Hi Gary and Jane, I didn't know how to reach you any more, but I hope this works. I have an interesting story to tell you. I have to give you some background first.

For the past 52 years a bunch of my high school friends and I have played an annual touch football game in Central Park on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, called the Swine Bowl. The game long ago evolved into a kind of open-air reunion, with people coming in from places like France and California; wives, children, friends, relatives, guests, and (now) grandchildren of the original participants run around the field in a sort of amiable chaos. Needless to say, it's more horsing around than competitive sport. But it goes on. The New Yorker once did a story on it.

For many decades we played this game over on the Great Lawn, but after the upper classes privatized it 6 or 8 years ago and kicked out all the riffraff, we were forced to relocate to the small plot of grass at 87^th and CPW, right across the street from 271. This would have made it even easier for Morris and Rose (had they still been around) to come out and watch, which they had been doing faithfully since the early 60s. (We used to gather in their apartment after the game. The joke was that when we sold you the apartment we would include a clause that said you had to host a Swine Bowl party every year and let us use the showers.)

Anyway, last Saturday Jude and I were driving to the game as usual with our kids, and at about 1:30 came across 88^th Street and into CPW in time to hear sirens and see the block being cordoned off by cops. Forced to turn uptown, we looked up at 271 and saw clouds of roiling brown smoke billowing out the tenth and eleventh-floor windows, which were all smashed. Crowds were gathering on the sidewalk, glass was all over the street, fire trucks and cop cars were everywhere, and small flocks of police and firemen were running in and out of the building. Was this a dream? It certainly had all the earmarks of one. ("Hey, I dreamt we were all at Swine Bowl and my parents' apartment caught on fire,"etc.) But after parking 6 blocks away and then walking back to gape with the rest of the crowd, we established that it was in fact happening. We played the game in a slightly surrealistic daze, as various mop-up operations continued in sight of the field. Afterwards we went over along with my brother Jody and talked with Carlos, which was very nice. He told us you'd moved out around September (we'd already heard you'd sold the apartment.) He said there's been a lot of turnover, and that hardly anyone from even a few years ago was still there. The next day there was a small item in the Daily News about the fire, but we never found out exactly how it started, except the place was being redone, so probably it was connected to that. Sad to think of all Barry Svigals' nice work being ripped out. I assume that's what was happening. But that's life in the Apple. I'm sure you got the news, though not as fast as we did. I can't believe this all happened the one moment of the year we were there to see it.

Speaking of coincidence, maybe I once wrote you this, but did you know we live a few miles away from Joe Wheelwright? The son of some good friends from around here, Will Machin, studied art at Brown and ended up working with Joe--maybe still does?--here and in Providence. We've been wanting to go see Joe's stuff, just haven't gotten around to it, what with life and all.

Good luck in your new digs. If you're ever cruising Vermont, look us up. Lost Meadow Land Coop, West Corinth. It's a heavenly spot.

Best wishes,

Dan Breslaw