Cas-i-NON This Saturday, I joined about 700 of my neighbours to protest the proposed building of a casino/hotel/entertainment complex in the Peel Basin. Funded by Loto Quebec and supported by the Cirque du Soleil, I can't think of anything more crass than building a luxury venue next to one of Montreal's poorest neighbourhoods (Point St-Charles)--a neighbourhood that has but one bank (a Caisse Populaire), no outdoor swimming facilities and two depressed commercial arteries. With almost a billion dollars to invest in this project, Loto Quebec, the Montreal Board of Trade, and the Cirque du Soleil are all touting the economic benefits of this project for the area. As the protest coalition noted in their literature, *any* investment of a billion dollars will have economic impact. What kind of impact, however, is the subject of debate. The protest coalition notes that placing a casino closer to an impoverished neighbourhood would simply make gambling-related problems more evident. I'm not concerned about increases in crime and don't really support arguments that are quasi-moralistic regarding poor folk and gambling--a chacun son dentifrice, as they say. At one point during the protest march, a woman watching from the sidewalk shouted "Combien billets Loto achetez-vous?" While it's true that the majority of Loto Quebec users are from neighbourhoods like Point St-Charles, there's no point in rubbing their faces in it. Complicity shouldn't equal condemnation. My stance against this stupid, monlithic project comes from a different place--a place where mature economic decisions are made. As an individual, I'm allowed to make questionable choices with my income. I can choose, for example, to spend all my grocery money on a new pair of shoes. When a government agency, however, exhibits the same fiscal decision-making process as me, we're in trouble. Loto Quebec should be buying groceries, not adding to its wardrobe.

Happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween!
Originally uploaded by mellowkitty.

Bathrooms in New York Travelling to New York for the first time in the 80s, I remember the bathrooms of Chinatown. Typically, I'd carefully descend a set of steep stairs, trying desperately not to touch the walls on either side. I'd open the washroom door with the cuff of my coat, hold my nose, and gingerly squat. While the days of disgusting washrooms in NYC are pretty much over--the cleanest washroom I used in NYC this trip was actually in Chinatown--their number hasn't increased to accommodate the number of Sunday afternoon pee-ers. This Sunday, after a brunch of Dim Sum, I walked through the Lower East Side to Tompkins Square where I have fond memories of staying with a friend of my ex's who lived just off the park. Back then, people made their homes in the Square. Today, the grassy bits are fenced off and you can buy organic vegetables from the green market there every weekend. Anyway, desperate for a bathroom after multiple cups of Jasmine tea, I found the Starbuck's north of the park. These days, Starbuck's can be relied on to provide a mediocre espresso and a clean washroom.Walking in, there was a small line up at the facilities. There was also one available table. I told myself that if the table was available after I exited the washroom, I would buy a coffee and read my book for a bit. I would use the facilities again before I left because--as we all know--coffee is a diuretic. I peed, found the table still free and secured it by boldly draping my leather jacket over the chair. I read a few chapters, and decided it was time to leave. As I was putting on my coat, one guy, then two got up to use the washroom as well. Then, a homeless gal walked in through the front door and beat us all to the punch. I was in a politically (in)correct situation. Tompkins Squre had provided shelter to the homeless. Now Starbuck's toilet--which I rely on as well for hassle-free facilities--was certainly going to be hi-jacked by the homeless gal. While the guys ahead of me complained about the length of time she was taking (she was going to be hours), I decided to hoof it to another Starbuck's and leave the lady in peace and the guys alone to stew in their disdain for the sans abri. There were two more Starbuck's on my walk back to Broadway, each with lineups longer than the last. I decided it would be faster and easier to take the subway two stops to Macy's and use the always clean, always available facilities there. Macy's provided the relief I needed. And I didn't buy a thing....

Arrived in New York again on Friday night, after a delay of two hours due to the heavy rain falling in Montreal and New York. My biggest fear when travelling by plane is not crashing, but being seated next to a larger person with whom I will have to battle for personal space--particuarly that of the middle arm rest. That's why I prefer window seats: at least I can burrow into a corner and feign sleep for the duration of the flight. Happily, my seat mate was a young woman flying to New York to meet a young man she had met in Montreal the week previous. Obviously excited about the romatic weekend ahead of her, she immediately endeared herself to me by saying, "You're makeup really suits you. I'm a makeup artist." We soon discovered that we were staying one block from each other on West 43rd, so made a pact to share a cab from the airport, saving us both the cost of a bottle of decent wine. It was a good flight.

Ad(d) Exec(ute) I met my first NYC ad exec. Account manager for the client for whom we're producing CG footage, he looked vaguely like Elvis Costello. He had the requisite glasses but was sans the desired witty intelligence. Sitting in a small bar not far from the studio where we're working, I was surrounded by our client at the post-production house, my business partner, and the ad exec. I normally don't have problems in mixed company. I'm good with small talk, am up on current affairs, and smile readily to put someone else at ease. Regardless, it didn't matter what I said, whatever it was sat in the middle of the table looking for a home. Perhaps it was because I was shocked and amused to discover the pharmaceutical product for which we are producing imagery is made from hamster embryos. Perhaps because it was I described the images on my head: teddy bear hamster-esses clutching their shaved bellies after having sacrificed the contents of their wombs for a product that alleviates rheumatoid arthritis--some of them held small hot water bottles to their empty uteruses to ease the pain. Perhaps it was because I questioned the annual cost to consumers for the drug: $16,000.00. When I changed the subject and started talking about something else, his eyes held mine and wandered simultaneously to the street scene outside, seemingly seeking escape from the hypnotic hamster wheels he saw in my irises.

Shopping in NYC

Shopping in NYC
Originally uploaded by mellowkitty.

Is happiness contained in a Century 21 shopping bag?

Man-hatt-an: "Black on White" or "Shaken, not Stirred" I've the rare opportunity for an extended stay in New York City due to a contract my company just acquired. I've rented an apartment for me and my partner in the Theatre district, which is central to everything, but near nothing in particular unless you adore Times Square. Last week was hot and muggy. Having packed only Fall clothes, I sweated like a little pig and thought twice about sightseeing in the afternoons. I did get some shopping in and I did make it to the newly renovated MOMA, where I rekindled a relationship with those large Jackson Pollock canvasses for which I have a strong, yet inexplicable, attraction. Black handprints on the canvas make me wonder if the artist is caught in the web of paint. Also: Why are all the patrons in the museum white? And: Why are all the guards black? Sitting in the W hotel's "living room" waiting for some folks to join me, I become facinated by the video projection of the street scene outside. Located on 47th street just off Times Square, the video brings the great unwashed indoors. Inside, patrons--like me--don't sense the irony of beaming the image of a homeless man sitting on a concrete block outside the TCKTs counter into a space of cold, hard privilege. I stand at the bar and order a glass of red wine. Beside me are three men, identically dressed (light blue jeans, untucked cotton shirts), identically coiffed (closed cropped hair), and identically shod (Italian loafers). At first, I think they are hotel staff because what they're wearing seems more uniform than style. I realize they, too, are simply waiting for their order: Vodka Martinis.