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.