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.

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