Who is Deborah Schwartz?
The experiences of Deborah Schwartz
The persistance of Deborah Schwartz.
The relations of Deborah Schwartz



clare & stephen
amy & scott
andrea & jonathan
marc & liza
our honeymoon

grandma's window
state of mind

blizzard 03
blizzard 05

hair issues:
my pink hair mistake
my purple hair mistake
my red hair mistake
my hair and dress mistake

chinatown/little italy
thanksgiving 2003
brian's graduation
dennis's graduation

moving day
our new digs
garden of stones

eleanor turns 26
deb turns 27
deb's birthday collage
susan's holiday party
new year's 2004
new year's 2005
rich turns 30

jenny miller in nyc
lakeland, fla
the unveiling

zina and me
i and the matzo
telegram from fanny
telegram from deb
port authority heights

our ira visit
gators v. vols
ny state drivers license
the nobel manatee

Why I Should Be the Next Pope

From Andrea Blanken in New York (in reverse order):

5) even though hangs with mostly the 'chosen ones,' feels that all of the children are gods chosen ones. For both God and G-D.

4) and even though last name rhymes with "spanken", believes corporal punishment is both educational AND pleasurable

3) understands why baroque is the ugly step-child chapter of the art-historical canon.

2) like all damn fine witches, looks great in a tall pointy hat.

1) and with all the assholes around, time to bring back the eunichs!

From Jenny Miller in D.C.:
1) I already have a white robe

2) and lots of hats

3) I like Catholic school girls

4) I'm as mean as an abortion

5) they already call me The Pope of 14th Street Heights.

From Isaac Murchie in Somewhere in Canada:

1) Because. See, I can use my authority. And would do so even better if actually given some. I'm not even afraid to use "and" at the beginning of a sentence.

2) My name is Isaac. That's biblical and easy to remember as well. Pope Isaac. I would, however, be amenable to changing my name to John, even though it's the name of both my grandfather and my father. In fact, that would make me John III, which would fit well. Pope John III (a.k.a. the Canadian formerly known as Isaac).

3) I have many healthy and active years ahead of me to ride about in the popemobile and issue statements to be used against the non-Catholics in (and out of) the court of law.

4) I've been to church. I can't remember which type it was. It started with a "p", so I imagine it was Protestant or Presbyterian. Anyway, we had to go to some service and they had the most comfortable seats. There was singing and hellfire, and what more could one want on a Sunday morning? I have no plans of going again, but is that really a commitment the pope has to make?

5) I've defecated in the woods, and intend to again. So what someone says, "Does the pope shit in the woods?" the answer would be affirmative and non-ironical. If that's a word.

. . . So let me in, dammit!

Pope John Paul II is going to die.
We are all going to die someday, but Pope John Paul II will probably go before most of us. Because he's so old and sick.

To my knowledge, there is no official Backup Auxiliary Pope. This is where you come in. You could be the next pope. Why not? You are a stand-up person and most people like you. Send DebCentral five reasons why you should be the next pope. As long as they are not blasphemous, I will post them on my site. If your answers are really good, I'll do a google search for the Pontiff's personal email address and I'll send the results along to him. Email me at contact @ debcentral.com. Run. Don't walk. Even with your bad hip.

And remember: God's representative on Earth recently likened abortion to the Holocaust.

Sometimes, I wonder. . .
I wonder if in an alternate universe from ours, in an alternate Milky Way, on an alternate Earth, in the Alternate United States of American, would people use an alternate catch-all condiment on their food. Instead of ketchup, do they put strawberry jelly on their hot dogs and french fries? Do they mix it with mayonnaise to make salad dressing?

Maybe in the alternate universe, instead of ketchup, people squirt horseradish on their scrambled eggs. Or maybe they use pesto sauce. Or maybe they use something completely different, something we humans here in this universe have never even thought of. Or are unable to produce, because of our location to the sun, which is a 4.5 billion year old yellow star.

I remember when I first heard the sun would one day die. I was in 7th grade, and I saw a filmstrip on the life cycle of stars. Our own star was every day growing bigger and redder as it cooled and disbanded. One day, it would collapse entirely. In several more billion years. Then life as we know it would cease to exist.

I cried for weeks.

I cried because the sun was a dying star. And I cried because I would not be around to see its demise. My life was a drop in the ocean of time that is the ten billion some-odd year life span of a star. And all I had to show for my slice of eternity was a mouth full of braces and a bad perm.

I don't think about the sun much anymore. When I do, it makes me sad. I wore braces for three years, and now my teeth are slowly shifting back to their natural, organic, crooked configuration.

Hubris. We think we can change the course of history. Or the arrangement of teeth in our mouth. We think if we stop putting ketchup on eggs and fries indiscriminately, we might be more worldly. But none of us is going to get to watch the sun rise as a red giant.

When I think about the sun dying in another 5 billion years, I want to crawl up into bed with a nice beer and a warm book and a pair of socks on my feet. Or cackle with Brian for hours making fun of the dumb people we know. At times like this, I can't see much use in anything else.

I have used this space to report on a number of instances involving cockroaches in our apartment:

But, as you might have observed, most of the roaches are small and they can almost exclusively be found in our shower (for reasons unknown to me).

This morning, I found a *jumbo-sized* roach on the blue carpet near the bed. At first, I panicked, thinking there would be a show-down as I chased it around the floor waiving a tissue in my hand. I wondered if it would run slower than those little ones, as it was so large, and large lumbering human beings often sprint at a slower speed than little sprightly ones. I stepped closer, ready for a fight. The cockroach stayed put. I came closer yet. Still no movement.

That's when I realized the cockroach was dead.

I am unsure from where this fellow came, but a number of dramatic scenarios ran through my mind, that last step taken, the lumbering roach thinking to itself, I just can't go on. . . I must, but I can't . . .. Or was it frolicking, it's brown, armored legs getting tangled. Maybe it heard Brian snore, and the noise caused its little heart to burst inside its little open circulatory system. Apoplexy. Old age. Maybe it took a little snoozer on the carpet, and just never woke up.

I respect this roach more than the others, because it saw fit to die before I was forced to kill it. Farewell, my good friend. There is a heaven for cockroaches, and in it, you are regal. You put those bitty little roaches I've plucked from the shower bottom to shame. As roaches go, you are a true gentleman, a credit to your race of low-lying, peeping, prehistoric vermin. I will remember you always. Adieu!


A lot of people are down on the Gates, but I think they're swell.
Brian, Alison Adleman, and I walked around Central Park on Saturday afternoon, and we took the requisite pictures with the Gates. I keep hearing how underwhelmed people are by the public art, how it is a waste of money. Well, I think part of the problem is that New Yorkers are spoiled. They want everything to light up and spin around and have sequins on it. If Christo and Jeanne-Claude wrapped up the Empire State building, it wouldn't be enough. We're New York, for chrissake. We want something bigger and better than a bunch of draperies hanging around 23 miles of footpaths.

I think the Gates biggest problem is that it is called "the Gates". I think it should be called "the Drapes". I think if one were to think of the exhibition as a bunch of draperies, one might not expect as much from it, and then be able to view it for the pleasing thing it is.

This is my opinion.

Thank you, Christo and Jeanne-Claude for bringing your saffron, billowing drapes to our fair city. I think they're neat.

Though, personally, your Surrounded Islands were my favorite.

The Museum had a film screening this past week, and I finally met Julian's friend Anthony. We saw each from across the lobby and immediately knew who each other was. Because we have been reading each other's weblogs.

A strange world we live in.

I met Julian this afternoon in Central Park and we walked around the Gates for a bit. Julian said he was underwhelmed, but I thought they were neat. Then we went to get a mid-afternoon beer in a stinky old man bar on 72nd and Columbus.

I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and fries, but Julian said he was full. Earlier, he had visited with two elderly German women who live in the Dakota building, and they had fed him. "Just bread, and some cheese and . . . Leberwurst. I don't know the English word for this food."

"Liverwurst! I shrieked with delight. "The English word for liverwurst is liverwurst."

Julian was a little turned off by my effusive display.

We chatted for a bit, then he left to do some work, and I walked into the nearby Urban Outfitters. I do not usually shop here because, quite frankly, I do not usually shop. But when I do, I find this store's clothing can be rather expensive, while not compromising flimsy make and cuts too long and thin for one as naturally dwarfy as me. But I have on occasion, found a nice pair of pants there, and there was a big SALE sign outside.

Inside, there was a 50% rack on which I found a cute-looking skirt. So I tried it on. And I said to myself, Wow. This skirt fits me perfectly. As I was leaving the dressing room, I saw a bunch of high school girls trying on the same skirt. I was annoyed, because I don't like people to wear the same clothes as me. One of the girls said, "I don't know. It's kind of bunchy. It makes me look fat."

I looked at her and silently agreed. I looked better in the skirt than she did.

This made my day.

I sold a Museum Dual Senior membership to a couple from Florida.
They were from Boca Raton. I told them I grew up in Hollywood and had gone to the University of Florida. They said they would join because I was from South Florida too. They told me they had two adult children who had both graduated from there. They would be visiting Gainesville again in a couple of weeks. "We'll be spending the night in the best hotel in town."

"The Cabot Lodge?" While I was in school, the Cabot Lodge was the only non-chain hotel within 20 miles of the town that was completely chigger-free. "They have a free happy hour and a popcorn machine."

"No!" they shouted. "Their beds are too lumpy. We'll be staying across the street at the Hampton Inn."

I became nostalgic. "Right near the Waffle House?"

"YES!" The wife frowned and said, "That horrible place," at the same time the husband said, "My favorite restaurant!" He said he loved how one's order was shouted to a short order cook, and one's food could be made scattered, smothered, and covered.

I felt this man was a kindred soul. So I told him about the book I had read in which the couple goes to the Waffle House and orders pancakes and grapefruit.

"What! They don't sell pancakes at the Waffle House! They don't sell grapefruit at the Waffle House!"

The husband was incensed, but the wife just rolled her eyes.

I think it's important to have standards.

Some days are better than others.
And some days are lousy. Some days, one ruminates, replaying past actions in one's head, reworking them, saying different things, acting differently. One repeats awkward situations in one's mind like burping up pickles.

During my walk to the train last night, and all during my subway ride, I kept reliving an email exchange I had had earlier that day.

I got so bogged down in loathing I realized I was muttering to myself like a crazy bag lady. I have noticed that this is generally poor social policy. I had to step back and reevaluate the gestalt of my life. I said to myself: I don't always react the way I should, but at least I didn't write Bee Season.

Somehow, this made me feel a lot better, as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Because I was not responsible for birthing a book with a shamefully sloppy narrative voice, poor character development, and even a few outright fact errors.

Phew! Looks like everything's going to be okay.

I'm famous!
In poorly translated German.

Thanks, Julian. The world can never have too many interviews.

Alison Adleman had a party on Saturday and someone caught fire.
For ambiance, she had set tea lights around the apartment. One fellow had his arm propped up on the TV (on which food was laid out), conversing genially, when it was noted by another party-goer that he was smoking. His flannel had flown too close to the sun. The small flame from the small candle had ignited his shirt.

Needless to say, we put him out, and he spent the remainder of the party with an icepack under his arm.

All I could think was Candles are sooo dangerous.

Which reminds me of another party blooper. This one was at Susan Johnson's last annual holiday gathering. She was opening a bottle of cheap champagne, and had turned to the wall, so as to avoid any accidents. She said aloud that uncorking champagne always made her nervous. And then we heard a *POP!* and an OW!. The cork had ricocheted off the wall and hit a young woman just below the eye. An ice pack was call in for her as well. And all I could think was Champagne could poke your eye out.

I guess the moral of these stories is that I would make a good Jewish Mother circa 1950.

Last night, I was on the phone with mother until almost midnight complaining about Tech Support. I thought I had gotten pretty ornery at work, screaming like a crazy bag lady that the Museum was going to take its business elsewhere. My mother then told me she was told by the snippy tech support-tress that she should "stop cursing" at her. Like mother, like daughter.

For three days in a row I've been the last employee to leave the Museum.
For that, I win this award.

The security guards all giggle when they see me. They love me because I am their late night friend. They ask me if I have a bed upstairs. We chat about the weather and how tired we both are.

I'm not even sure what I do all day, but I know it does not involve blogging or checking my email or experiencing big hardy belly laughs.

On the plus side, my days go by quickly. On the minus side, I am often exhausted and my website is rarely updated.

Luckily, I get to come home to strange eerie messages and letters from a criminally insane mental patient who used to know my uncle and who thinks he's Superman's daytime persona, Clark Kent.

We received two more letters from him yesterday. One was addressed to Brian, and looked similar to the one he had received last week.The other one was for "Jack Schwartz" and looked like this. I am guessing that Mr. Kent has become very tight with our answering machine, as he's been leaving us messages several times a week since April of 2003. He seems to have mistaken Brian's recorded voice saying "Deb Schwartz" for "Jack Schwartz". But who really knows? He's a crazy loone-ball, right? Why try to make sense out of it?

Even as I write this entry, Mr. Kent is leaving another message. I've tried talking to him, telling him that I would relay his messages to my uncle. Once, I even suggested he should stop calling us. But that was before he started writing us letters. They've been arriving more and more frequently. Do I just ignore them? Should I tell Mr. Kent to leave us alone? Should I call up the mental institution and report him? I hope to god he isn't released anytime soon, being as he has our address and phone number, is obviously disturbed, and wants to be our friend.

I'm only laughing on the outside. On the inside, I'm calling the cops.

All Guest Blog submissions should be emailed to contact @ debcentral.com

tikkun olam in space provided below

more zonking @ heck's kitchen

heck's kitchen
julian in new york
rebecca in progess
anthony emigration
kevin de young
no home-like place
underblog rides again
thanks for not being a zombie
puritan blister
this is grand
smartish pace
marc & david
writing right (or wrong)

andres dubouchet
bob and david
tim and eric
the lonely island
midnight pajama jam
ovos films
bloggedy blog blog

please feel free to contact me. I can be reached at:
contact @ debcentral.com

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