Ifip TM 2010

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One day, talking with a Broadway mogul, I mentioned that the theater now seemed to lack an O’Neill, an Odets. “Look,” he said matter-of-factly, “nothing is what it was; nobody is what he was; not me, not you. They wrote in a certain time about certain problems and are remembered for their contributions.themathofthe “The theater today is dealing with different kinds of values and problems in a world that is very different. So we have a Pinter, a Neil Simon, and an Albee. Today more people are going to the Broadway Theater and spending more money than at any time in its history. In that way, the theater is better off. Times change, you adapt, and the bottom line is always in economic terms.”
I spent 24 hours with Ladder Company Three down on 13th Street. In the morning we inspected buildings; in the late afternoon the alarms began. We rushed to a great department store; no fire, an alarm malfunction. The assembled firemen put their oxygen tanks, axes, and hoses back on the trucks with relief; two had died in such a building the week before.
Through the night we leaped from our beds and roared through empty streets—a woman reported a tenement on fire (it proved to be a charcoal grill on a fire escape); a woman reported smelling smoke in her apartment (a neighbor had attacked roaches with an insect bomb); another report of smoke (nothing found).Geothermal pipeline being vented
In time the dark buildings, with their sleeping populations, took on a sinister look: A fireman could die in any of them. With morning we rushed to Union Square to extinguish a trash fire near a subway entrance.
And now we sat, tired, coffee in hand, in the station house. I asked a couple of the men what changes they had noticed in the city in recent years. Two shrugged their shoulders. One replied: “It’s a year older.”
MORNINGS: Sometimes a yellow-brown haze, sometimes a metallic gray haze. Sometimes a sharpness of light and shadow that takes your breath and you can smell the sea and see clear down the island. On such a day I headed down to Wall Street. I sought not change but abidingness.
I was reassured when I met Bob Enslein, a member of the New York Stock Exchange, in the Stock Exchange Luncheon Club. There were wood-paneled walls, mounted moose and bison heads, a tobacco counter, a small room where members checked their street shoes and slipped into more comfortable shoes for the long hours of trading. We went down into the pit.