“I live in the cool part of Williamsburg.” That’s what the response to a Craigslist ad said. Later, in person, he clarified that he lived on the cusp of the ‘doxies and the hipsters. “My yard is the bridge.” Funny to hear someone rave about that because in the past, living near a bridge, a tunnel or train tracks was a bad thing, as in, living on the wrong side of the tracks. Ex: when in Pretty in Pink, Molly Ringwald won’t let the richie drive her home. “I don’t want you to know where I live!:(”

But I digress. I was in the market for a new friends-with-benefits. New ‘hood, new FWB. A situation like this, spurred by a dry spell, leads to the question: Why isn’t there a service for women called 1-800-dial-booty? I suppose some people call these male escorts. But, what I’m wondering is, if men have “massage parlors,” such as the one in Curry Hill that at 10 p.m. on a Thursday is open to give manicures, why aren’t there Italian men offering gay men and straight women massages?

But again I digress. This boy presented himself as a decent looking SWM, living in Williamsburg, working at his father’s factory, a native New Yorker, 420-friendly. Seemed fine, until I realized I’d met the stereotypical borough yid. OK, disclaimer: I’m a Jew, so I can say these things. If you are not of the chosen tribe, you may not. Just trust me or fear the wrath of even your secular friends.

After a few emails, we agreed to meet for a drink. I chose Rue B because it was dubbed a Jazz bar and a few people had recommended it. Dark and cozy, candle lit, filled with a mix of East Villagers and transplants from France, walls covered with black and white pictures of cultural icons, it was a great setting for meeting someone new. Public enough to be safe, close to my house and chill.

But, as I was staring of the picture of James Dean and the legs of a thick white roller girl-type, wearing shorts and rainbow knee-high socks, I began realizing I’d scored a sort-of date with another confused New York man. Driven by the status quo and the pressure to earn, this secular, ecstasy swallowing, bike activist told me that after college, he spent time in Cozumel, Mexico, selling diamonds from a 46th Street shop to the tourists coming off cruise ships. Imagine that, a Queens native living in Cozumel, selling diamonds from Manhattan, likely by way of Africa, to Long Island residents on a Carnival trip. Oh the irony.

He told me that taking that job was good, because it got him on a career track and now he is money hungry. Otherwise, he might’ve ended up a beatnik. Oh the horror! And so back he came to the U.S. and ended up working for his dad’s Bronx-based factory, an import/export business, with a personal assistant in The Philippines (they write American English!), and a techie in India. It’s the American way!

On and on, about the sisters in Israel, the travel to South America, the many raging parties at his house spearheaded by his rich techie friend and the activist bikers downstairs. Oh so appealing. Meanwhile, he finished his beer in about two minutes. I’m not talking a 12-ounce bottle. I’m talking a pint of ale. It’s almost like it is supposed to seem like silent bragging, like a virtual pounding on the chest of  a man that does not remotely resemble his primate counterpart.

But I’m not mad and I’m not sad. I’m not even disappointed. For I’ve got a tap Blue Moon in my hand, a bartender with a blond ponytail to glance at, and a giant photo of my love, James Dean, dead center ahead. It could be worse.

And so we segue to the movie, music and travel questions. The awkward silences. The bold questions–”do you have any vices, any fetishes, do you like girls?” Boring me, no, uh besides liquor and 420, which I don’t think of as vices. I’ve never done the “girl thing,” I respond. Am I sounding boring? Only in New York does a toking, drinking writer with colleagues in India and London, and a Kiwi trip planned–fear being boring?

So, after I finish my beer, he bluntly asks, “so, would you like to come back to Williamsburg with me?” I’ve already set up that I have a fictional assignment, so I say no this time. He advises that he is going to leave then and settles the bill. I have finally mastered the art of not even attempting the reach. Girl power!

So he pays and we walk out. He pulls the “I’m going this way,” so that I can say “well, I’m going that way.” And he says, “keep in touch. You’re cute.” And that’s all. I happily duck into the bodega to grab some milk to accompany tomorrow’s French press coffee. The last face of the night I see is the sweet middle-aged Arab man behind the counter, clothed in many layers, complete with a hood. We commiserate over the 19-degree weather and he flashes a kind innocent smile. Home to the organic vodka and tea, the cats and the computer. Not all men in NYC are crazy, but most of them are resistible.

The Dirt:
You might see the two pit bulls roaming the boutique of the surf-meets-street Greenpoint boutique Alphabeta and assume the folks that hang out are unapproachable. Walk through the back door to the enclosed event space and the outdoor area and you’ll find the dogs are right there with you, keeping everyone company. The painters are part of an art cooperative business of sorts called The Younity that was founded by Maria Castillo, AKA Toofly, and Alice Mizrachi. They are proof of the evolution of graffiti art and its offspring, namely one-dimensional installations, stencils and street art and their influence on fashion and jewelry design. Today, these particular graffiti artists are the roots of the female art consortium that is a grassroots initiative empowering female artists. From the outside, the sneaker-clad graffiti artists might appear fierce, but a look beyond their style shows they are merely rough around the edges, ensuring that outsiders understand their mission. Spray paint cans in hand, M.I.A. and Outkast’s Jazzy Belle blare as the sun shines on this nook of Brooklyn, just another work in progress. The end result will be a visualization of their souls and the world as they see it, in the form of painted outdoor walls to accompany the indoor group exhibition. To some it is street art and objects of desire; to others, a country in need of a revolution; and to all, a gender in need of raising up.

The artist’s struggle is well known in New York City, but the electronic age has pushed that struggle to the outer boroughs. Now that the days of Jean-Michel Basquiat spray painting lower Manhattan are long gone, replaced by shiny museums and boutiques, the artists have made their way to the few neighborhoods they can afford to live and work in, such as Brooklyn’s Bushwick, Greenpoint and Bedford-Stuyvesant; Sunnyside, Queens; and recently, in parts of the Bronx near Grand Concourse. The result is the creation of a hodge podge of characters coexisting in enclaves formerly inhabited by one or two ethnic groups, from the Polish in Greenpoint to the Puerto Ricans in the Bronx and the Caribbean natives in Bed-Stuy. The greater impact is the realization that what was once counter culture is now mainstream, with graffiti artists gaining licensing deals from brand names attempting to lure the new youth and their allowance.

That is not what The Younity is about. The for-profit artist collective started by Toofly and Mizrachi is about empowering women through art, and as Mizrachi explains, “it provides a platform.” These artists are just one group in the subculture that struggles to gain recognition without losing their voice, in a world dominated by consumerism and driven by technology and the jetsetera. But, what they share with all Americans is the aim to live by doing what they love and achieve the goal of getting outsiders to judge them for their work, not their appearance. For these women, it’s not about finding that perfect place between the unknown and the mainstream recognition; it’s about getting a message to other women and girls looking for an outlet where their art is welcome. According to Toofly, it’s about being “approachable as artists and to make ourselves available.” The canvas, be it a wall, a piece of metal or a skateboard, is just a material where they paint their dreams and thoughts.

Ironically, the hipsters of New York City, with their ubiquitous indie rock bands, skinny jeans, reincarnated 80s fashion styles, fags and coffee diet, and overpriced accessories, show us that the appetite for something meaningful and an audience all our own is a bonding factor—that and our vices. If alcohol was both the muse and sustenance for artists of the 50s; love and drugs for the 60s and 70s; graffiti, hip-hop and hard core drugs for the 80s; and the beginning of excess for the 90s, then the millennium feeds off the merging of opposites. This is seen in suits supporting artists, hipsters buying new condos, the cool struggle, fashionable chipped nails and finally, the art world’s appreciation for graffiti and its commercial byproducts: clothing and collectible adult toy trinkets.

This is just another reason we are impressed by Younity. Toofly and Mizrachi are the organizers and curators of the annual show and the first book (2008) showcasing the work of 60 artists. Structured as a book of perforated postcards with the artist’s name and title on the back, we suggest leaving the book intact. Years down the road when these women have created a conglomerate, an art-focused version of Marc Ecko’s empire, you’ll have a trinket of their mid-career work and the vision to appreciate their mission.

Bonus:
The group plans to create a nonprofit with a focus on youth programs, and to expand its partnerships, which include Black Girls Rule.

Where:
For more information on Younity, visit The Younity website. The book had a run of 200 but depending on opening night (10/17/08) sales, they might reprint. The $19.50 book will split its profits, with 70% going to the artists, and 15% each going to the gallery and the organization.

Spotted: South Street Seaport, NYC

Name: David

Age: 18

Hometown: Bronx

Current ‘hood: Bronx

First language: English

Other languages: None

Job: Catering

Ethnicity: Guyanese-American

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Favorite Condiment: Hot Sauce

Religion: None

Favorite Nut: Cashew

On your iPod now: Alicia Keys, Jay-Z, Ne-Yo, Mary J. Blige

Favorites movies: Spiderman, Pulp Fiction

Dream Job: To be an actor.

Wishlist: “I want to be famous.”

Spotted: Union Square

Name: Nadia

Age: 23

Hometown: Bronx

Current ‘hood: Bronx

First language: English

Other languages: A bit of Spanish

Job: Part-time waitress, studying to be an ultrasound technician

Ethnicity: First Generation American born to Jamaican parents, with grandparents from Panama.

Favorite Condiment: Ketchup

Religion: Christian

Favorite Nut: Cashew

On your iPod now: Amy Winehouse, Dennis Brown

Favorites movie(s): Next Friday, Meet the Fockers

In your makeup case: Blush, bronzer, mascara, lip gloss- mostly Black Opal

Dream Job: To be a full-time singer, R&B and reggae.

Wishlist: A car, a house, a clothing boutique

Check out Nadia’s MySpace page.