Willa K is back, b!tches.

SANDBOXES IS FOR BABIES

2008-08-13T15:24:00.009-04:00

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...

2008-06-23T09:05:00.047-04:00

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

2008-06-09T13:29:00.010-04:00

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...

2008-06-06T23:37:00.000-04:00

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

2008-06-03T10:18:00.038-04:00

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

2008-05-31T18:18:00.010-04:00

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

2008-05-28T23:19:00.013-04:00

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

2008-05-18T23:44:00.060-04:00

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

2008-05-18T22:57:00.006-04:00

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

2008-05-15T09:53:00.030-04:00

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!

2008-04-28T12:37:00.003-04:00

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

2008-04-21T17:46:00.020-04:00

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!

2008-04-21T14:46:00.003-04:00

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

2008-04-17T10:53:00.002-04:00

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

2008-04-15T10:25:00.004-04:00

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!

2008-04-10T12:53:00.000-04:00

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...

2008-04-10T00:38:00.000-04:00

FIRE ESCAPE FLORA WITH JANIE B

2008-04-09T23:19:00.000-04:00

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

2008-04-09T16:31:00.002-04:00

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

2008-04-07T14:10:00.005-04:00

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...

2008-04-07T11:59:00.004-04:00

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...

2008-04-06T20:50:00.001-04:00

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

2008-04-06T18:43:00.100-04:00

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

THAT SPA-LUNKING TIME OF YEAR

2008-04-03T12:51:00.017-04:00

For a girl who'd never had a mani-pedi until she moved here at the age of 23, the city sure has a lot of options when it comes to keeping up appearances. The other night Janie B-starr and I hunkered down and tried a little manual upkeep ourselves, you know, scraping the feet, painting the nails, masking the face, digging out the plantar warts etc... and before we knew it, three hours had passed and it was 1am. If we all did what all the magazines say we should to keep ourselves in tip-top condition, there'd be no time for anything else. Which got me thinking, just how much time do these impeccably groomed ladies spend powering around Manhattan, booking, rescheduling and canceling appointments? They're like well-oiled machines. Monthly facials. Bi-weekly mani-pedis. Haircuts every six weeks. Highlights twice a year with bi-monthly touchups. Glycolic peels, microdermabrasion, sea-weed body wraps, waxing, spraytans, eye-brow threading. And that doesn't even include the at-home maintenance. You pretty much need a whole other sugardaddy soley devoted to this kind of bodywork.

Lucky for us AstoriaGirls there is such a thing as SPA WEEK, and even luckier, its happening in two weeks. (http://www.spaweek.org/) I figured this is probably the best and most affordable way to begin my week of Spa-lunking. All appointments are $50 a pop, which is chump change when it comes to these types of things. And you better book your appointments now, since these timeslots go like hotcakes. Of course, Miss. Marble and the AstoriaGirls set up appointments at the only participating spa in Astoria: The Anasa Day Spa (http://www.anasadayspa.com/) We've decided that the 45 minute Anasa Signature Facial seemed the least invasive procedure on the menu. Unless it happens to be performed on this apparatus. By Hannibal Lecter.

Keep an eye out for Marble's full report on the 17th. Book your appointment today!

AN OPEN LETTER TO MY CELL PHONE

2008-04-02T15:43:00.010-04:00

If you’ve ever cracked open the back of your cell phone and come face to face with this little beaut, you know the type of blind fury only subpar technology can evoke. I like to consider myself a relatively calm and happy-go-lucky individual, but nothing gets my blood boiling like second-rate gadgetry. Which brings me to the object of my seething hatred:

Dear Motorola RAZR V3,

I tried to give you a chance. I really did. But you're an utter disapointment. Did I abandon you two days after you moved in, when your keyboard went on the fritz because I sweat on you? Not a chance. Did I kick you to the curb after the millionth time you dropped a call? Wouldn't dream of it. I stood by you through thick and thin, rescued you from cabs, saved you from falls and spilt beer, showered you with ringtones and limited edition My Little Pony stickers. And how do you repay me, you two-bit piece of plastic trash? Halfway into my "New Every Two" contract, you give up on life because of one light misting on a rainy April evening. You wuss. And now look at you. Withholding my texts. Refusing to let me dial " 0." Deleting my contacts! I've implored you for something, anything, and all you give me is the # sign. # ?! Well, # you, buddy. You worthless piece of un-warrantied junk. You water-damaged scumbag. You gave up on me, RAZR V3. You gave up on us. And that's why I'm leaving you for the LG ENv. He's brighter, he's hipper and has much thicker skin. Plus, his battery doesn't die after 2 minutes of use...low blow, I know, but what else can I say? It's over.

-Willa K

P.S. You have also earned the #3 spot on the list of Things That Are For Losers. Way to go.

WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD...

2008-04-01T17:24:00.007-04:00

So it turns out BOWZER moved into the neighborhood. Make sure to wish him and all his little goombas a warm Astorian welcome!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SITE!!!

2008-04-01T13:36:00.005-04:00

Was it only a year ago that our beloved SITE was born? (http://www.sitedesignnyc.com/) If you're into boxed wine, trunkshows and superfly jewlery this could be an event of a lifetime! See all you AstoriaGirls there!

WHO WE BE

2008-04-01T11:50:00.002-04:00

● JANIE BRUCKS ● WILLA K ● GWENNY DEETS ●

LANCOME, ENNUI AND A LITTLE O.M.D.

2008-04-01T10:23:00.012-04:00

Sometimes, when I’m feeling down in the dumps with nothing to look forward to, and all I hear is that “depression hurts” themesong looping around in my head, there’s a little trick I have to pick me up. These are my Molly Ringwald moments. You know them well. When all is lost, no one but Anthony Michael Hall wants to take you to Homecoming, and your life sucks so hard you just about want to drag the toaster in the bath. Drastic times call for drastic measures, and in situations as bad as these, there’s only one thing left to do. I shut my bedroom door, cue up some Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark and perch forlornly in front of the vanity. It’s Eighties Magic Makeover time. You know. That montage where Ally Sheedy swipes on some coal liner, dabs on some lipgloss, shakes out her hair, squinches her boobs and suddenly transforms into the likes of Kelly LeBrock. Some days it’s Phoebe Cates. Others it’s Debbie Harry. Special times conjur the likeness of Ms. Honeywell, herself. You know what I’m talking about. Those Magic Montage Moments. Pursing your sticky lips, maniacally flashdancing, your vanity mirror jump-cutting to the techno strains of So In Love. John Hughes, man. He programmed us well.
Sometimes I’m convinced I alone hold the cure for the clinically depressed, but the sad truth is, if you’re flat broke, my solution doesn’t work out so terribly well. You can’t just sit forlornly, staring in the vanity, farting around to O.M.D. YOU NEED PRODUCTS! And products cost money. Lots of it. If you’ve ever gone into a Duane Reade with the intention of picking up some toothpaste, some Q-tips or a bag of generic cotton balls, and left with a receipt close to the down payment on your boss’ brownstone, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Target’s even worse. No sooner do you hit the parking lot, then you’re declaring bankruptcy. It’s insanity. I’m not even bringing up Sephora here. The bottom line is you never really account for what you’ll spend on personal hygiene until you enter the Real World, and then, boy, are you in for an eye opener. A few years back, I had all but resigned to live out my depression with the Caboodle Kit leftovers I scrounged from my childhood, when I discovered a little gem called the L’Oreal Consumer Expressions Research Center. I can’t, for the life of me, remember who originally tipped me off. I have a feeling it was some irritating coworker who couldn’t put eyeliner on straight, but no matter, the karma wheel goes ‘round and ‘round, and now I’m passing along this good fortune to you. Here’s how it works. There are no websites. No phone numbers. No manuals for this kind of thing. You’re just going to have to take my word for it. Show up at the address below:

Consumer Expressions Research Center
575 5th Ave. (corner of 47th), 3rd Floor Atrium

Don't ask questions. Just go. Sometimes I feel like the more I elaborate, the more likely you'll screw it up and the whole thing will disintegrate into a puff of eighties glitter. Don't make me hate you. Anyway, you show up. You sign up. And then you go your merry way. For a few weeks you think it's all a dream, that you've been duped, you've been lied to, strung along like a product junkie on a tightrope wire, but eventually, you'll receive an email linking you to your first survey. If you pass this initial test, you'll be invited to join a study. Sometimes it's lipgloss. Other's its mascara. Facewash. Anti-wrinkle cream. Hair dye. Sometimes things get slightly...more involved. I won't divluge. Don't want to spoil the surprise.

But it's not all fun and games. It's important you take this very seriously. You MUST go to the research center yourself. You can't be sending lapboys or ex-governors in your stead. And you MUST return the products on the required dates, between the hours of 9am and 4:30pm. You MUST fill out the surveys honestly and thoroughly. And you MUST not, under any circumstances, antagonize the white labcoats conducting the studies. Any missteps, and it all turns into pumpkins and subway rats and they blacklist you for life.

This is obviously most convenient for those working in Midtown, but let's face it, most of us do. Those of you who don't probably buy your products at Bendel's and Bergdorf's and have very little use for my Magic Montage Moments, anyway. This post isn't for you, so stop reading. As for everyone else, if you've worked hard to complete every task set before you, you WILL be rewarded with a gift bag filled with aproximately $200 worth of high-end (and not-so-high-end) products. If you're really good, you can expect one of these every two months or so. Imagine. Floating through existence without ever buying a product again. Welcome to the goodlife.

- WILLA K

WHY WHOLE FOODS IS FOR LOSERS & CLIPPING COUPONS IS THE COOLEST...

2008-03-31T10:30:00.053-04:00

I once had the opportunity to attend a seminar on Catholic dating practices for singles, in which this particular self-help novelist hawked the virtues of “smart dating” and the ease of uncomplicated, hassle-free post-marital sex. (Yippy for them. Not sure how that helps us…) Of her cogent, ten-point system, Chapter 6 particularly caught my eye, in which the author asserts “Why Hooking Up is for Losers.” I quite like this terminology, for a number of reasons, many of which are glaringly obvious to you, so I’ll spare you my explanation. While I was regrettably unable to attend said seminar, due to a previous Happy Hour engagement, (seriously who schedules something between the hours of 5:30pm and 8pm on a Thursday), it inspired me to begin my very own list of "What Else is For Losers." In addition to hooking up, I'd like to assert that Whole Foods is, without a doubt, #2 on this list.

THINGS THAT ARE FOR LOSERS
#1. Hooking up.
#2. Whole Foods.

And here is why. First of all, Whole Foods is a total victim of Wal-Mart complex. It’s become so huge and chocked full of brand names and varieties, that grocery shopping becomes a veritable nightmare. It’s like shopping on Oxycontin or Nyquil: you walk around, aisle after candy-coated aisle, eyes glazed over, numb to the myriad choices and colors tap-dancing around you. Organic. Certified Organic. 100% Organic. Gluten-free. Cage-free. Certified Humane. Fair Trade. Probiotic. Vegan. Shadegrown. Locally grown. Grown from a wombat’s marsupial womb. And they’re all just begging to jump into your basket, they’re literally jumping off the shelves, and you start feeling guilty about that nasty carbon footprint of yours, and whether taking N-train to work and living in your 400 square-foot shoebox actually makes up for the fact that you still don’t compost, and before you know it, you’ve either walked out with things you will never need, let alone consume, or you find yourself on the street empty-handed and hyperventilating into a Euro-mesh sack. Except that’s not even possible. Because it’s freakin’ Euro-mesh sack. It’s a mess in there, I’m telling you. Secondly, even if you pop a few Ritalin and really get down to business, you’re going to end up leaving with a bill the size of a Pink Elephant tab. I’m going to let you in on a little secret: Unless you’re hosting the house party of the century, there is never EVER reason for a single person to spend more than $60 on a week’s worth of groceries. There are so many other better things in life to spend your money on. Like beer. Or shoes. Or bikini waxes. Really. Get yourself together here. Unless you have kids, there’s simply no need. And third of all, whoever said Whole Foods is the best place to meet that hot Mr. Somebody is a flagrant liar. Fresh markets are supposed to be a breeding pool for well-heeled, nerdalicious hotties, as though “organic” and “vegan” somehow translates into “nice guy with marriage potential.” Mom-grade approved. Please. I’m over it. Whole Foods is a breeding ground for angry, neurotic people in a hurry. Believe me, there are more than a few unsavory breeds of New Yorker in the Whole Foods these days. Predominantly working moms who’ve forgotten that it’s their kids’ bake sale day, and they need three dozen packaged-so-they-look-homemade cookies before 3:00pm. And it just so happens to be 2:52 – yeah, I’ve been there. Does that seem like the type of shopping environment ripe for romance? I didn’t think so.So if Whole Foods is For Losers, what, you may ask, is the alternative? I have two, count ‘em, TWO viable options, my friends, the first being Trader Joe’s.

Ahhhh Trader Joe’s. Like pre-packaged manna from heaven you bring food to us singles in small, microwavable servings. You, with your Hawaiian stoner charm, your cheery hibiscus, your pallet board simplicity. What the joint lacks for in space, it more than makes up for in charisma. And ease. And tan, tousle-headed surfer cashiers. True, the place can get jammed, especially on a Sunday afternoon, which is primo shoppingtime, and, yes, its only location is all the way (gasp!) in Union Square, but with a careful attack plan, this is probably the best shopping scenario out there. The problem of brand confusion is completely eliminated, since there is only ONE. Plus each product is carefully chosen by Joe, himself, so you’re shopping guilt-free. You never end up spending more than sixty bucks, no matter what you end up buying, and good old Joe even cut the onslaught of healthfood verbiage by marking products with easy-to-read symbols. Vegetarian food is marked with a simple green plant. Vegan food? A letter “V.” Kosher? “K.” That way, you only notice if you actually give a sh!t and the rest of us can just enjoy the colorful pictures. And while you may be shopping bumper to bumper, at least you’re excited about that hottie you’re getting all hot ‘n bothered, pressed up against. ‘Cuz people who shop at Trader Joe’s are dead sexy. It’s true. You’re just standing at the produce, minding your own business, and all of a sudden some Grade A hunk of American beefcake is stumbling all over your kiwis… Oh I’m sorry, I was just squeezing this melon... Oh hey there, think you could hand me that bag of edamame? One brief encounter in the frozen section, and would you look at that, you got yourself a date on Saturday night! Wham bam thank you ma'am. Onestop shop, that Trader Joe’s.

But you do need a foolproof plan to traverse the place on Sunday afternoon. I recommend tag-teaming it, since the lines sometimes wrap around the stores three or four times. Here’s how you swing it: Bachelorette #1 mans the mini-cart, you know, that sexy lil’ compact model perfect for nipping at the heels of any potential bachelors. B1 rolls right onto the end of the line as soon as she enters the store, hugging the periphery to stock up on produce, breads, meat, cold cuts, dairy, and finally cereal. Bachelorette #2 runs reconnaissance, picking up frozen and packaged goods up and down the interior aisles, dropping off the cargo as B1 makes her way down the line. Not only is this the most time-efficient way of shopping, but it eliminates any potential conflicts over the aforementioned hotties roaming around the establishment. B2 gets the aisle-dwellers and B1 gets the peripherals. Case closed. No negotiating. Switching roles every other shopping trip ensures you get a good mix of both. The last thing you want is a brawl between bachelorettes, which will inevitably land you both out on you’re a$$es, sad, single and utterly grocery-less. Trader Joe’s is no place for violence, my friend. It’s all capital P-A-Z in Traderland. (That means peace.)
If you do find yourself banned from TJ’s for life, your second best option is the local food stores right here in the neighborhood. If anyone’s ever walked 5,000 blocks with a week’s worth of groceries in hand, you know that the best store is the closest store. Unless it’s a C-Town or a Food World. I mean, who in their right mind goes to a grocery store called C-Town? Sketchy people, that’s who. Trust me on this one; if the store sign across the street has any superfluous punctuation or 2nd grade geography vocab, you’re better off hauling it over three avenues for a Key Food or something.

Yours truly? I count myself blessed to live in the close vicinity of the new Bravo located on 34th Avenue. http://www.bravosupermarkets.com/ It's clean, it’s organized, and the closest thing we got to what the rest of this world regards as a real supermarket. I’ve seen shopping carts 2-deep traversing those aisles. True, you sometimes have to hold your breath past the fish counter, and the frequent-buyer’s discount card never actually discounts anything, but this is a small price to pay for a decent selection at a fairish price. I typically use the Bravo for all the hefty purchases you dread lugging home from TJ’s, you know, your milk, your juices and any canned goods; things that don’t travel well through turnstiles and up and down subway stairs. Produce is always a win-lose situation: While the Bravo quality is great, it’s usually worth your extra buck to trek it to the 24-hour United Bros. Fruit Market on 30th Ave.
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But what you gain in savings, you lose in preservatives, so it really all depends on how fast you eat your veggies. There’s no sense in walking all those extra avenues if you end up tossing your 69-cent rutabagas two days later.

Another benefit to the local supermarkets, is it gives you a chance to flex your coupon clipping skills. While TJ’s brilliantly ousted the middlemen, keeping prices low and rendering coupons obsolete, (Joe, you sly devil, you!), Astoriastores accept ‘em all. It may seem, at first glance, that clipping coupons could be For Losers, or maybe grandmas, but really? It’s simply the coolest. All the hip kids are doing it, and if you pay attention and cut along the dotted lines like good little children, you’ll save oodles of cash on all the normal things everyone buys. You know, like toothpaste and soup, detergent, cereal, and Newman’s Own salsa. You usually end up saving the amount it takes to buy a Super Grande Mochacaramalatto at Starschmucks or two superior cups of joe at D&Ds.

'Til next time, all my coupon clipping winners...

-WILLA K

MARBLE SAYS....

2008-03-30T01:31:00.019-04:00

BUILD IT GREEN! is an ecologicaly-friendly way to update your apartment at a smart price. While you need to be a skilled handiman to make good use of most of the materials, there's a little something for everyone here. A great resource for artists, craftsmen and tinkerers alike. The enormous warehouse is well-organized and accessible, and the service is helpful and friendly. I'd definitely recommend a vehicle if you have access to one, as its a long hike, and the best finds are usually supersized. All major creditcards are accepted, so bring one along with an open mind and creative spirit! The bottom line?

I give it:

BEING GREEN IS EASIER THAN YOU THINK

2008-03-29T22:29:00.067-04:00

Steps: 23,176

Last week, while dropping off Jax’s water sample to be tested for narcotics, Janie Bruckstarr stumbled upon this little gem out in Sunnyside. www.myspace.com/strayvintage (See, we do leave Astoria from time to time.) The shop’s called Stray…vintage and more, and it’s a spectacular find, as far as reasonably-priced vintage stores go. Janie brought home this cheery little drop-waist number for under $30, sending the rest of the AstoriaGirls all in a tizzy, so we schlepped it back up to Sunnyside to see what we could see. And we saw plenty. But, for all my unbridled enthusiasm, I’d forgotten how outrageously broke I was that week, and had to stop myself from purchasing half the jewelry counter. The place is sensibly priced, stocked full of authentic vintage items and some great consignment stuff too. I was about to leave with my proverbial tail between my legs, when Gwenny Deets struck up a conversation with the owner, Stray Dan, who happened to mention some nonsense about a Green Building warehouse down on Astoria Boulevard. My ears pricked up. You mean in the projects?! Dan agreed it was pretty far East. Now nothing excites me more than an excuse to go traipsing along the East River. Most people shy away from the likes of 3rd Street and beyond, but really, I'll use any excuse to go wandering that side of the N/W line. Any chance I get.

So today, after a few cups of morning espresso, the AstoriaGirls picked up Miss. Marble and headed down to Astoria Boulevard, which just so happens to be Jax’s old digs. JBrucks and I reminisced back to the summer of ’07, when we stumbled upon his halfway house on the way to Astoria Park. There he was. Takin' a smoke break on the stoop, catcalling the locals, and grumbling about some narc confiscating his bowl. One thing led to another, and before long we'd decided we'd be fools not to split our rent three ways. We slipped his parole officer a fiver, tossed Jaxie in with our Mexican takeout, and the rest is history. Ohh the memories. We’d just finished telling Miss Marble and Gwenny Deets the charming tale, when it dawned on us that no one had asked Stray Dan for directions. (http://www.bignyc.org/hoursaddressdirections) No worries, we thought. We’ll just head east on Astoria Boulie and hit it in no time. It’s a warehouse, right? Can't miss it. So onwards and Eastwards we went, stopping in at a few “antique” furniture depots not particularly worth mentioning, but I guess I just did anyway. At this point, we’d already gone well beyond 21st Street, and Miss. Marble began to fret that 4:30pm was drawing nigh…

Flashback: Earlier this morning, Janie B struck a shady deal with our Postman. She agreed to an illicit meeting at the post office at 4:30 to retrieve two packages she’d missed earlier in the week. And if you know anything about anything, you know that making a deal with a Postman is worse than making a deal with the devil. A Postman never rings twice and NEVER makes promises. Janie B was smart enough to realize she’d come across a once in a lifetime opportunity. You don’t turn down an offer like that. Not on a Saturday. Not after-hours. A Postman strikes you a deal, you be there. It’s like signing your soul away.

So here it is, nearly 3:45, we’ve passed 14th Street, and there’s not a warehouse to be found. In fact, there’s not much of anything. No cars. No people. Just a few plastic C-Town bags blowing in the breeze like little urban tumbleweeds. Onwards and Eastwards we go, until GwennyDee spies what appears to be a homeless colony camped out in mesh wire enclosure. Miss. Marble’s hackles go up. And then WHAM. We’re in it.

You know what I’m talking about.

When you’re walking, just sorta singsonging along, and you cross the street and all of sudden you just know. Instinctual-like. All the buildings start looking the same, people are yelling things like My, aren’t you scrumptious!, and that magnetic arrow on your interior compass starts pulling you around, sending you back from whence you came. Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. You could have grown up in the podunkiest town in that state beginning with M, but you know exactly where you are. 3:57. We see the River but no warehouse. I'm lovin' it.

Now I’ll be d*amned if the AstoriaGirls walked all that way down Astoria Boulevard, only to show up empty-handed when we face Il Postino and his host of incubi. But the magnetic pull’s got a hold of Miss. Marble and we’re already backtracking past the homeless colony. Only it’s not a homeless colony. And it’s not a padlocked enclosure either, but a small public park, and, lo and behold, the homeless people are actually gardeners. It's kismet! We march right up and ask for directions, and one gardener tells us to take a right and then a left, and then another right and then a left. Now usually, when someone tells you to "take a right and then a left, and then another right and then a left", it’s New York speak for eff off you effing tourist, and stop standing in the middle of the sidewalk. But we AstoriaGirls had an inkling that this homeless gardener might actually be on to something. So we took a right and then a left, and then a right and BINGO. Gwenny Deets spotted this sign shimmering like a beacon in the distance…

So we enter, and behold! Enough building materials to create a brand new Astoria from the ground up. It’s like a giant erector set, but for grownups who know how to hammer for realsies. I’m talking walls upon walls of doors, windows, kitchen cabinetry, clawfoot tubs, a ceramic rainbow of toilets and tiles, plumbing, furniture, lamps, diner booths, arcade games, laboratory equipment, microscopes, bins brimming with electronics, roller coaster tracks, and just about anything you’d need to build your own theme park. And it’s cheap, man. With the way real estate prices are going, you’re better off buying a start-up kit at Build It Green! and assembling it all in a back alley somewhere. Not only that, but the place was loaded with happy, shiny eye-candy; the sensitive, environmentally-friendly kind, only rugged and more musclebound.

We AstoriaGirls found a little something to take home with each of us. Vintage glasses went for 50 cents a pop, and I picked up two 1960's valises for $15. (Been dying to construct a suitcase bookshelf for ages. To make your own go to: http://readymademag.com/printarchive/article?id=900) JBS picked up a few chemist's flasks to use as itty bitty vases for single blooms, and Gwenny Deets got the digits to some stud rockin' a pair o' buddy holly glasses. All in all, the day was a success, and we've added another landmark to the AstoriaGirl Map.

So cha-check it out. Until the next adventure...

- WILLA K

JAX

2008-03-27T22:56:00.010-04:00

Born and bred in the gutters of Astoria Boulevard, Jax the Fish, has ultimate street cred. A skilled Siamese Fighter, he did some time for assault before we crossed paths, but he’s not a bad roommate if you can get over his past. He’s been the eyes and the ears of the ‘hood for decades, and a fathomless source for all things Queens-related. Jax is currently on house arrest, but his parole officer says if he keeps it clean for the next six weeks, we can take him on daytrips. We test his water weekly. It's not easy sharing a place with a junkie fish, but Janie Brucks and I take it day by day. Besides. His information is invaluble. The nasty b*stard can be reached at JaxHatesTheAstoriaGirls@gmail.com He's got the answer to anything and everything you'd ever want to know about Astoria. But don’t expect him to be nice about it. He tell it like it is.

So "ASK JAX." Go on. We dare you.

MARBLE

2008-03-27T22:41:00.009-04:00

A canine of impeccable taste and high breeding, its hard to believe Miss. Marble was once a wayward urchin combing the streets of the city’s elite. Only a year ago, our fledgling aficianado was found wandering the back alleys of the Upper West Side, nosing around the trashbins of 5-star restaurants, and sniffing out gourmet bistros before she could lose her babyteeth. Gwenny Deets discovered the prestigious pooch at the local ASPCA, and knew on the spot she was destined for Astoria greatness. We never could figure out why she spoke in that lofty British accent of hers...I always assumed it was the beagle in her, though she’ll never admit she’s anything but a bonafide connoisseur of life. Marble is the ultimate authority on what’s hot and what’s not. Watch out for her pawprints of approval, and her column “MARBLE SAYS…”

2008-03-27T16:36:00.012-04:00

Hello folks. Willa K here -- welcome to my Backwoods Guide to NYC, a site devoted exclusively to my adventures in the glorious borough that is Queens and beyond. This all started the other day when we AstoriaGirls got to talking, and realized we spent pretty much all of last summer walking the streets of Queens. Not in the carnal, Spitzerly-loving way, but in the literal walking kind of way, trekking from Broadway to Ditmars Blvd., looping around to Steinway, meandering down to the River and back again. Because when you’re broke and you’re single, walking is pretty much the cheapest form of entertainment you have ‘round these parts. Not only are there troves of hidden cultural wonderment just begging to be discovered, but all kinds of crazy people and places, not to mention some hardcore window-shopping. Plus, it generally passes the time you could be spending clubbing or dining in swanky bistros, only you don’t have boyfriends or sugardaddies or governors willing to bust out their campaign funding. Walking around Astoria is really the next best thing.

You may find yourself asking, just who are these AstoriaGirls? The truth is you’ve probably seen us at one time or another, roaming the streets of our beloved borough, walking Marble the British Dog, championne of class and taste, and generally stopping traffic with our wily, wandering ways. We’re three chicks from three different states all starting with M, which generally implies we grew up in the sticks or the dirty south. Hence all this walking experience. It’s what we non-native New Yorkers know best. But being an AstoriaGirl is much more than that. It's a state of mind. An ethos, if you will. Our only requirements? Streetsmarts, curiosity, and an unrepentant love of Queens. Which may lead you to ask, Why Astoria? Why now? Honestly, Queens gets a bad rap. It’s widely regarded that in the pecking order of boroughs, mighty Manhattan trumps all, with trendytown Brooklyn coming in a close second, followed by the Bronx ‘cuz it’s home to the Yanks’ Evil Empire. Then there’s Staten Island, but let’s face it, no one really counts Staten Island as a borough, anyway. It’s like Long Island, only worse. That leaves us with lowly Queens. I see how you city people spit the word out with distaste: Queens. The ugliest borough of the NY Fivefecta. Queens. That desolate expanse of concrete and bodegas. Queens. The only thing at the end of the wretched 7 line. Queens. Home to that creepy metal globe and the flying saucers you only know exist because you saw “Men in Black.” Yeah, Queens. The place gives you automatic street cred. You can’t deny it.

But here I am rambling on and on about Q-town, when all I really want to talk about is Astoria, the most glorious neighborhood of all, for so many reasons and on so many levels. What other ‘hood has its own theme song? Many fail to realize that the “N-N-Notorious!” hook off the Born Again album has origins steeped in Queenslore. [Ass-TOHR- ee-ah!] Biggie may have grown up in Bed-Sty, but he left his heart in A-land. Urban legend has it he and Tupac live off of Ditmars somewhere. Not only that, but according to the US Census, Queens is the most ethnically diverse borough in existence, which I largely credit to hoodlette’s like ours. Greeks, South Americans, Czechs, Indians, Puerto Ricans, Koreans, Dutch, Mexicans, Laotians, Pakistanis, Central Americans, Russians, African Americans, Irishmen, Egyptians, Canadians, wannabe actors, starving artists, people from states that start with M – we got ‘em all here. And aside from a few pockets of cultural mono-conformity, we’re all mixed in together, eternally bound by small salaries and an affinity for wide open spaces.

I could go on and on extolling the virtues of this illustrious region, except then there’d be no reason for this site. Yes, you guessed it! Each week, the AstoriaGirls will explore another nook of this amazing city, for better or disastrously worse, and share our findings with all you sheltered, Manhattan types. I’d also like to point out that, while we may be unabashedly biased, the AstoriaGirls are NOT prejudiced. We realize that by presuming you'll go soooooo out of your way as to cross the East River, it would only be hypocritical to ignore the other four boroughs of this fine city. We assure you there will be plenty of “Excursions” and shout-outs to the outside establishments who truly deserve it. We are also not above calling out those that happen to suck monkeyballs. This weekend marks the advent of our travels, so stay tuned!!

- Willa K

P.S. Please feel free to send suggestions, queries or general musings. We’ll take it all, as long as its Queens-related or halfway entertaining.