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Why you've got to stop eating at restaurants

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   Montreal has become a glorified foodie town and there are many excellent restaurants here which help the tourist industry and give prestige to the city. But unless you own or work in such an establishment, they're just killing your bank account.
   In recent years the restaurant industry has exploded in Quebec as Montrealers apportion far too much of their meagre after-tax income at such places.
    We spend about five times more than by eating something similar at home.
   Why? Because grocery shopping is inconvenient and time consuming.
  In recent years we've heard the term food desert used increasingly to describe various neighbourhoods, (although desert is hardly a word that springs to mind when you look out the window at this hellishly cold winter).
   The province created those deserts by driving half of all corner stores out of business over the last 30-or-so years. Quebecers once bought a good percentage of their groceries at such nearby, convenient locations, which were sacrificed for the glory of the much more distant grocery stores.
   Getting to a grocery store and hauling back groceries can be difficult for non-car owners and young people are increasingly not buying cars.
   I used to sling heavy laden bags on the handlebars of my mountain bike, an awkward and ungainly method but others are forced to take a bus or a taxi.
  So grocery shopping is cumbersome and inconvenient and time-consuming to many but it's still worth it.
  Grocery shopping by phone or through the internet has - rather incomprehensibly - never taken off in spite of repeated large-scale efforts, presumably because people want to see what they're buying.    
   But you've got to find a way to get those groceries, because your $14 restaurant meal is no better than what you can cook for yourself at home in your underwear and that $6 beer only costs you about a buck at home and ...hell invite your friends over, it'll still be cheap.
   Plopping down $9 for your lunch is equally obscene when you can just bring a can of soup and a Lord Sandwich that'll cost you less than a buck, so stop going out for lunch while at work, you're just being a dick.
  While restaurants are expensive, groceries are almost obscenely cheap now. We spend about 10% of our household incomes on groceries now, whereas we used to spend about 25% in the 70s.
   So imagine next time you're at the cash of your local grocery store, multiply the bill by 2.5 and recognize that you are miraculously blessed that you're not forced to pay that much.
   The money we save in groceries is clawed back through increased housing costs anyway, which take far more of our budget than they did during the 70s and 80s.
   Restaurant-eating also comes with bragging component that grates on the nerves. I often hear people babble with bravado and showoffery about eateries they munched at but it's much more impressive to whip something up for yourself and you'd get far more esteem by inviting friends to eat chez toi and showing them what a great cook you are.  
   And if you're really inclined to brag, go shop at some exotic grocery joint like the farmers market and then blow people away with your grocery shopping know-how instead.
   Creator > discerning consumer anyway.
    So you need to get yourself logistically organized and learn a few basic recipes and learn the discipline of grocery shopping and restaurant-avoiding.
    Meanwhile who wants to partner with me in a simple old fashioned venture: we buy a cheap old cube van to drive around selling fruits and vegetables to homes along the route.
   The F-and-V rig would be souped up with a bell as well as a GPS app so people can know where you are and ask you to pass by their place.  We'll make a buck and let water flow to the food desert. 

Mysterious death on Cote des Neige and Ridgewood

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 Sisavath Pangasit, aged around 37, was alone with his wife at their seventh-floor apartment on Cote des Neiges just after Christmas when a series of events led to his death.
  The two had wed about six months before and were inseparable.
  Pangasit grew up attending French school in Dollard where he enjoyed performing in hip hop dancing shows. He had previously worked at Snakes Poker Club but was listed on his FB profile as being as self-employed at the time.
  He was believed to have made extra income by being a small-time supplier of illicit opiates.
  He had apparently only recently become seriously hooked on drugs and was being pulled into a tragic spiral of addiction and confusion.
   One of the two called 911 for reasons unknown that Friday evening and police came to their apartment 4760 Cote des Neiges on Dec. 27.
   Bee, as he was known, was in a highly-paranoid state and was acting erratically.
  Police were apparently inside the apartment when he ultimately flung himself off of his balcony.
  His wife, who witnessed the affair, was deeply traumatized by the event and disappeared a couple of days after. She is believed to be somewhere in Montreal but has still not contacted her friends in spite of their active efforts to locate her.
   Apartment administrators would say nothing to me about the affair in spite of my many calls.
   The local coroner listed his address as 1805 Cardinal, which does not appear to exist.
   I have no reason to believe any police misconduct took place and sympathize with the officers who were forced to helplessly witness this young man's senseless death.
  On the other hand, a local police officer once told me that many of the deaths classified as suicides - especially falls from buildings - are in fact not suicides at all.
  I'll file a police request to know more about the exact circumstances of this situation just to shed more light on what happened.      

Unusual crimes from the year 2000

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Thumbs down for thumb up: In June, Vital “Le Pouce magique” Lemire, now 66, a self-proclaimed “healer” and “supermillionaire” from Lac St. Jean was hit with 10 counts of sexual assault after customers, aged 13-45 reported him to police in 2000.
   His therapies included chest massages to help breasts grow, deep kissing to cure throat warts and injections of sperm into vaginas to cure Aids.  
   Lemire, who had spent five years in Cowansville prison for similar practices, claimed he had earned a special diploma from an institute in Brazil.
   His cure for arthritis consisted of subjecting patients to near boiling hot baths, as well, he’d slide his “Magic Thumb” deep into vaginas to crush ovarian cysts.
   He was tried and sentenced indefinitely as a dangerous offender.
   I called the prison and spoke to Lemire. He told me that he was a Duplessis Orphan who had a terrible upbringing.
   I felt a bit of sympathy until I learned that he was more recently nabbed for killing Roger Roy, a Gaspe fisherman, in 1975 and Adjutor Lapointe in Chicoutimi in May 1980.
   He was moving some furniture with Lapointe, who was never seen again. Lemire drove around in the guy's car for a couple of weeks afterwards, claiming that Lapointed had given it to him.
***
Biff Hamel
Here's some more unusual crime from the year 2000:
But now Biff’s a stiff: Laval authorities revealed that they had spent half a million tax dollars trying to build a case against Hells Angel Biff Hamel before he was shot dead while driving with his kids on St. Martin in Laval in April 2000.
The importance of funeral planning: On April 11 at 7 p.m., Robert Gagnon dumped the body of his religious mentor Roland Hamel, 80, from a wheelbarrow into a snowbank on Bellechasse telling shocked onlookers that he was fed up of trying to dispose of the corpse. Gagnon had lived with his wife and Hamel in a three-member religious sect section at 6318 Christophe Colomb, without phone or electricity. The three rarely left their home, used no buses or metros, and avoided walking on streets with “Saint” in them to discourage the devil. They took no government assistance, read the Bible a lot and believed the world was ending soon. Gagnon had tried to dispose of Hamel’s body at two funeral homes who refused to accept the body without official death certificate.
He liked to eat her muffin: Baby sitter Gisele Daigle-Seyer, 46, got 23 months in prison for serving pot muffins and sexual favours the 13 year old boy she was minding.
The farm went up in a puff of smoke: Germain Beaupre of St-Raymond lost his 11-hectare farm, which included two cottages, an ATV, a chainsaw and a high-power weed-whacker. Police confiscated the $80,000 worth of property because Beaupre had grown 975 marijuana plants on the land in 1998. It was the first case tried under 1997’s federal Controlled Drugs and Substances Act, which give police new powers to combat drugs. The police got a lead that the tree farm wasn’t what it appeared after seeing Beaupre at a local hydroponics shop.
Another celebrity egg-roll citing: Boxer Alex Hilton complained that on 23 July at 12:45 a.m. police
pepper sprayed him and beat him up outside his father-in-law’s restaurant, the Maison du Egg-Roll. The Chinese restaurant on Notre Dame in St-Henri was made famous by Pierre Trudeau who in recent years occasionally made political speeches there.
He saw the man’s point: Roland Nadeau, a blind man from St. Roch, was sitting around minding his own business as Hugo Davanzo injected cocaine. When Davanzo allegedly darkly muttered an intention to “take three or four kids with me,” Nadeau took exception and hit him, leading Davanzo to threaten him with a syringe which he suggested may or may not contain the HIV virus.
Night-night, Dedé: André  “Dedé ” Désjardins, a union chief from the Olympic era, turned gangster and loan shark, was murdered here in
Desjardins
May. Desjardins, who in recent years had moved to the Dominican Republic, was said to be worth up to $25 million and had allegedly bought off so many government officials in the D.R. that his approval was considered necessary for any project to get off the ground. His Caribbean home was quickly ransacked as soon as news of his death spread to the island.
Proving that you’re never too old to do the things you’ve always dreamt of doing: 81 year old Lucien Roy killed his roommate Germain Massé, 90, at their Gouin West home September 22. Roy says he can’t remember why or how he did it.
Man muzzled, dog barks on: On October 20, Judge Jean-Francois Gosselin ordered Fernand Daigle, 60, of Saint Lambert de Lauzon not to communicate with Filou, his neighbour’s Golden Retriver. The judge mused, “Should I also forbid the dog from barking at the accused?” Daigle, in court for allegedly threatening his neighbour and the pet pooch, was forced to accept the ruling or spent 15 days in jail. “You’re 60 years old,” said the judge, “you should be able to settle a complaint with your neighbour.”
How’s it hangin’: On Canada Day on the Grande Alle in Quebec City, in the bathroom of gay hangout Bar 89, a 69-year-old regular tried to pinch Yvon Matte’s bum. Matte knifed the old man, killing him, then went outside and hung himself on the street. An American tourist cut him down before it was too late.
Quebec Civil code, special rock star subsection: The director of a detainees’ rights group called L’acceuil inconditionel revealed that he had been sentenced to 20 months in prison in 1983 for touching stranger in the back, pretending it was a hold up. The victim of the prank, he was to learn, was singer Daniel Lavoie.
Vigilantes get no love: Mario Many, a school bus driver already convicted of sexual assault on minors, got into more hot water when he refused to cooperate in the assault trial of the father of one of his young victims. The father had beaten him up with nunchuks in St. Jean sur Richelieu. In a similar story, a mother from Valleyfield was sentenced to three days in prison for threatening the man who she believes abused her four-year-old.
Best biker handles: Francois “the Door” Laporte, Daniel “Poutine” Leclerc, Eric “Béluga” Leclerc, Eric “le Pif” Fournier, Claude “Burger” Berger, Clermont “Ti-Narf’ Carrier, Guy “Piramid” Pronovist, Eric “Wrick” Hinse, Pierre “Ti-Ké” Clement, Pierre “Panache” Tremblay, Claude “Dum-Dum” Demers.
Bongs, not bombs: The Mansonville factory where Gerald Bull built the world’s largest cannon, which he was allegedly going to sell to Iraq, (apparently leading Israelis agents to kill him in Brussels in 1990), was recently discovered housing a major hydroponics operation.
It was too early to get blasted: During the Rocket Richard’s funeral, a bank robber took the wine reviewer from a TV show called “Salut, Bonjour” hostage. Cops killed the hostage-taker May 31 at St. Hubert and Belanger. The winer was no whiner, refusing police offers to counsel his shock.
Stink over ink: After an 18 month legal battle, a 29 year old man persuaded Quebec Medicare to foot the $5,000 cost of removing his tattoos. He said the tattoos were an unpleasant reminder of family abuse.
Curious cops: In March, 40 motorists charged with drunk driving in the Bois Francs and de l’Amiante area had their charges rescinded after citing over-curiosity of the authorities. The officers harangued drivers with multitudes of irritating questions as, “is this car stolen?” and “do you have a bill for that computer in the backseat?”
Why lawyers need Rolexes: Daniel Moisan, 23, a suspected drug dealer, was tossed into prison because his lawyer was late to the trial. A Superior Court judge later reversed the decision that put Moisan behind bars.
Don’t hassle the hos: 21 year old Nicholas Boissoneault was teasing hookers at the Main and St. Catherine on October 29 at 2 a.m. Somebody took exception and hit him, he fell on the ground, smashed his head and died.
Till death do them part: A couple reported only as Claudine and Stephane, 33 and 34, got married September 17 in St. Jerome, wrote each other poems and killed themselves a few hours later.
Low profit-margin theft: Jan Lombier-Lambert, 21, of St. Benoit made a speciality out of stealing ATVs worth $3,000 to $9,000. He’d resell them for a mere $400.
Reminiscing over a lifetime of accomplishment: The murder of 66 year old Leo Bordeal at 4535 Henri Julien in 1985 was possibly solved when Michel Gaudreault, 41, of Three Rivers allegedly recently couldn’t resist starting boasting to others of committing the homicide.
Should have stopped at 41: Two youths and two adults teamed up to rob 42 local dry cleaners before getting caught in March.
Sitting on a fortune: On February 18 Noel Barbeau, 38, was jumped by a citizen who saw him robbing the TD bank at Ste.Catherine and Bleury, “Let me go, I’ll just give you the money,” said the robber. The man held the robber down and later told the media, “I wouldn't recommend others do that.”
Judges like porno too: Porno star Nancy Lamontagne, aka Anne Sophia, 29, can pursue her international film career after a judge offered her a conditional release after she was found guilty of writing fake cheques in the summer of 1999.
Loser wins race: On August 31 in Pointe Claire, two early morning car thieves proved unable to resist the temptation to race their newly acquired vehicles. Michel Laplante, 33, drove a stolen Camry into an electricity pylon, killing himself instantly. Partner in crime Robert Joncas, 39, went to help but took off before two Pinecourt police officers arrived. Cops chased Joncas who took off in the car, then stole a bicycle that he rode before attempting to swim away in the Outaouais River. Cops eventually fished him out and smacked him with seven charges as he toweled off.
She hit him with a triple scoop slam piledriver: Benny Young, a local manager of professional wrestlers, reported that his wife has beaten him repeatedly.
 Never miss a chance to nail your enemy: A full-scale girls brawl broke out at the funeral of well-known singer Richard Cazes in Quebec City in August. His daughter Nathalie and his ex-Suzie Bouchard scrapped
in front of the crowd, leading granny to faint in the service.
The great indoors has its advantages: Denis Borduas, 25, a small time drug dealer with no fixed address asked residents at Iberville and Rouen if he could sleep on their chair on their veranda on August 9. At 3:30 a.m. a passerby shot him dead while he slept.
Freakin’ coincidence, or what?: In 1988 Greenfield Police Chief Jean-Paul Cloutier tried to fire local cop Denis Dufresne for theft, but the union intervened and blocked it. On September 30, Dufresne, 46, was allegedly drunk driving when he accidentally ran over and killed Cloutier’s son, Alain, 35, who died on the spot.

The demise of Mimi Tardif

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Michelle Tardif, aka Mimi Tardif or Mimi (Re)Tardi was a talented young Montrealer who was raked over the coals in American media after her death, which was part of a larger-than-life tragedy involving American celebs.
    Tardif started as a Montreal alt media writer with a ton of flash and panache who flamed out in the Arizona desert in a drug binge with her husband Cris Kirkwood, who had attained considerable notoriety as star of the punk rock band The Meat Puppets.
   Tardif wrote for the Montreal Mirror and penned a memorable cover-story profile of Maurice "Mad Dog" Vachon, which became an early iconic cover for the fledgling paper.
   The photo below shows Tardif hanging around the Bar B Barn with Iggy Pop.
   She was quite drunk at the time, according to her friend, the noted illustrator Rick Trembles, who supplied these pics. (Trembles, by the way is a straight arrow who has never taken drugs, so don't blame him for what happens next).
   So Tardif ended up befriending Cris Kirkwood and the two married in 1995, when Cris was around 35. The two spent increasing amounts of time and effort and energy and money into consuming heroin and crack. So when she was found dead of an overdose in August 1998 it was sad but not a shock.
   Cris then went further down the drug spiral alone while various alt-weekly press wrote long and detailed articles describing the epic demise of the couple.
   In December 2003 he butted into a dispute between a security guard and a woman over a parking space in Phoenix. Curt hit the guard in the head with a baton and the guard shot him in the back. He recovered and was given two years in prison.
    Cris appears to have recovered but the band's big moment in the sun - the early nineties when they were saluted by Grunge God Kurt Cobain - had already passed.

Prof Neil Cameron on famous SGWU race riot

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  We've written a bit about the SGWU riots a few times here and now Concordia has recently put new material up on one of their archives1,2,3,4. 5.)

   Here's a viewpoint from Neil Cameron.
===
   From the spring of 1967 to the summer of 1968, I was working full time as the circulation supervisor of the Science-Engineering Library on the Hall Building 10th floor (one floor above the computer centre.)
   From that experience, as lower middle level employee and older student, I had come to know quite a bit about
(a) Perry Anderson, the Vertebrate Biology prof at the centre of the storm, and his colleague Frank Abbott, who taught the other section of the course;
(b) Sam Madras, the science dean administrator above them;
(c) more remotely but in some detail, the more general body of SGW administrators, up to Douglas Burns Clarke, the newly-installed and soon-helpless principal.
 (d) all six of the black students who caused all the fuss and who were quite different from each other individually, as students, as militants.
(e) the leading figures among the white radical students who supported the various illegal activities, like joining in the computer centre ninth floor occupation and the eventual supporting occupation on the seventh floor; I had got to know several in the qualifying year in history at SGW I had taken in 1966-67.
(f) From the academic side, I got to know also the professors who most variantly and visibly tried to resist the madness, supporting Anderson without equivocation, opposing the illegal acts.
   I should also add (g): that I was also sharply aware of the general student and New Left uproar of the time, at once close to its manifestations which I had seen at UBC and Simon Fraser in 1965-66, at U. of Calif. Berkeley, at MGill - Stanley Grey and his McGill Francais! idiocy- and Loyola (the Santahanam affair). Out of this, I drew several conclusions, some still not widely known or understood, in anything I ever saw published in later years on the event:
   (1) Perry Anderson. Anderson was undoubtedly the victim of a combination of radical hysteria and craven university administrative response, but as is often true of individuals caught up in all kinds of causes celebres, was not a man who behaved wisely. He did not so much know his onions. He was an ichthyologist who had little talent for teaching undergrads, boring, distant, without much rapport with students.  
   When I dealt with him personally, he was polite, but vague, distant and didn't seem entirely there. His colleague Frank Abbott, who did a far better job of defending Anderson's integrity and the colour-blind neutrality of his marking practices than Anderson himself did, was entirely different, friendly, outgoing, obviously intelligent, setting more demanding and interesting course requirements than Anderson.
   I seriously doubt if the whole thing could ever have blown up in the same way if the black students had wound up in Abbott's section of the Vertebrate Biology course even if he had failed them with lower marks than Anderson did. It is rare, even in hysterical times, for student rebellions to take place against confident, competent, and fair professors. It is weak professors everywhere, including those who start getting themselves in the soup repeatedly by soft marking (therefore more easily raising suspicions, even if unjustified, of making subjective assessments) who get in the sou and I think Anderson was very much in that category.
(2) I am sure that Anderson marked the papers of black students fairly, applying no different judgments or criteria than with any other students. Well before the final crisis, Frank Abbott conclusively proved this, by taking all of the student exam papers in the class and sending photocopies with names blocked out to a couple of Vertebrate Biology profs at the U. of Alberta. They sent them back little changed, save in giving several papers, whether from black students or not, somewhat lower marks than they had actually received.
(3) Of the black students, two of ther most celebrated and most militant, Kennedy Frederick and Rosie Douglas, clearly did not deserve to pass the course. I knew this because I personally put the dozen-or-so main photocopied articles on reserve in the Sci-Eng Library and personally checked their daily circulation. Douglas and Frederick never read a single one of them.
   One of the black students, Douglas Mossup, read all the articles, and I think got through the exam as well. The three others, aside from Douglas and Frederick on one extreme, Mossup on the other, read an article or two, but none of them reading the full course requirements.
(4) The real bad behaviour in dealing with the students did not come from the ordinary faculty of SGW, or most importantly, even from the small minority of hardline radical faculty who blindly supported the black students. The Sir George William University Association of University Teachers [SGWAUT] despite wasting lots of time with speeches from the reds, supported Perry Anderson. In fact, so much did they do so that, when the administration, the real craven force from Sad Madras up to D. B. Clarke, hired a lawyer to negotiate with the students. That was what directly led to the culminating disaster.
   The lawyer they hired might have been expert at negotiating with businesses or trade unions, but had forgotten or never knew that even universities a lot better-run than Sir George are more like large towns, with several contending groups of influential citizens, rather than like hierarchical business enterprises.
   He thought that he had worked out a deal, with his full powers from the administration and he had won the agreement of the occupying black students. The students even held a party to celebrate their imagined victory the night before the final fuss, proudly cleaned up all mess they had created, cleared away all garbage.
   But when the lawyer took the thing back to the university, while the administration had been quite willing to write-off the innocent Anderson, I suppose imagining they would do this with some kind of covert cash bribe, the deal was promptly and firmly rejected by SGWAUT.
   When the students heard this, they tried to raise the ante by blocking the Hall Building escalators with furniture, preventing the overwhelming majority of students from going to classes.
   Chaos ensued, with engineering students threatening to break into the computer centre and engage in open fighting with the occupiers.
   At that point some relatively junior administrator, the Dean of Student Affairs or some such, finally called the police, and the remaining occupiers (a hardcore bunch, as many had now left), started the fire in the computer centre, the riot squad went in, and so matters concluded, with thousands of computer cards dumped on the street and mixed into mush with the snow, Black Marias rolling off with students loudly drumming on the panels.
   The whole experience not only eliminated any last mild traces of sympathy I had once had for the left, which had been fading for years anyway, but made me ever after a strong opponent of leftist and left-liberal ideas, which I saw could make people in groups behave far more stupidly and unjustly than any of them would as individuals.
   I saw quite brave and resolute opposition to the whole craziness from some professors who were, at least in those days, nominally left, like Gene Genovese, who actually quit the SGW History Dept. for their decision to offer a Teaching Assistantship to a black student named Leo Bertley, who had taken the same course from Genovese on Slavery and the Antebellum South, and who during a mezzanine speech in which Genovese attacked the occupation, had called out, "You're next!"
   I saw the same active resistance from David Sheps from the English department, who not only spoke against the lawlessness, but managed to get published, in the then-popular left-wing Canadian monthly, Canadian Dimension an entirely accurate and fair account of what happened (The Apocalyptic Firs at Sir George), which probably helped prevent any brainless sympathetic noises elsewhere.
   I saw other similar examples, and while a great deal of the faculty did not stand up so openly, most of them did vote against abject surrender to trendy violence.
   I also drew some large conclusions about the whole story, and I noticed something else: violence and intimidation was really launched entirely on expensive American Ivy League and California universities, and had been the work mainly of red-diaper babies of affluent parents.
   But this behaviour was already fading in those same places by the end of the decade. stopped by a mixture of increasing firmness and some abject but more or less successful appeasement , and the really explosive confrontations had thereafter tended to be at late-arriving and less prestigious colleges and universities, something that could be seen from Sir George and Loyola in Montreal, Simon Fraser in Burnaby, right through to the Kent State shootings.
   These schools had certain things in common: All had been expanded very rapidly to meet the arriving baby boom; the boom also meant that they had all hired a lot of young and radical faculty, who, along with a lot of new and frequently under-qualified students would make up a much larger proportion of the entire community than at older and established universities like Queen's and McGill.
   At the latter, then-McGill-Principal Rocke Robertson was a medical doctor and a decisive man - with splendid timing, he chose the day of the SGW computer riot to fire Stanley Grey from the McGill Political science Department. Then-SGW-Principal Douglas Burns Clarke was a mild and mostly inoffensive literature scholar, who actually did his graduate work on The Rebel of Albert Camus.
   I also felt rather sorry for all kinds of Montrealers long involved with , and affectionately attached to, Sir George, to some extent, even the administrators and weaker faculty who had actedf so badly, countless alumni with fond memories of the places as students, and so on. It seemed to me that one of the most painful things exposed by the computer fire affair was not so much a weakness of the University in general (although there are such general weaknesses, many of them in even the best schools anticipated by things that happened in the 1960s) but were much more the weaknesses of 'seond echelon' or 'second chance' university.
   It had only been a little over a decade, after all, since Sir George had been an obscure, harmless, and almost entirely undistinguished night school of the YMCA, not even having the Norris Building in its early years, the Hall Building (the new, and almost entire campus) still only a few years old, the majority of its students still part-time night-schoolers with day jobs, grateful for the modest real education and useful credentials they could gradually acquire.
   Many of the faculty, especially in the sciences, could never have been hired by any old front-rank Canadian university, most obviously the world-famous one only six blocks away.
   The administrators not only had all the frailties that administrators as a class tend to have everywhere and at all times - ambition without talent, venality, cowardice, density, trendiness, etc. - but had them to a higher degree than usual.
   It is a very big deal, usually reserved for profs of considerable distinction, to become something like a Dean of Pure and Applied Sciences at some place like McGill, Queen's, U. of T., at Sir George it meant very little, as anyone who ever had to deal with Sam Madras would quickly learn.
   Some positions had been obtained easily enough before the place had ever expanded: I recall that a man named Don Peets, who continued to teach one course in human genetics, was not just a long-serving registrar, but a man who had been there at least as far back as the late 1940s, when there was no Hall Building, and possibly not even a fulltime department of professors in biology.
   The black students showed some interesting singularities of the time as well. Sir George had always had black West Indian students, but their story was always of a very different kind than arriving black students in the U. S. For one thing, the West Indies itself long had a very good university called U.W.I., using the same entrance exams as Cambridge, which was too tough for most students to get into.
   Not only that, West Indian students came to several Canadian universities (I had a couple of friends among them, at both Calgary Branch of the U. of A. and at Queen's), most often from quite well-off W. I homes and often older than usual Canadian student age (the black students at the centre of the Anderson affair were in the late 20s, and had fathers like dentists), and with their big hope being that of getting into a professional school, above all medicine.
   They also had something of a tradition of being permanent students, because unless they found a Canadian woman to marry, they used to be tossed out of the country whenever their student visas expired. The vertebrate biology course taught by Anderson and Abbott had a different kind of priority than other courses, because right across the country, it was commonly understood that a student who failed it, or even got a bare pass, would, even with a completed degree, never be admitted to any medical school, much less McGill in particular.
   Most of these black students in previous years, whether directly from the W. I, from Nova Scotia, or from the longtime Montreal black community, were conservative in both their general outlook and in their politics; even a couple of the Sir George rioters once had been both honour students academically (members of the Garnet Key society, which to their mixed amusement and annoyance when I drank with them in the Stanley Tavern, gave them the right to wear purple blazers with gold piping that looked almost exactly the same as those worn by the partially-black janitorial staff, with whom they were therefore often confused), and had been active members of the campus Young Progressive Conservatives.
   Unfortunately, they and many others had gone through a disastrous consciousness-raising experience, almost like a religious conversion, during the visit to the campus the year before the Anderson affair of that charismatic and forceful orator, Stokely Carmichael, who stirred up their sense of injustice, preached the need for revolutionary agitation.
   Rosie Douglas actually parlayed his not very heroic but much-media-reported behaviour in the SGW affair into a political career in the West Indies, briefly becoming prime Minister of Dominica around 2000, but died a few months into the job at 59, I think ODing on drugs.
   I think Kennedy Frederick may have slid into something else; I think the more hardworking and sensible Doug Mossup eventually became a special education teacher in Toronto.
   They were less conscious and deliberate agents - I don't think they even intended to destroy Anderson, which they pretty much did - than just parroting irregular troops of the Zeitgeist, but I was still quite appalled by what they and all their administrative enablers and faculty apologists did. The experience played a large part in making me a conservative forever, and a lifetime sceptic about the way people can be moved by waves of political opinion.

Crafty downtown Anglicans and how they re-jigged real estate thinking

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   It's seems up in the air whether this generic skyscraper behind the Christ Church Cathedral at St. Cat and Union is a structure that should make our Montreal hearts swell with pride or not.
   But it undoubtedly makes the Anglicans feel pretty proud, as they deftly maneuvered the deal that made it happen.
   Incredibly, it has been 29 years since the Anglicans pulled off a crafty real estate deal in the heart of the city.
   The Anglicans purchased the land behind their Christ Church Cathdrale between Eaton's and the Bay - presumably for a low-cost - and then leased it to developers on a 99-year emphytheutic lease for the property.
   So the whole shebang - complete with its revenues will revert back to the church in 71 years.
   Those landhold-freehold deals are commune elsewhere, notably in Britain, but thankfully for most homeowners here, they're almost unheard of.
   And indeed the deal was considered the first of its kind in these parts although it is said that others took note and imitated it.
   The church, finished in 1859, saw its diocesan offices demolished and its rectory was moved 15 feet south to allow a 30-storey building (originally slated to be 18-storeys) designed by architect Rene Menkes with the Cooperants Insurance company as the original tenants in 1985.
   Tourists often take photos of the buildings from the corner of St. Catherine - as seen above - as the  vista is supposed to mimic he taller structure. 
   One odd building at the De Maisonneuve/Union SW corner that was demolished contained a portion of an entirely different design. 
   It housed a handbag shop and other offices. Someone on flickr said that it was just as bizarre on the inside as out. 
  By the way, other Montreal structures with emphyteutic leases include the Saputo Stadium, which reverts back after 40 years starting from 2006. The MUHC 1750 Cedar deal is said to have one as well. The Dinasaurium had a 20-year-deal on Notre Dame Island in 1993. One was recommended for the failed Mount Orford deal and one of the school boards has one that confused a few people and led to some tax dispute as I recall. 

The Montreal 70s photo that will haunt you for a long time

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This photo of a Dominion grocery store mascot handing out some sort of flyer or coupon has haunted me since I saw it a couple of weeks ago. So I thought I'd pass it on. How terrifying is that guy? Is that child now in a straitjacket after this trauma?

Richard Lord RIP

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  Montreal lost one of its most colourful characters Sunday as raconteur, businessman, bureaucrat, pioneer Richard Lord of Greene Ave. succumbed to cancer.
   Lord was a great friend to many and the personification of a good time, as he'd light up the room with his tales of growing up the son of a Barbadian WWI vet in Little Burgundy, attending St. Leo's school in Lower Westmount and being a star on the hockey rink and football field.
   Lord was recruited on a hockey scholarship to the University of Michigan which had no idea he was black, and many said that they had no idea that blacks even played hockey.
   His winning personality might have shielded him from racism, as he snagged a series of interesting jobs, one investigating poverty across Canada for the federal government, which led him to many interesting situations in small-town backwaters which had never laid eyes on a vizmin before.
   He was placed in charge of an operation to install the communications systems throughout Expo 67 and also served as a immigration judge. Lord fell about six votes short of beating Warren Allmand for the NDG Liberal nod. But he never showed bitterness towards Allmand, who became his good friend.
   I knew Lord fairly well but not as well as others, of course and will remember him for his good-natured baiting of some ultra-rich Westmounters and his love for the On Flanders Field poem which he'd recount with great - perhaps too much - frequency. He was also a great repository of local micro-history, or old-time gossip, if you will and will be missed as valuable resource.
   Richie had no kids and married relatively late in life, leaving his widow behind. 

Body sushi comes to Montreal

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   Seeing as I have a sort of obligation to report possible upcoming trends, I will note that the yakuzatastic nyotaimori, or body sushi, has come to Montreal, as some unspecified group is offering the service for $1,500, which permits up to 10 to dine sushi off a naked woman's body in an unnamed location, I guess your hotel room.
   I only hope that diners know how to use chopsticks cuz a mishap with a fork might lead to a quick hospital visit.
   The models are apparently chosen from a top modeling agency but their likenesses are not provided in the ad.
  One sushi model from another city described her experience elsewhere, saying that she felt frustrated at not being able to see the diners and that they became less shy after imbibing more sake. She then almost fell asleep and half an hour later received $150 and left. 

Unsolved murders in Montreal - my TV appearance

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Wanted to thank the legendary Mutsumi Takahashi for having me on the local TV news to discuss unsolved murders in Montreal a few days back. Click here to watch.
    I rank the brutal murders of Matt Dutch Garner and Einick Gitelman - who were tied to a chairs and burnt alive in a third storey apartment on St. Remi just north of Notre Dame - as the most shocking. That one just has to be solved.
  Right up there, however is, the case of these murdered kids,* who cops now think might be the work of a serial killer.

   Also a big thank you to Cold Cases Media whose ongoing efforts to solve unsolved murders is a noble effort. That's them in the second photo.
*(From top-left, clockwise): Wilton Lubin, Maurice Viens , Tammy Leaky, Denis Roux-Bergevin, Pascal Poulin and Marie-Eve Lariviere. Police are also linking the disappearance of Sebastien Metivier

Montreal's legendary pinball princess

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  A delightfully contrived and fluffy faux celeb-cover story about my cousin made the cover of the Weekend Magazine of March 29, 1969. (below)
   It's mos'def' an article about nothing other than one girl's supposed fantasy of being a pinball champion.
  Similar articles had already appeared about her in a couple of European papers, so this one was just the most recent of a bizarre series on her invented persona.
   The subject, Pamela Marchant, my cousin, is now living in Florida, she's a generous, hardworking soul who is one of the only ones of my many family members (the old family, not my real family ie: wife and kids family who I see every day) who bothers to stay in touch.
   She had a bunch of amazing stories from her youth but tends to prefer talking about more current things these days.
   As a teen Pammy ended up in London where she started hanging around Nik Cohn who got her to adopt a persona based on a novel that he was working on about a mute (to hide her Canadian accent when introduced) pinball champion from Montreal.
  Pammy didn't act or sing or write but she had a great look that was not unlike Twiggy, hugely popular at the time.
    Pammy had met Nik Cohn through her older sister, who eventually ended up marrying Sean Kelly, a top writer for National Lampoon.
   Cohn's pinball book, Arfur, was eventually published in 1973 (that's Pammy in the picture) and Cohn's friends in The Who borrowed the character for Tommy the rock opera.
   The Who manager Chris Stamp also sought to turn Pammy into a singing star but she tells me that she saw them laughing at Arthur Brown - who had some talent - behind his back so she assumed they were doing the same 10 times more whenever she'd be sent into a studio to practice singing the Rolling Stones' In Another Land. So she solved her issues by fleeing to France.
   She eventually returned to Montreal for some time and acting in The Montreal Main and The Rubber Gun, although her roles might have been cut down because she wasn't very punctual at the time, (although she later went into nursing and became a model of efficiency, so no negative words at all)..
   She later moved to New York and married Nik Cohn, who went on to write a short story (claimed it was a real story at the time for New York Magazine) that became Saturday Night Fever. They split and she returned to Montreal for a while before marrying a recently-retired New York defence attorney named Bobby.
    Pardon the discombobulation of the article below as it's cut and pasted from a pair of teasers that corrupted a lot of the spelling. But you'll get a n idea pretty quick what it's about.
   By the way, my mother owned any boarding houses, but my father did at 1430 Chomedey.
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   Arfur is 16 years old, was born in the slums of Montreal, orphaned young, and lived in her Aunt Patty's run-down boardinghouse until the age of 12 when she discovered pinball in a St. Lawrence Boulevard arcade. From the first dime, Arfur experienced a cosmic affinity with the machine and decided to make pinball her way of life. Recognizing the truth that nothing in life mattered to her except the mastery of the art of pinball, Arfur, with in her pocket, ran away to New York. Here she stayed with her dear friend, and pinball great, Porky La Motta, practising night and day to perfect her flipper techniques, inner balance, reflexes and serenity at the table. Arfur soon started playing money matches and, after a time, was discovered by Fat Frenchy, boss of the whole New York pinball scene.
   Arfur joined his team of hustlers, and for two years took on all com- ers, in the end beating Fast-Hand Eddie of Chicago for the American championship. Out of competition, Arfur then went to England where she immediately won the European title in a five-hand shutdown with Fancy Dan Andler of Belgium. Arfur is considered by everybody, from the U.S. National Association Of Pinball to professionals in every country where pinball is shot, to be the greatest genius in pinball today. Arfur lives!
   Arfur in the mind of imaginative 16-year-old Pamela Marchant of the Montreal sub- urb of Westmount. "Pamela always was fabulously inventive as a says her mother. "Instead of dolls, she had a family of stuffed monkeys, and she used to create entire personalities and lives for them."
   Former school friend Tina Garmaise, also of Westmount, remembers Pamela's monkeys but in a more relevant context. "Arfur's voice with that funny slurring accent" was one of her favorite monkey voices."
   Far from Arfur's life of hustling in penny arcades in Montreal's less fashionable areas, Pamela was born, the youngest of four children, in Ste. Adele, Quebec, where she lived for six years before moving with her family to Westmount. Pamela's early life developed in the prescribed Westmount manner.
   She attended Roslyn School and showed talent for music and dancing. She was a good student, but was con- sidered something of a dilettante. She was also a dreamer, and as she grew, so grew her flights of fancy. The adventures of her monkeys became more complex, and she often daydreamed about writing her monkey stories down for her friends. Enthralled by romance and high adventure, she imagined herstlf as the heroine of schoolgirl mystery books.
   She especially loved the fantasies of Enid Blyton, and longed for the mystical escapades of Peter, Mollie and Chinky in tales like Adventures Of The Wishing Chair. The teenage Pamela, in the tradition of West- mount, started at Trafalgar School and left after one year to attend Westmount High. And although dem- onstrating creativity and promise, she was a restless student. "Pam was too rebellious to fit in at West- mount another school friend remembers.
   "She just wasn't the Westmount type. She was very straightforward and outspoken, and this made her unpopular with many of the kids." Private fantasies declined, too. The monkeys were put in the closet with other childhood toys, and even interest in Enid Blyton waned.
   The usual teenage rebellions took the form of boys, "And Pam is such a dabbler, remarked a friend, "the idea of her practising anything for three to six. hours a day is pretty remote." - Arfur has no home, no roots, no desire for any. She rooms from place to place, shooting pinball.
   Her possessions are few, and she has little interest in clothes. A yellow-and-black striped jersey is Arfurs , usual costume, worn with a man's snap-brim hat, and bright red socks. Matching red suspenders hold up a pair of high-waisted sailor pants. (l won them . from a sailor in New York a year ago.) She plans to hustle in London until she runs out of competition, then move on to Paris, where lr tilt', as pinball is called in France, is one of society's most fashionable games. But the constant roaming doesn't bother Arfur. "I've travelled so much since I left home, it just doesn't mean anything to me any more. Pamela's mother is less blase" about it. "Pain's trip lo England was the first in her life, except for occasional trips to New York with me."
   "Pinball holds the secret of all human lives." Arfur stated recently to the English press. I have always lived on pinball. with pinball, and around pinbalL It is my way of life. Arfur will shoot pinball until slow reflexes force her away from the tables; Pamela's ambitions are broader. In one of her first letters home, she hinted that she planned to make a record, and that she eventually hoped to write a book of all her Arfur escapades. "But whether or not this is another dream like the monkey stories, muses one friend, "remains to be seen." .
   Pamela has also ' achieved the remarkable feat of breaking Into the London modelling scene in a matter -of months; Through Arfur. she has received a great deal of personal publicly (including a cover on one of the English glossy magazines) and has come to the attention of the current hierarchy of English starmakers. Why did Pamela Marchant become Arfur? Perhaps it was ambition ; perhaps she considers it a career opportunity Arfur will eventually cease to exist but the contacts that Pamela makes as Arfur will remain; or perhaps it was just one little Westmount girl's way of escaping from a background she didn't dig.  Pamela's mother believes the real reason will remain in Pamela's mind and what she will do in the future is anybody's guess.
   "But for now, if she wants to be pinball queen, that's OK with roe. Aunt Patty, actually a respectable Westmount lady with nary a run-down boardinghouse in sight. Insists it's all beyond her. A school friend is convinced that Pamela is enchanted by the idea of conning the whole world with a mythical character, an invented hfe, and a marvellous mystical career. Pain's idea of happiness is to see her fantasies and dreams come true. And Arfur is a dream (though, adds the friend, Pam tends to . forget that) coming true.'' And Arfur. What does Arfur say? Arfur simply , Nays, "Think clean, live clean and you will shoot  clean pinbaIl."

When you're on hold.. are they listening in?

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A tipster wrote to describe a disturbing experience recently with a customer service attendant at one of the big companies.
   The customer had a complicated situation and wasn't finding the attendant receptive to his questions.
   He eventually asked to speak to the supervisor, which required him to be put on hold.
   The hold option did not come with any recordings or music.
   It was just plain silence as he waited.
   While on hold, the customer had a private conversation with someone in his home, privately expressing his frustration with the attendant.
    When the company attendant finally returned she asked him questions about the private conversation he had in the room, asking why he had spoken about her in a disrespectful manner.
   So in other words, the attendant, while pretending to be away from the call dealing with what had to be dealt with, was actually listening in and snooping in.
   Having worked at such a job for a long time, I can attest to having seen crazy behaviour by such phone attendants.
   The trick of listening in could probably done quite easily simply by manipulating the mute button.
   The mute button is the hidden weapon for the passive-aggressive impulses of such attendants.
    Phone workers press that mute button to secretly grumble about customers with great frequency.    So behind the scenes when you call, (especially if you're an anglo) the attendant is quite possibly really saying "Good morning, how can I help you? (presses mute) ASSHOLE?
   It's a bad habit that I've seen countless times. Alas, contract workers are far less likelier to do it, as they tend to be on their best behaviour knowing that they can be left off the schedule at any time.   
 While that sort of thing is entirely harmless, listening in to a home conversation while pretending to have that person on hold is another thing entirely and seems like a grievous offence.
  So the moral of the story is: if you can't handle the emotional pressures of a customer service job, go get another job.
   And the second moral is, if you think they can't hear you when you're on hold, you might be entirely incorrect. 

Swizzle stick mania!

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Coolopolis would like to congratulate J, a friend of Coolopolis, for sharing this photo of his deeply envied collection of locally-created swizzle sticks, including one from the late lamented Casaloma showbar.
   They are part of his collection of 750 trillion swizzle sticks, which he has travelled the edges of the earth to collect, although there might be some exaggeration on our part about his collection.
   The swizzle stick, according to a disappointingly-brief Wikipedia entry was invented by Brits in the 1700s, well after the urban dictionary equivalent was invented.
   If anybody has a swizzle stick story or collection to share, particularly one with a Montreal collection, we will reward you with undeserved attention.

   Here are four more.. from left to right, the Bellevue Casino, the Grand Hotel, the Chateau Champlain and Ruby Fos. 

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Longtime former Westmount sports director accused of molesting boys

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   Johnny Garland was so closely identified with Westmount hockey, that the program he led for 34 years was informally known as "Johnny's League" from 1953 to 1987.
   But sadly, Garland - who died in 2012 - allegedly sexually abused at least two boys who were devastated by the experience and now cope with great difficulty due to profound psychological trauma they were forced to endure.
   Garland, as we have mentioned, was a lifelong bachelor who lived either alone or with his mother at Sherbrooke and Grosvenor.
    I have confirmations of two separate cases of sexual abuse, experiences which devastated the young men and deeply undermined their mental health and well-being.
   One former player observed the culture Garland cultivated among the elite players.
    What I've heard is dark and deeply disturbing,. I've heard these rumours periodically for 20 plus years.
   The most persistent rumours I've heard involve a great athlete; easily the best hockey player in my age group in Westmount. He probably had the talent to go pretty far. He was also known as being one of John Garland's favourites. However, he basically disappeared from the Westmount sports scene when I was about 13 years old. He was in drug rehab at 14 years old.
  I recall a story from when I was playing Atom hockey. In our first game after the Christmas/New Year's break, a few kids on my team talked about having gone to a New Year's Eve party of John Garland's place. I specifically recall that they talked of being served alcohol and getting drunk. These were 10-year-old boys. As far as I could tell, there was no other adult supervision at the party. In and of itself this would prove nothing other than that he may have had poor judgment, but the story has always stuck with me because even as a 10 year old it seemed creepy to me.
   I have since received confirmation that the individual described was indeed sexually molested and have separate confirmation of a similar story with a slightly older victim involved.
    Both victims were from good and caring families who also ended up sharing much of the terrible damage wrought by this awful selfishness.
   Of course with those two stories sprouting from within a five year time-span, one must wonder about the possibilities of others in the other 29 years. Please write me if you have any other information at megaforce@gmail.com 

Quebec's worst artist jailed for being really bad at art

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  David Dulac has been kept in a Quebec City jail since last July because his proposal for a performance art school assignment was really, really, really bad.
   How bad was the proposal he submitted?
   Dulac wrote that he would lure children from an elementary school with candy and then kidnap and hit them with a big metal item.
   There's cutting edge and then there's crazy, I guess.
  Seems that he had already done some unsettling performance art stuff in the school prior to that.
   He had rejigged a Duck Hunt game to shoot people. He had cut himself in another performance while walking among the crowd with only a tiny loincloth covering his genitalia and he sang a song about accused killer Luka Magnotta, possibly at at the same time.
   Oh and he also submitted art painted with his own sperm.
   And he also previously proposed another performance art project: someone committing suicide.
   Oh and then there was the fake Molotov cocktail stunt which scared the shit out of everybody.
   He was convicted and jailed. He recently appealed his conviction on the grounds that he didn't actually intend to hurt children but the judge nixed that request about one month ago. .

PKP's firm grip on reality

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   So media mogul Pierre Karl Peladeau has really got to be regretting entering politics right now.
   Firstly his side didn't win, so he's a powerless backbencher and he's been fingered with the blame for the loss, as he's the one who totally went off the rails and took a normal-looking speech and injected it with his pitchfork-revolution le-Quebec-au-Quebecois-vive-le-Quebec-libre proclamation by saying that he wants a country for his kids. 
   Jeez, when you're rich your kids want big things I guess.
   So this entire scenario seemed bizarre in the first place because he's already massively powerful and influential and his out-of-Quebec papers are rabidly anti-separatist and as a serious businessman, his denial of economic disturbance under separatism seemed entirely bizarre. 
    He also said in his speech was that he had been counselled by a psychotherapist for his marriage strife.
   Most politicians would likely refer to going to a marriage counsellor or something, so this was a bit of a surprise and even seemed - at the time - a possibly extremely cunning way to gain sympathy. 
   But is it possible that the media baron actually has some large issues? 
   I've been told several gossipy-stories by someone who suggests that they conclude that he might have a difficult grip on reality but was not convinced by the anecdotes. One involved a situation in which a big dog supposedly jumped into his parked convertible at a barbecue in the Laurentians and chewed up the front seat of the very expensive ride, something that apparently drove Peladeau into a wild rage. Not really sure, however, that I would not have been extremely pissed off at such an event myself, so Ima give him a pass.
   Ultimately an argument can be made for anybody being uh, mentally imbalanced and I'll need more evidence before I come to that conclusion in this case, but love the theory nonetheless. 

 

Drug queenpin Elizabeth Barrer's life in Montreal

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      Fugitive American drug queenpin Elizabeth Barrer, who was killed a few weeks ago in a gangland slaying in Ville St. Pierre, was - according to a source - connected to a local crew.
   Someone who had met her several times told me that she seemed nervous, had dyed her hair blonde and had a slight Russian accent. She was Jewish.
  She also wore knee-high boots, the same style popular with strippers and escorts, so there's a possibility that she might have given the impression that she worked in that domain but she did not.
   Her skin was bad on her face but her backside was a thing of beauty, according to my source.
   She wore tight clothes and was a little rough around the edges.
    The gangsters that she was reputedly seen with were unaware of her real identity or fugitive status. She may or may not have been involved in credit card scams.
   One woman wrote to tell me that Barrer had lived with her in Oregon for a year in the early 90s while both worked as strippers as Jiggles in Tualatin. But I'm not convinced this is the correct person because her age is about 10 years off.
   Another man from Philadelphia said that he went to camp with her in Philadelphia and was quite smitten with her.
  Yet another person reports to having perhaps known her in the summer of 2010. He said he believes she was working as a waitress at O'Regan's on Bishop.
  "One of the waitresses was avoiding prosecution in the US and was very open about it. This woman had a friend that I had seen on occasion but only met once. Her friend came in calling herself Anna. She didn't draw much attention. She had a non-alcoholic drink and sat at the corner of the bar where she could scan the door. Anna (Barrer) looked more like the first picture. She was 'dressed-up' kind of like she was 'working'...... but it was the middle of the day. Expensive clothes, she had a silk shirt on that was open, exposing her chest. She had found a phone and was exchanging sim cards.".
   My source suggests that the root of her problem lies in her dealings with credit cards.
   And of course, check out this other post of a woman claiming to be Barrer's best friend. She said that the same person who killed Barrer is now on the hunt for her.
  If you have any other knowledge of her please drop me a line at megaforce@gmail.com 

Lost sounds of Montreal - the once-ubiquitious steamwhistle

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   Friend of Coolopolis MP&I supplied this photo of a now-silenced steamwhistle on a building on Westminster that once provided a soundscape to his childhood in Montreal.
   Steamwhistles were common back then and used industrial sites, such as railways and and on the Lachine Canal.
   The one that stood out was at the roundhouse at the top of Westminster. It told CPR rail employees when shifts started and ended and when to take their breaks. The one photographed was affixed to the roundhouse that was build just prior to 1949.
   You could think of the whistles as a sort of industrial version of the church bell, as people would use it as a reminder of the time.
MP & I in a very difficult-to-shoot mountaintop selfie
    "We used the whistle when walking to and from school on Mariette to judge how much time we could waste," he writes.
   The whistle went silent sometime in the 1960s as more residents came to the area. 

Montreal casino's upcoming facelift

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The Montreal casino is supposedly about to undergo a massive facelift and architects are busy thinking up original and not-so-original ideas on what changes could be made to better entice citizens to break out their beleagured after-tax wallets so they could gamble away little Tina and Timmy's college funds and then shoot themselves in the parking lot in front of their loan sharks.
   You'll note that the third image seems deigned to make the joint look like the Starship Enterprise. Lots of flickering LED lights all over the place to dazzle the epileptics.
   These pics are ideas for the renos, don't think they're officially accepted.
A marble stair walk bathed in pink light, who could ask for more?
The vertical loft concept is still popular with architects seeking to persuade their clients to bite on this space-wasting design. Does anybody eve bite on these?
   Beam me up Scotty.
 A new and improved gambling suicide lane, blood conveniently drains downwards into the shrubs. 
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