ONE FINE DAY IN ASTORIA

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-WILLA K

And now a discussion...

Miracles and more! All made possible by eBay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blast.

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

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

One Love.

WILLA K

JUST SAY NO...TO QUINOA

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

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

- WILLA K

MARBLE SAYS...

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

WALK TWO MOONS IN ANOTHER MAN'S HEADPHONES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- WILLA K

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

THAILAND DOES BROADWAY

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

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

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

SOMEDAY, MY HEART BELONGS IN REDHOOK

Rusty Trolleys = Babymaking Time

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

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

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

Yes, Red Hook.

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

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

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

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

Or with my AstoriaGirls. You know. Whatever works.

- WILLA K

I dream of Fairways by the sea...

A PIG ROAST IN BED-STUY

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

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

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

My AstoriaGirls had come to the rescue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until then...

-WILLA K

SUSHI PRINCE DOES ASTORIA

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

'SATC' = A PLATE OF SUGAR-DUSTED POO

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

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

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

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

Thanks and have a nice night.

- WILLA K

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

SPOTTED!

WHO: JOHN TURTURRO

WHERE: STREETS OF PARK SLOPE, BROOKLYN

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

WHAT: GOING FOR A LEISURELY STROLL

ASTORIA'S BEST KEPT SECRET

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

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

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

Kisses,

WILLA K

Things meant only for AstoriaGirldom.

SPOTTED!

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

(NO LIE, DUDE!)

BBQ PROHIBITION 2008

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

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

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

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

-Willa K