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
rich turns 30
new year's 2005
miami vice party

jenny miller in nyc
lakeland, fla
the unveiling
arts & letters

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
old crap


A bakery called Rive Gauche opened near us, and they serve very good breads and pastries.
I took a comp day today and this morning, I ran down to the bakery to pick breakfast up for Brian and myself. While I was waiting for my order to be filled, a little old woman with bright pink lipstick came up to me. She said, "What a nice purse you have."

"Thank you," I said.

She said, "I really love your purse. It's so unusual." I started to tell her how I had bought it at the Union Square Crafts Fair, but she cut me off and said, "I was robbed. They took everything. And now I have nothing. I'm so hungry. Do you think you could buy me some breakfast?"

I looked at her. She was neatly dressed and not dirty at all, but . . . yes . . . there might have been something of the old-lady-off-her-meds about her. I just sort of half-smiled and nodded my head no, saying that I was sorry.

"Please," she said. "PLEASE. I'm so hungry. I was robbed. And they took everything."

Again, I nodded no, whispered that I was sorry, and tried to walk away, but she followed me closely. I didn't have anywhere to go, as I was waiting for my order. I moved right. She moved right. I turned around. She walked around me and stood on my other side. "PLEASE," she begged again, "I'll take anything. Even a cup of tea."

She was definitely a lunatic. "Fine," I said. "I'll get you a cup of tea."

My order was ready, and I walked to the register to pay. When we got there, the cashier asked me if I would like anything else. I tried to sound nonchallant. "I think this woman wants a tea."

"A LARGE tea," she called out. "Do you have PEACH?"

The cashier told her that they didn't. "Oh, all right, then," she said. "Just give me a raspberry."

The owner of the shop was there, a sweet, pony-tailed Israeli man. I always have this strange desire to make him my friend. So I tried exchanging pleasantries with him. But as he tried to respond, the older lady began groaning again, "I was robbed. I'm so hungry. They stole everything."

I was very embarrassed that I was now associated with this crazy old woman. I turned away from her. The cashire asked what I had bought, and I tried to casually relayed my order: Two egg and cheese croissant sandwiches, a blueberry muffin, and a tea. A man to my right was also paying. He was a small, middle-aged gentleman with the look of one who labors hard for a living. The old lady turned to him and said, "PLEASE. I'M SO HUNGRY. I WAS ROBBED. COULD YOU PLEASE BUY ME SOME BREAKFAST. A BAGEL OR SOMETHING."

I became incensed. I was snookered into buying this crazy old lady a tea, and even as I was trying to pay for it, she had solicited additional food items from other customers. And now the sweet Israeli owner probably thought this old bag was my granny.

The middle-aged man looked startled, so I waved my head, trying to signal to him. I said to the woman, "Remember: I am buying you a tea." The middle-aged man ran out of the store as quickly as he could.

I was even more annoyed to learn that the large raspberry tea cost me over two dollars. As I went into my purse to get the money, the old woman turned to me again and said, "CAN'T I HAVE A BAGEL TOO?"

"NO!" I shouted. "I'm getting you a TEA and THAT IS ALL!"

She shrugged her shoulders and skulked back to a table to drink her tea. I left in the mild morning rain, but not before the owner said, "If I do not see you before the new year, and I hope I do, then have a happy new year."

I blushed hard, as I was both flattered and incredibly angry.

On December 24, 2003, Brian was in Clearwater.
My friend Sam and I had Japanese food for dinner and then saw a movie.

On December 24, 2004, Brian, my friend Sam, and I all had Japanese food for dinner and then we saw a movie.

This December 24, 2005, I saw no reason to break the chain. Sam, Brian, and I met up. We had Thai food for dinner, then we saw Trans-America, which was actually quite good. Then I went to bed. I worked the next day, which was Christmas Day, but at my museum, we just call it a very busy Sunday.

I finally finished putting together our low-tech homemade holiday cards. This event vaguely coincides with the United States Postal Service's decision to increase postage rates. To celebrate this last gasp of our heady, wild $0.37 days, I am proposing a new debcentral interactive offer. If you email me your address, I will send you a holiday card. I can be reached here:

contact @ debcentral.com
Merry Chrismanukwanza and a Happy 2006! Here is a present for you. 22 of the latest emails from my grandmother:
FW: [UL] I can't see!
FW: The Pirate
FW: Happy Chanukah from Holly & David
FW: Gentle thoughts for today
FW: Important News!
FW: In case you were wondering
FW: Why People live in Florida
FW: When graphic designers get bored
FW: Worst analogies
FW: The Bathtub Test
FW: Lingering Disease
FW: Phishing Expedition
FW: These are clever!
FW: Happy Holidays
FW: Beer, Fishing, Golf and Sex
FW: never be too sure
FW: Chicken Surprise
FW: Regrets
FW: Press Classics
FW: never ever
FW: Knowledge
Yesterday in the early afternoon I was down at the front desk.
An older woman called to confirm her reservation for the concert on Sunday. I told her what I had been telling people all week long: If the transit strike continues and you are unable to make the concert, you can receive credit towards future Museum programs, but we are not issuing credit card refunds at this time.

The woman said, "I don't need a refund! The strike is over!"

"The strike is over?"

"Well, practically!" she said. "Haven't you heard the news!?!"

"No," I said. "I've been down at the front desk for most of the day. I can't really get on the internet down here." I then asked her for more details.

She told me what she knew, about how it was not final yet, but that it looked like the transit workers would be back on the job sometime that afternoon. Then she said, "I can't believe you didn't know already! You really should get a radio!"

If I am not supposed to be on the internet at the Museum's front desk, I can only imagine how much more intrusive listening to a transistor radio would be.

I would like to briefly recap my journeys to and from work over the past several days.

Tuesday Morning: Brian and I walked downtown. It took 2 hours and 15minutes.

Tuesday Evening: Brian and I tried to take a van shuttle service home from Wall Street and Front Street (by the Seaport). We waited on line in the cold for 40 minutes, at which time a random guy on line with us said he knew a guy with a van. He fumbled through his pockets for the cell phone number, which was written on a scrap of paper. The van guy pulled up 20 minutes later. We got in, along with some other random people who had been waiting on line as well. The van guy charged us $6 a head, and we got home within 30 minutes. I fell asleep at 9:30

Wednesday Morning: Brian spoke of finding alternative transportation to work, but this time it was I who forced us to walk. We walked very briskly, and did not stop even once. I made the trip in 1 hour and 50 minutes.

Wednesday Evening: We met up and walked uptown. We stopped at St. Mark's Place for falafel, then again at 11th Street for a couple of drinks. We walked to 24rd street (the beginning of "Zone B") and caught a taxi, which moved slower than I could have walked the trip. I kept grumbling loudly that the new imposed per-head cab fare was price-gouging. I eventually got so frustrated, I had the cab drop us off at 59th Street (the end of "Zone B"), and paid a mere $20 for the ride. As soon as we left the taxi cab, the traffic disappeared. We walked back to 86th Street, our pride barely intact. I fell asleep at 10 o'clock.

Thursday Morning: Again, I wanted to do the walk. Mostly because I was sick of hearing people complain when they had only half or a third of the walk that I did. By this time, I was walking not like someone getting pumped, but more like someone getting crippled. I did not stop once, but continued to hobble along on my swollen ankles, which had all the chic luster of a provolone cheese. The walk took me 2 hours and 5 minutes.

Thursday Afternoon: I had that conversation with the weird old lady about me getting a radio.

Thursday Evening: Buses and subways were not running yet, so we tried that van service again. We got there about 7:30. There wasn't much of a wait. They charged us $5 a head. We were home in about half an hour. I fell asleep at 10 o'clock

Friday Morning: I slept until about 8 am. Brian had woken up at 5 in the morning and was feeling so good, he went jogging. Of his own accord. When I woke up, my ankles wouldn't bend, and I had to move around with the herky-jerky motion of a stilt-walker for an hour before I felt sufficiently "warmed up". I have yet to leave the apartment.

Brian and I went to bed around 11pm.
I woke up at about 4am and checked the New York Times online. Around 3am, the Transport Workers Union had called for a strike. I told Brian the news, set the alarm for 6am, then went back to sleep. At about 5am, Brian got up and checked the Internet for about a half hour. Then he made a noisy attempt to take a shower, at which point I shrieked that I only had a half hour more to sleep and could he please be quiet. He got back into bed for another a half hour.

It should be noted that Brian's boss told him that he could telecommute in the event of a strike. But he decided that he would get more work done if he went into the office. Besides, it would be fun to walk to work. I work about 20 minutes farther south than Brian (walking, that is), and I am not able to work from home, as I am a supervisor. Nor could I not come in today, because I supervise the people who sell tickets. And if I don't come in, then my staff has no reason to come in. If they don't come in, then no one is here to sell tickets. And if no one is here to sell tickets, the Museum has trouble functioning. Then I get in trouble.

From about 6am until we left the house at 7:40, Brian harassed me because I was moving too slow and I yelled at him, because he didn't even have to go to work today, he was just making the trip for fun, and so he should keep his mouth shut.

We left our apartment at 86th Street and walked to Lexington, then turned south. Brian continued to harass me about moving too slow, and I continued to scream back in his face. At about 42nd Street, it became apparent to me that I was experiencing an urge to perform smaller body functioning. I said, "Why don't we stop off at a Starbucks, and I can use the bathroom while you get us some fun latte drinks."

Brian said, "You can go to the bathroom if you like, but I don't need a coffee. I just want to keep moving."

At 14th Street we walked west to Broadway, and continued down until I saw an Au Bon Pan on Great Jones Street. We stopped inside and Brian allowed me to use the bathroom. I bought a cherry danish and a juice. Brian got a frittata thing that he said tasted gross and immediately threw it out. By this time, we had stopped fighting, which was good, as it was so cold, I was having trouble opening my mouth to yell at him.

Brian got to his office, which is by City Hall, around 9:25am. It should be noted that on most normal days he gets to his office between 9:30 and 10am.

When I passed Wall Street, I stopped into a Duane Reade to buy a very large bottle of Advil. I was afraid that when I got to work and finally sat down, I wouldn't be able to get back up again. What's more, getting to work was only half the battle. We were going to have to get back home again. And then back to work again the next day. Yikes!

I walked into work at 9:55am. When I finally stopped moving, I noticed my hips were starting to hurt me. So I popped a bunch of Advil. My entire staff showed up, all with varying but still harrowing tales. We told our different stories, laughed about our misadventures, then got very depressed as we contemplated the colder, darker, achier-hipped walk home.

I made this map to better illustrate my morning adventures.

This past weekend, Brian's brother graduated from college.
Edward Moshe Geller graduated from the University of Florida with a Bachelor of Arts in English. On Friday night before the graduation, we celebrated by eating food. Then on Saturday morning, we attended the graduation ceremony. Then we ate more food. Then we went home. Thus far, I have uploaded a seven pictures from the weekend. Here they are:

*please note writer/friend/wearer-of-the-color-red William Bowers on the right side down about halfway.

Here is an example of something rude:
A "postage due" stamp on an envelope from the funeral home.

I kind of felt this funeral home was a bit sketchy from the get-go. When we first arrived to talk over the details with them, they offered us white-chocolate-chip-macadamia-nut cookies (at 10 AM), which they claimed to have baked themselves on premises. This seemed kind of weird.

The fellow we dealt with had overly-white teeth, and he was rather unenthusiastic when we told him we wanted to upgrade the casket and order a car service. What's more, half way through our appointment, the cookies I had consumed took on a magical effect, causing me to have a bout of what we sometimes call "the evil eye".

On an up-note, among the other things inside the envelope was a credit for a hundred some-odd dollars. I guess we can use that towards the 9 cents we now owe the United States Postal Service.

It is wintertime, now.
And with the winter weather often come the winter sniffles. Brian and I saw the 1926 silent Hitchcock film The Lodger at the Film Forum last night. In the row behind us sat a man who suffered from a particularly heinous bout of he sniffles throughout the entire length of the movie. Did I mention it was a silent film?

It was really the grossest noise ever. A sniffling sound combine with the sound like someone slurping the remains of a soda through a straw. Fluid and gargly with a touch of green phlegm. We heard it every couple minutes at first. And then it became a constant. This man was taking in every single breath through a largely obstructed nasal cavity.

Both Brian and I were having trouble concentrating. Every time the man would take a slurpy sniffly breath in, we would dig our nails into the others hand. About four-fifths the way through the movie, Brian whispered to me, "You don't have a tissue, do you?" In fact, I did.

I had been carrying around one of those little mini packets of tissues. I gave it to Brian, who clutched it in his hands until he could no longer take it anymore. Then he catapulted his arm behind him and said, "Does anyone in this row need a tissue. . . ."

No one answered. People seemed annoyed that he had broken the silent mood of the film with his words. He tried again, "I have tissues if anyone needs one." Again, no one responded. Brian pulled his arm back. And it was quiet again.

For about five minutes. And then the sniffling began anew, but a little more subdued and with a little less frequency.

It is Holiday Card Giving Season. We have already received a nice number of holiday cards from friends and relatives. Recently, we got one more. The front of the envelope looked like this. The back of the envelope looked like this. The card inside looked like this. But the inside looked like this.

I believe that the last time I blogged about Uncle Ira's mental disturbed and retarded friend was back in March. At some point, Brian told him to stop calling us. And he did. But I guess his back in our lives again. Just in time for Ira to come home.

My uncle has already begun his escorted visits to the clinic on 125th Street.
I spoke to my grandmother this weekend, and she told me this. And also she told me that he had put in his request with the social worker for his first escorted trip home. The date: Saturday, December 24th.

I am most shocked about the weekend nature of the visit. I was under the impression (for some reason) that he would be visiting on a weekday, and breathed a sigh of relief thinking that at least I would not be around when Uncle Ira made his big decade-long return to his apartment (where Brian and I have been are living for the past three and a half years).

My biggest problem has been that almost all my information comes directly from a man who the State of New York feels should not be released into the community at large. Here is an excerpt from documents regarding his current furlough privileges. This is the kind of person from whom we are getting important information regarding our future living situation. And when I get information from my grandmother, guess who is her main source of information. It is like a free-wheeling, no-holds-barred game of "telephone."

I called my uncle this afternoon to try and get more of a scoop. Visits are three hours long, which include transportation time to and from the clinic. We live only about a ten or fifteen minute drive from the Manhattan Psychiatric Center. That leaves roughly two and a half hours for him to visit, eat a little lunch, and set three small fires throughout the apartment.

He said that the treatment team approved the visit, but that they still need to find an escort, which might be difficult to get on the day before Christmas. But don't worry: one of the staff members on the ward has already volunteered his services if no one else will be able to step up.

I am hoping someone will invite us out to their early-afternoon Christmas party on Saturday so we don't have to be there when the visit goes down. Is anyone having an early-afternoon Christmas party?

My sister has been dating her boyfriend, Joel, for almost a year now. In that time, he has heard many, many stories about the infamous Nonna. This past Thanksgiving, he finally got the opportunity to meet her. In the weeks leading up to the holiday weekend, my sister put in many an hour trying to prepare Joel for the natural wonder that is our grandmother.

DS: So, Joel, did the lady live up to the legend?

JN: In Nonna's case, the legend is merely a morsel of reality. The war stories and comic relief simply create an image in black and white. To fully appreciate Nonna, one must personally juxtapose what she says with her mannerisms, facial expressions, tone, and sound effects.

DS: And did you enjoy spending time with the cosmic force that is Nonna?

JN: I did enjoy my time immensely. Think of Sofia from the Golden Girls meeting Fred Sanford from Sanford and Son. Brute honesty meets aged crude humor. For example, meals are wild because she comments on the taste, texture, color, temperature, portion size, ingredients, healthiness, and previous experiences with the same food. It's challenging to listen and be responsive while trying not to laugh or get upset.

DS: I got to meet your puppy, Wiley, for the first time this Thanksgiving. He's a real cutie. Did my grandmother seem enjoy the addition of the dog as well?

JN: I thought so at first but I don't know after her last encounter with him. She raved about his repertoire of tricks and she was always concerned that he had enough to eat. On the final night of her visit, I printed out her ticket for the flight home and she got upset that she and Dennis had a middle and aisle seat together. Luckily, I was warned about this so I explained to her that Dennis would sit in the middle so she could comfortably sit in the aisle. She got louder as she continued, "Dennis is too tall for the middle seat. I'll sit in the middle seat. I HATE THE MIDDLE SEAT. (Wiley barks at the shouting) AND I HATE THAT DOG!"

DS: Wow! Heheheheh. I heard your last dinner with her wasn't too much sweeter. Do you think you could speak about it in some detail?

JN: Your parents took Nonna, Ali and me to an upscale Italian restaurant. We were seated outside and Nonna immediately told us that she was uncomfortable from the street noise (downtown Hollywood on Thanksgiving weekend) and the temperature (we had a cold front in Florida that weekend with a 70 degree breeze). As the waiter told us the specials for the evening, Nonna began making faces and vomiting noises like she was convulsing. I got frightened by this until I realized it was her reaction to the shellfish and/or seafood options that night. Before he finished, she briskly closed her menu and shouted, "I'll have the pasta primavera!"

Dinner came shortly after Nonna finished her story about, "the horrible day of sight-seeing with my ungrateful son." Nonna was presented with a generous bowl of pasta and vegetables. After complaining that it was too dry, I suggested that we could order a side of sauce. She responded, "There's plenty of squash... IT'S DRY!" I attempted twice more but she didn't understand me, so I called the waited over and asked him myself. When presented with the extra side of primavera sauce, Nonna shouted "What's this?" Ali explained to her that it was for her pasta and that I had ordered it for her. She said, "Tell him to mind his own business. He's supposed to worry about you, not me!" Minutes later, I spotted her dipping her spoon to taste the sauce but her face demonstrated her disapproval.

Nonna was not feeling well during dinner and barely touched her meal. She told us that the tiring and boring day in the car wore her out and that her stomach was upset. I frequent debcentral.com and I learned how Nonna says peppermint candy can make her stomach feel better. I excused myself from the table, walked inside to the hostess stand, and grabbed a handful of peppermints. I thought that I finally scored big with this move and I went back to the table to present the candies to Nonna. She shouted, "What the hell is this for?" I explained to her that it was for her stomach and I suggested that it may help her feel better (not telling her where I had learned this information from). She didn't thank me and yelled, "I have my OWN candies! And I didn't ask for your help!" Ali and I enjoyed the rest of the meal and even took home leftovers.

DS: I just want to say, Joel, that my peppermint candy story is absolutely true, and I am shocked that my grandmother did not recognize her own bizarre stomach cure. Maybe she realizes that though peppermint candies only settle an upset stomach, but can't sweeten a lousy disposition. I must ask: after the meal, did my grandmother show any further signs of having an upset stomach/disposition?

JN: After dinner, we met back at the Schwartz house to have dessert and tea. I only knew of sweetened, unsweetened, and hot tea to this point in my life. Apparently there are many more because Nonna mentioned several kinds and said that they were the worst, or her least favorite, or her second least favorite tea. After four minutes of this, Nonna settled on basic hot tea and proceeded to tell everyone that she wasn't ready for her tea yet and that she would not drink it if it wasn't hot. It's unclear to me how we got passed that, but the group ended up moving into the dining room.

The topics of conversation included politics, religion, and Nonna not having enough water in her tea. During a conversation about Judaism, I heard multiple signs coming from Nonna that she was having indigestion problems. I felt bad and I wanted to be polite so I asked if she was feeling alright. After telling me to mind my own business, she continued with more of the same. One time she was so loud that I couldn't hold back and I looked at Ali, who clearly heard the same, and we both started laughing. We were doomed as the gasping for air, snorting, and tears followed. We didn't want to be rude in front of the family and that kind of made it even funnier to us. Nonna asked, "What's so damn funny with you two? Must be an inside joke." and then continued once again. I reached the loss of bodily function control threshold, as I couldn't breathe and I was bent over, so I crawled out of the dining room.

DS: Joel, I know this is hard for you -- and I don't want to cause you to have post-traumatic stress disorder --- but if you think you could manage, I would very much appreciate your telling the readers what kind of "indigestion problems" my grandmother was experiencing. This is not just for a cheap laugh, Joel. This if for TRUTH. This is for the pursuit of INTEGRITY in JOURNALISM. And it also for a cheap laugh.

JN: I studied at the College of Journalism and I’m ashamed that I have such difficulty using the proper terminology. Nonna doesn’t hold back, so I won’t either. Indigestive problems would be expelling gas from the stomach, also known as burping.

DS: Joel, I would like to thank you for agreeing to take part in this interview. And I would like to thank you for your time and your candor. I think I speak for all debcentral readers when I say that we have learned a lot in the paragraphs above. A lot about ourselves and the world. But most importantly: We learned that I am not exaggerating when I relay crazy stories about my grandmother. I think the readers of debcentral will be hearing more from you in the future. Do you have any parting thoughts?

JN: I just wanted to report the truth because the people have a right to know. I absolutely meant no harm by my accounts and this process allowed me to expose, from my etic perspective, the love in her words. I have some quick Nonna-isms that I’d like to offer the readers which will help them understand previous stories they have encountered:

“THAT'S TOO BAD” = “I’m sorry”
“I DIDN’T ASK” = “thanks, but I’m fine”
“LEAST FAVORITE” = “I don’t like”
“2nd” = “other” (ex: my 2nd least favorite)
“I HATE” = “I’m bothered right now”
“UNGRATEFUL” = can be used as both “loving” or “my favorite”
“I DON'T MIND” = “I will if I have to”
“GODDAMNIT” = “please”
“HELL” = a verbal crutch, used like “uh” or “um” by most
“WHAT HAPPENED?” = Internal dialogue that was never meant to be spoken
I look forward to sharing more time with Nonna, as well as my thoughts and translations, in the very near future.

Today is Brian's 29th Birthday!
That's correct. I married a younger man. Three weeks younger. But I don't regret it -- not even for a second.

Not even In the heat of an argument, when I sometimes say things like, "I'm sorry I ever married you," or "I don't even know why we stay together." Of course, this is just a joke. I have that keen and biting sense of humor, that dark kind of humor which only British people think is funny. But as Brian is not British, he sometimes doesn't get that I'm joking. And things get ugly.

But, ha ha, Brian and I are very much in love. And he is 29 today. But I am older. Ha, ha. And wiser. So he should still always listen to what I say and follow all my suggestions. Ha ha. Or I will get angry and yell mean things at him. Hee hee hee hee hee.

In the eight-plus years we've been together, Brian has been a sort of muse for me. In honor of his birthday, I wanted to create something for him that would be really nice, something that would show him how much he inspires me. But I forgot about it until this afternoon. So I used Microsoft Paint, which is, of course, a very limited program. I was, however, able to come up with this.

I love you, Brian! Don't be mad at me.

The other shoe has dropped. Or is dropping. Into our apartment.
And its going to want to know where all it's crazy-ass stuff is.

On this past Thursday, my uncle was granted escorted furlough privileges, which include short-term supervised visits home. By home, I mean his home. By his home, I mean where Brian and I have been living for the past three and a half years.

Uncle Ira's first escorted visit home should be happening about two weeks from today, as I understand it. I plan to be at work when this happens. But I imagine it will not make things too much less unpleasant for me. He is always asking me if his poster of Charlie Parker is still on the wall, if his knife sharpener is still in the kitchen drawer, if his Black Tail magazines are still in the where he left them.

During the ten in which he has been forcibly kept away from his home and committed to a state mental hospital, a lot has changed. The apartment was empty for a few years, and then my brother occupied it for the next five. We've been there for three and a half. Things have moved around. A lot of the hair care products and expired medications are mysteriously no longer with us. Brian and I moved most of the pornographic magazines into storage. The picture of Charlie Parker is hiding behind the couch to make way for artsy photographs I took of myself as well as a poster Brian and I bought at MOMA when we first started dating. I never saw the knife sharpener, and I'm not thoroughly convinced it ever existed.

My father tries to calm me by saying "He's only going to be there for a very short period of time. There will be a social worker with him. What can he possibly do?"

But it's not about what my uncle can do. We have changed the living space significantly in the three and a half years we've been there. To suit the needs of two people squished into a studio apartment. I can hardly bear to imagine the barrage of questions I'm going to get from the paranoid schizophrenic who is so caught in a time warp, he still thinks that doo wop is hip.

I imagine we will be moving to Brooklyn sometime within the next several months. I guess this is what we were worried about since we first moved in. And now it's finally happeneing.

If the visit doesn't go too poorly, maybe we can hold off until the spring. Wish us luck. And keep an eye out for us.

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tikkun olam in space provided below

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thanks for not being a zombie
puritan blister
this is grand
charles blackstone
smartish pace
marc & david
writing right (or wrong)

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

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