SUSHI PRINCE DOES ASTORIA

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

'SATC' = A PLATE OF SUGAR-DUSTED POO

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

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

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

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

Thanks and have a nice night.

- WILLA K

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

SPOTTED!

WHO: JOHN TURTURRO

WHERE: STREETS OF PARK SLOPE, BROOKLYN

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

WHAT: GOING FOR A LEISURELY STROLL

ASTORIA'S BEST KEPT SECRET

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

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

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

Kisses,

WILLA K

Things meant only for AstoriaGirldom.

SPOTTED!

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

(NO LIE, DUDE!)

BBQ PROHIBITION 2008

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

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

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

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

-Willa K

A SPALUNKING WE WILL GO

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

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

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

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