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Weekend of High Art

03.31.03 - 3:12pm
I received the following "counter haiku" from devoted Debcentral reader Nick Kocz.

My snot is better--
thicker than bile. Tastier
than feathered tree rats.

Springtime pollutants,
the airborne ragweed, pollen,
ambush my senses.

My words fall icky
like muddy soldiers wounded.
O how my head hurts.

Props to you, Nick. We will Haiku duel again. And I will beat you yet!

On Friday night, B. Herman and I saw Jules Dassin's 1950 French noir classic Night and the City. It was wonderfully noir, though not too French (as it takes place in London). Brian and I both agree that the film's lead has a similar coiffure to that of Brian's old roommates.

Because this was a weekend of high culture, Saturday was theatre day, and we went with the yoga folk to see Richard Foreman's play "Panic". The play consisted of a bunch of oddly-dressed actors shoving enormous ping-pong balls into large tubes, occasionally delivering strange phrases which were punctuated by the sound of bells or breaking glass. Brian and I got lost in the night in the rain, and showed up minutes before the play began. We were then forced to sit on the floor in the aisle. This made for an uncomfortable viewing experience.

The plot, which was amorphous in shape, hinted at the dirty-work of baby-making. A bit racy. I don't think I'd allow my mother to see it.

Our weekend of high culture culminated Sunday with a visit to Uncle Ira. He drooled wonton soup and yelled about the conspiracy to keep him locked up for life. Other than that, he was a joy to be around.

I only hope your weekend was as educational.

03.28.03 - 2:08pm
I will be brief, as today I feel like my head might explode.
I believe this is due to sinus issues. People have blamed the change in the weather. In honor of the entrance of spring, I have composed the following spring-inspired Haiku, written in the 5-7-5 American Haiku format.

The sky brightens and
warms. The world is green. I swim
in a pool of snot.

Pigeons, like flying
rats, fill our one tree, mocking
my intense sinus pain.

Like the gentle breeze,
thoughts drift soft and aimless through
my mucus-filled head.

Ah! When will my great artistry at last be discovered?

03.27.03 - 1:08pm
I woke up about 80 million times last night convinced that I had stopped breathing.
It was a rather unpleasant experience, and made for a fitful night's sleep. Today I am treading water at work and pretending that my nose is not constantly dripping clear yuck-yuck.

By some odd and serendipitous turn of events, my url was posted on the Writers Weekly website, which said of my website the following:

~Site Features Actual Rejection Letters~
Thanks to Mike Martin for sending this in!

I thank you too, Mike Martin, whoever you are! Due to Mr. Martin's head's up, my hits reached an all-time high of 15000 for the day, and 54000 for the month. That's really awesome. Regular and new Debcentral readers alike: Keep spreading the word about Deb's rejections and social faux pas. We will make her famous yet.

Speaking of the name Martin, my father's first name is Martin, and my mother just sent me this link about a recent real estate deal with which he was involved. It appears to be a rather dry article, so I do not recommend reading it. But I do recommend linking to it, looking at the pretty pictures, and reading their captions. This is what I did.

My grandmother is forcing us to go to this fancy-schmancy fundraiser for the Museum of Jewish Heritage. It is a black-tie affair, $1000 a plate. We will somehow, like black-tie interlopers, be sneaking into the event under the wire. This is so incredibly bizarre for me, because I hate dressing up and I mistrust fancy dresses almost entirely.

It is not the fault of the fancy dress. It is me and my need for more therapy. No matter what I am wearing, I always manage to spill mustard on myself or sit in a pile of dirt. So I might as well be wearing jeans. In addition, some people are just naturally elegant. They could be wearing a burlap sack, and still look like a queen. I, on the other had, could be wearing a Queen Elizabeth original fancy-dress ball gown, and people would stop and say, "Oh, what I decorative burlap sack you're wearing. Hey, did sneak into this event under the wire? By the way, did anyone ever tell you that you look just like Liza Minelli?"

I would like to take a moment reiterate that telling someone they look like Liza Minelli is like saying they look like a drag queen. Therefore, it is for the most part not a compliment.

03.26.03 - 3:20pm
Last night, Brian, Susan, and I went to dinner and a show.
We ate at 7A, then saw an improv/stand-up show called GIANT TUESDAY NIGHT OF AMAZING INVENTIONS AND ALSO THERE IS A GAME!.

The performance was in a black box theatre, which was in a basement very far underground on the lower-east side. It was a cheap and enjoyable evening, especially as the admission was only $5 and there was a BYOB policy.

It later became apparent that almost half of the small audience was actually in the cast. Still, at a mere $5, I recommend Giant Tuesday Night, which is, of course, on Tuesday nights.

I seem to have a full-blown cold now, and feel rather lousy.

I had a whole bunch of long stupid dreams last night. In one of them I was frantically searching for funereal clothing. I could only locate one dress shirt, but it was in the dirty laundry. Then I realized that I no longer owned any nice dresses.

The weirdest thing about this dream was that it was a re-enactment of last Friday morning, when I was to go to services in honor of Brian's grandmother, and I realized that my one dress shirt was in the wash, and that I no longer owned any nice dresses.

In an unrelated dream, I dreamt that grad school chum Bob Brumfield told me that he had decided to move to Tampa, Florida. He kept trying to convince me that Tampa was the new cultural capitol of the world.

My boss wanted me to email Poland Springs bottled water on his account to complain that their distilled water "tastes sweet."

Luckily, the Poland Springs website does not give up their email address. This may be due to the receipt of too many email messages from distraught crazies complaining of "sweet distilled water."

03.25.03 - 2:12pm
I think I’m coming down with a cold.
I feel all achy and coughy and phlegmy and yucky. This morning, as I was walking out of the subway, I coughed up a goober. I had no tissues on me, and didn’t want to spit it on the ground. I fished around in my pocket, and all I could come up with was a post-it note. So I spit into the post-it note and folding it up. This is something a dirty old person might do, someone smelling of old cheap liquor and even older sweat. Wearing a rumpled crusted overcoat. And carrying with him or her a post-it note. I consider myself fairly not-dirt-encrusted, and not-smelling of old liquor and sweat. I am also in the blossom of my youth. So I prayed no one saw my gross-out goober action.

As soon as I came upon a garbage can, I attempted to nonchalantly toss the post-it note into the trash. Only, the goober part made the post-it stick to my finger. I tried again. And again. I began flailing my hand disgustedly over the public garbage can and whining, “gross, gross, gross.”

No persons-of-no-fixed-address offered to “lick my stomach” after this incident, as they have on other occasion. Even these people have their limits.

I keep thinking about the episode of Miami Vice my sister and I watched when she was here a week and a half ago. Tubbs goes under cover as a suave million and enters into a boat race with a known drug dealer. He and an undercover Crocket (aka Burnett) go to a haberdashery owned by the drug dealer and run by his girlfriend. The girlfriend, who, in a bizarre twist, is attracted to Tubbs, says that she can tell from his accent that he in “not from around here.”

Tubbs replies, “No, I’m not. I’m from a little island north of here. Maybe you’ve hear of it. It’s called Manhattan.”

As much as I love Miami Vice, this line seemed singularly sinisterly awful. Now you can share in my revulsion.

03.24.03 - 1:25pm
We had wonderful weather this weekend.
On Saturday, I hung out with Eleanor Eichenbaum and Megan Newcome much of the day, which was a most gorgeous New York City day. We ate at an adorable cafe on Mott Street, Cafe Gitane. We ate small, well-put-together dishes, and I drank a glass of something I couldn't pronounce, but which turned out to taste like pink zinfandel. I was immediately ashamed of my faux pas, as I am constantly making fun of people for drinking fruity, pink-colored wine.

After my blunder, we went back to Megan and Eleanor's digs, a cute tenement on Rivington Street. I showed my powertool prowess by attempting to put Eleanor's new wooden wardrobe together backwards. It was modern art.

On Sunday, Brian and I went to Cafe Con Leche on the upper-west side for brunch. Brian went to study at the library, and I went home to attempt my tax return while pulling out all my hair and crying. I hate this tax business. Not so much that we have to pay them. But filling out these forms is a killer.

Later, we had dinner with my grandmother, who revealed to us that she likes butter so much, she's been known to nibble on a raw stick every once in a while. Then she praised the Atkins diet, said vegetarians were a bunch of idiots, and criticized my lack of ambition.

I chilled with Susan Johnson to watch the University of Florida's basketball team lose, and big old Catherine Zeta-Jones be very large.

THIS JUST IN: My work site was hacked this weekend. Somebody posted foul language and funny pictures of monkeys and our current president on our index page. It was a gas.

03.21.03 - 2:05pm
This war is so dumb and imperial, I can't even talk about it.
But I can talk about my Funny War Name Game.

I only had three entrants in my Funny War Name Game. But they were all plumb. They were as follows:


    Brian's grandmother's funeral was yesterday. It was very sad, but slightly unusual. When we got back into the limousine after the burial, the driver turned to us and said, "I ain't never seen nobody videotape a funeral. A wedding, yes. But never a funeral. This one was the first."

    Tonight, we will be going with Brian's father, aunt, and uncle to B'nai Jeshurun for services. This is my Friday night plans.

    In other news, my boss revealed to me that he owns a Chi Machine. I think this is both odd and embarrassing. He also told me a story about how he had his acupuncturist stick needles in his toes as he was having a close-to-the-nerve cavity filled so that he would not have to get a root canal. Guess what? It worked! I think this story is even more odd, and yes, more embarrassing

    03.19.03 - 2:35pm
    Just before 6:30 last night, Brian's grandmother, Shirley Geller, died. She was 93. She was adorable. She had, as of late, been in quite a bit of pain. I am told that as a younger woman, she had more of a hardness to her. But by the time I met her, dementia had set in, and she was, as Brian's aunt once said, "completely enveloped in love." when I met her, she was tiny and near-always smiling.

    Our president, in order to make me feel better, has decided to invade another country, because it is ruled by a dangerous leader who holds weapons of mass destruction and has no respect for the wishes of his people.

    In that case, come play my New Game:

    In honor of this ridiculous war, which nobody but Cowboy Bush plus some randoms want, I am developing a new game. This is made to ease my feeling of impotence as the world around my collapses, as I wait for the people who hate American (and are not, by the way, in Iraq) to come and blow my city up.

    The operation in Afghanistan was dubbed, "Operation Enduring Freedom" I believe this latest foray into the Middle-East with our big American clod-hopping boots has been affectionately termed "Operation Liberty Shield". When we went into Panama, we called the operation "Just Cause". Work in Bosnia was called "Operation Joint Forge". Poppa Bush's fights were "Desert Storm" and "Desert Shield". This is where you come in.

    First, think of a word that represents democracy and patriotism and all that's good with the world. Or try coming up with a noun that portrays a negative description of the land we are invading.

    Second, add on a term that implies a destructive natural force, military maneuver, or an action verb which implies progress in a forceful manner.

    Lastly, tack on the word OPERATION to your new kenning. And let 'er rip!


    03.18.03 - 2:25pm
    I have not updated my news page in some time.
    I feel terribly guilty about this. This blog does somehow negate the need for my semi-annual news updates. Still, this is no excuse for denying my readers more ME.

    Last night, we met at Chef Ho's for dinner. As it was not too far off the St. Patrick's Day parade route, every pub we passed had drunk and swaying patrons spilling out the front door. Littering the streets were teams of inebriated police officers brandishing open beer containers, which confused me greatly. If all the city's cops were drunk and violating the law, what would become of local felons, vagabonds, and generally bedraggled addicts of no fixed address? Would the ante be upped. Would minor felons, prone simply to open container violations be forced to push themselves farther into felonism by burgling and knifing and molesting me with their generally offensive personal odor as I pass them on the street?

    I have refrained from espousing my political opinions, but today will be a real treat for you all. I think this impending war is D.U.M. dumb. I think our president is ridiculous and evil and ridiculously evil

    I am not sure how Iraq in tied to the War on Terrorism, and, in turn, what the Israeli/Palestinian conflict has to do with either.

    Yet, as much as I think this war and its president are stupid, I don't much appreciate those anti-war protestors who pepper their chants with: "Down with the American Zionist plot!" and the like.

    While I would not necessarily describe myself as a plotting Zionist, I feel these people, who seem to frequent the lands of France and Germany, would do me the favor of not making that distinction. They might even do me the favor of hitting me over the head with a brick. So I tend to not agree with them.

    Meanwhile, American has fought hard to install democracy-friendly dictators around the world. Like that nice fellow Batiste in Cuba. And those sweet boys of the Taliban in Afghanistan. I guess our government really does know what's best for the rest of the world.

    I will not chat about this anymore, because this whole invasion thing makes me feel ill, and I have very strong opinions. I have been known to end up screaming at perfectly nice looking people because they absolutely refused to agree with me. This is in part because I scored an ENFJ on the Myers-Briggs type indicator test.

    03.17.03 - 2:35pm
    On a down note, Brian's 93-year-old grandmother was admitted to New York Presbyterian Hospital after suffering from cardiac arrest. Presently, she is conscious, but listless. She appears to be in stable condition.

    We found out about this the day before my parents were due to arrive in honor of my grandmother's 85th birthday. My sister, Ali stayed with us on Saturday night, but flew back to Florida on Sunday. As I have mentioned before, she is in her second year of a doctorate in psychology program. Before she left, she told us many wonderful stories about the children she sees in therapy. We laughed for hours. My parents are still here.

    When my parents are in town, our plans glide only from one meal to the next. As a result, I am presently stuffed like taxidermied pigeon. I feel kind of gross. And yet, I focused my energies of the last few hours helping to organize a dinner which would involve my parents, my grandmother, Brian and myself, Brian's father, who is in town visiting his mother, and our friend Alison Adleman (THIS JUST IN: MY MOTHER'S SISTER AND HER HUSBAND WILL BE JOINING US AS WELL). Our decision is mostly complicated by the fact that my grandmother does not much like to travel far for dinner. She often eats her dinner before I even get out of work, and we have already been to 2 of the three restaurants she finds acceptable in our area.

    In a wonderful and serendipitous turn of events, I ran into college friend, Eleanor Eichenbaum. My sister and I had been visiting random funky shops in the East Village, and we stopped off at the local McDonald's to use their gracious restroom before heading home. Who should have the same idea about the McDonald's gracious restroom, but Eleanor, her brother Mark, and their friend (who's name I've forgotten).

    I have found near-enough University of Florida grads up here to start my own "Gator Club".

    03.13.03 - 12:35pm
    Truthfully, most days are uneventful.
    But, as you, gentle reader, never seem to tire of my quirky subway stories, I will go ahead and tell you of my most recent public transportation blooper.

    This morning, around 7:15am, I boarded the one train at 86th Street. There was an unusually fat man taking up the greater portion of a two-person bench. He was slumped over, his hat drawn over most of his face. And he was SNORING. It was a deep and rolling and oily-sounding snore, so much so, that it sounded as if it were coming from somewhere deep within his lower intestines. Like rhythmic oily belches.

    I think I speak for everyone in the car when I say it was grossy-gross-gross

    I thought I was going to have jump off the train and vomit. Luckily, I only had to endure the grossy-ness for three stops.

    Sometimes I wonder if I am secretly not really such a good writer. That I am only an okay writer. Like your friend in high school who was an okay tennis player, maybe the best in the school, but not good enough to place in districts.

    When I think of this, think that I may in fact be on the upper end of mediocrity, I get to feeling terribly down. And foolish, for buoying up an empty dream for so long.

    But I don't feel that way now. I feel just as ego-bloated as ever. I am still convinced that I am wonderfully talented, and will some day, in the not too distant future, be interviewed by Charlie Rose. Charlie (Chas, as I call him) will look over at me, raising his arm slightly, then he will chuckle a bit. "Ah!" he will say, looking up. And then he will begin again. "Deb. Deb, you are a very very funny woman. Let's talk about your latest book."

    "You're very sweet, Chas," I will say. Then I will wax serious. "Frankly, all this fame and adoration from millions of strangers can be quite taxing on a body."

    And so it will go.

    If you would like to continue to float my bloated ego, write me and tell me how much you love to read my writing. If you do not so much love to read my writing, please do not write me, as it will only make me feel terribly depressed. And I'm no fun when I'm terribly depressed.

    03.12.03 - 2:30pm
    On the way out of the train this morning, I all of a sudden thought of the day we took our evil, smirking management company to court. I could see clearly the evil smirking faces of the smirking evil John and Vinnie. I thought of how we won our security deposit back, the righteous, how good triumphed over evil. I felt wonderfully proud of myself.

    Then, climbing the stairs to the street, I almost stepped on an enormous green phlegmy goober. This took my mood down a notch.

    My grandmother had minor surgery today on her cataracts. The hospital called this morning and requested that we come pick her up after the surgery. I could hear my grandmother on the other end of the phone screaming and cursing the nurse, telling her she was just fine to go home alone.

    I assumed she would be in awful spirits, but when Brian and I arrived, she was actually quite chipper. The doctor told her she had magnificently healthy eyes. This was more proof that she would outlive us all. What fabulous news.

    The other day I was crossing Houston Street on Broadway, and a bedraggled-looking individual was leaning into the window of a couple's car which had been stopped at the light. The bedraggled individual was leaning into the window and screaming in the driver's face, "You're not scared of me motherfucker? You're not scared of me? Hey, motherfucker! Are you scared now, motherfucker!" The driver of the car kept say, "I ain't scared of you. Get your fucking face out of my car. I ain't scare, you motherfucker."

    Kind of funny how while neither the bedraggled fellow, nor the sassy driver were scared, I was. So thrilled was I that I was not stopped at the light. As I have no windows on my no car, the bedraggled man would have the potential of getting that much closer to my face, should he so desire.

    03.11.03 - 1:10pm
    Uncle Ira doesn't like it if I'm not home when he calls.
    He claims he only gets one call a day, and it is wasted in leaving me a message on the answering machine. Though this may be the prison's general policy, I know this to be untrue. He has called and left messages as many as four times in one evening. Then gone and done the same on my grandmother's answering machine.

    Last night he asked again why I wasn't home when he first called. He said, "Why you gotta run? Mother says I used to run too when I was your age. I ran bad. I was never home. But I didn't have an apartment. You have an apartment. So why you always running?"

    I tried to explain that I don't get out of work until 5:30, that it takes me three quarters of an hour to get home by subway and on foot, and that the lines everywhere are long. I can stand waiting 25 minutes for a cashier in the supermarket. I often need to go to three different stores to get food for dinner, and I must schlep these bags from store to store until I reach my apartment.

    This didn't penetrate my uncle much.

    I like his version better anyway.

    I like picturing myself in shorts and sneakers, running down the sidewalks, laughing wild open-mouthed laughs as I flee his phone calls.

    His version has more oomph to it.

    03.10.03 - 3:30pm
    I am feeling much better today, thank you.
    My parents are coming into town this Saturday. I very much look forward to their visit. My mother has been wonderfully helpful as of late in listening to my complaints about her mother-in-law.

    We had dinner with my grandmother again last night. One of the first things she said to me as I went to hug her was, "When are we going to get rid of that awful hair color of yours."

    We ate at Chinese take-out place, where the owner's lap dog continually ran under our table as we ate. At one point, my grandmother turned to speak to the dog. Both Brian and I were sure she was going to threaten to eat it. To our great shock, she said, "Now aren't we cute? Are you a Chinese dog? I bet you speak Chiii-neez."

    So our dinner was relatively uneventful.

    My uncle has been very upset for the past few days because he would like to have a hamburger deluxe brought up for the next visit. But the diner on the corner packages their to-go items in aluminum, a substance which the inmates are forbidden to come in contact with.

    I have spent the last five days trying to reassure him that the hamburger, pickle, and fries can all be moved into a tupperware container. Sadly, this does not do enough to allay his fears.

    I wrote another page of words this weekend. Brian read it and said of it "It looks pretty good." Then he asked what it was going to be when it grew up.

    I said I envisioned it as being short anachronistic vignettes, loosely pasted together, like so many tesserae in a mosaic. Brian just grimaced.

    Such is our great and enduring love.

    03.06.03 - 2:40pm
    Good for Uncle Ira, but bad for the Debbers.
    My grandmother called last night to let me know that my uncle's court date came through. He will be fighting to be transferred to a civil facility (as opposed to a criminal one), from which he will then be released once more into greater society.

    This bums me out, as Brian and I are presently living in his otherwise unoccupied apartment. Once he is released, he will most likely want his residence back, at which point, we will be forced to move and pay market value somewhere in Queens.

    Of course, he has not yet won his case. His lawyer must prove that he is able to distinguish the difference between right and wrong. To me, it would seem like a hard sell; he still says things like, "It was only a small fire, and no one was hurt." When he is asked what he will do once he is released, he says, "I'm going to get off my medication so I can have sex with my girlfriend."

    It's a bag of worms, but I do feel bad for him. He doesn't much like prison, as can be imagined. But whenever he is released from a mental institution, he ceases taking his medication, and then has psychotic episodes. This has been the case, more or less, for the past 36 odd years.

    Well, Mazel tov, Uncle Ira. For your sake, I hope you are no longer deemed criminally insane.

    As for me: Pity for poor Debbie. Debbie of the strong kishkes, who did not mind so much visiting the crazy house, sorting through disturbing old pornography, and dining with the devil, all in order to live in Manhattan.

    My sister Ali says I should not worry. She says the trial has not occurred yet, and (as one must understand when dealing with crazies) anything can happen.

    Ali is a wonderful friend to me. She is presently getting her doctorate of psychology at Nova Southeastern University. She tells me how "fire setters" are looked at differently than your average run-of-the mill lunatic.

    03.05.03 - 2:18pm
    Today's big news: It's Jenny Miller's Birthday.
    That's right! The chef-in-chief of Heck's Kitchen is turning a biggish, yet still lively number. So send her a birthday ecard.

    In other news, I feel very ill. I even skipped yoga, though I am here at work, feeling weak and pukey. So send me an ecard wishing me a feeling less-pukey than the one I have now.

    You are all such dears.

    03.04.03 - 3:10pm
    I wept copious tears on the subway as I read through the last pages of One Hundred Years of Solitude. It was the best subway/bus reading I have ever consumed.

    I have not yet received the new book I ordered on line. My mother is sending me a nice, short something as well, but I have yet to receive that either. I have once more picked up Bruno Schulz's Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass, which is an amazing and very thin book, but is horrendous as subway reading. It is a book of thickly textured short stories of no plot, overlapping characters, high imagery, and surreal worlds. I find myself reading the same paragraph over and over without recognizing it.

    I see the same teenage kid each morning on my 7am bus ride to yoga. It is kind of eerie. I feel like I should say hi to him, but then I think better of it. If there were some bus disaster, where the driver went crazy (god forbid) or we were in an accident (god forbid) or we were hijacked (god forbid), I'm sure we would bond immediately. But, other than riding the bus at the same hour on weekday mornings, we may have nothing in common.

    Is it rude not to acknowledge him? Would it be weird to greet him?

    When I was getting out of the apartment ten minutes earlier, I would sometimes see this young woman who was always knitting. I always had the feeling that I should try to be her friend. Just because we were often on the same bus. She also got on at First Avenue and also got off at Broadway, at which point we both took the 1,9 train downtown.

    The teenage kid gets on at First, but he gets off the bus at Columbus. So we obviously can have nothing in common.

    03.03.03 - 3:03pm
    Happy 03.03.03.
    Uncle Ira says that a Cuba Libre consists of Bacardi 151 Rum, Coca Cola, and a twist of lime. It is that twist of lime that protects you from ever getting really drunk.

    Uncle Ira's biggest regret is that he messed around too much with drugs. He thinks the reason he is in prison is because of his multiple escape attempts from civil psychiatric facilities over the past 30 years. When asked about the fire he started, he says, "That was nothing."

    After Brian and I visited with Uncle Ira, Brian stayed home to study while I went out for a prix fix dinner with my grandmother. Our server told us that the soup of the day was a tomato puree with mozzarella, and my grandmother interrupted her to say, "Wonderful! Now I know what not to order. I hate tomato puree. I think it's disgusting!"

    Shortly after that, she turned around to observe the single older gentleman dining alone. When she inquired about his meal, he told her he was eating a pork stew, but there were mostly bones left. My grandmother responded, "But that's the best part! I love to suck the meat from the bones. It's the sweetest part. I'm a fantastic meat eater!"

    She then said something about "Dr. Atkins' diet" and displayed the tiny piece of bread she had been eating on which sat about a pound of butter. The man suggested that such great butter and meat consumption might cause her to have a heart attack, which only made her cackled harder.

    "This is the way I ate when I was young. After reading Dr. Atkins' book, I began eating more meat and butter. And I've never felt better. Ha ha!"

    I have been a vegetarian for 13 years now, and while I don't mind other people eating meat, I do mind the way my grandmother is constantly lecturing me about how I'm going to die sooner because of my ill-balanced diet, how I'm doomed to poor health and obesity if I continue eating this way. She is forever clipping articles for me about how vegetarian people are more likely to be hypocrites and murderers. Proof of how they are less evolved and more feeble-minded than omnivorous people. I have no idea where she finds these articles. But they irritate me tremendously.

    By the way, maybe it is due to her poor hearing, or maybe it is her profoundly mal-formed social graces, but she feels the need to scream all her nasty comments in that same shrill voice.

    At the same time, it is because of her that we are able to live in Manhattan. So I guess I should buck up and shut my trap.

    I may have inherited my grandmother's tenacity for partying. I ended up only going to the gallery people's event on Friday. On Saturday, I wrote a whole page-full of words, then ate dinner at an Italian place across the street. Sunday belonged to Uncle Ira and my grandmother.

    I'm burning the candle at both ends!

  • Heck's Kitchen is awash in blogs

    loshon hora makes nice new entries.

    despite my friend Mary's morbid suggestion, I do not think I have SARS

    in fact, my sinus issue has been getting better, which is very un-SARS-like.

    though I have not been to yoga in over a week,
    I have been to see uncle ira, whose trial date is April 9th.

    He is worried about this, and therefore has been more loudly crazy than usual.

    he told Brian and me a quasi-dirty joke, which made us feel uncomfortable.

    there has been another suicide bombing in Israel.

    this makes me nervous,

    as my brother is currently living in Jerusalem.

    let's all hope for the best.

    though I do not normally do this kind of thing,

    a fellow named Dave Eison (who I do not know) has asked that I post a link to a website he is building.

    this link is not for the faint of heart.

    it is actually mostly for Erin Doyne, who is a college chum of mine.

    if your name is Erin Doyne, then why don't you mosey on down to

    Jenny Miller is back from Washington State

    and she's got a car that needs a li'l bit o' jesus.

    I would like to once again thank Writers Weekly for linking to my site.

    I encourage all of you out there to go ahead and link to me. I promise to give you a shout-out if you do.

    Eleanor had a blind date in the rain yesterday.

    I lent her my red umbrella.

    the umbrella is a secret charm that wards against blind dates with hamster-nibblet teeth.

    hopefully, it worked.

    I have, in my life, been told I look like the following:

    liza minelli
    barbara streisand
    pee wee herman

    today I feel awful. so I put on more rouge than usual.

    then I remembered that, when I saw my grandfather in the casket, before he was to be buried, he was also wearing a lot of rouge.

    I wonder if I too look like death rouged-over.

    regular debcentral reader and fellow blogger Nick from Salt Lake City, relates a very interesting story from his recent trip to New York City.

    I will not give it away,

    but it involves Nick,
    the 1 train,
    several ladies from Texas
    and a case of mistaken identity
    no animals were hurt in the making of this story.

    Nick's story reminded me of one of Bob's stories.

    two blond, shirt-sleeved mormon boys knocked on Bob's door one afternoon.

    Bob just happened to be lounging around in a floor-length skirt and sipping a large glass of red wine.

    the boys asked him their usual questions about religion and god and whatnot.

    Bob interrupted them to say, "why don't you two boys come in, have a drink, and tell me a little more about your religion.

    I believe the boys ran very quickly down all four flights of stairs.

    in response to my chi machine item, regular to debcentral Nick from salt lake city writes:

    I just have to say: The Chi Machine is awesome.

    I know it sounds nuts, but it's GREAT.

    It just causes increased circulation, but that creates a fun "tingly" feeling all over.

    I disagree with the website's claims of "aerobic" wholeheartedly, but after a chi session, I could sleep next to Uncle Ira without any tension in my body.

    Or at least I think I could.

    Don't really want to think too hard about that one . . .

    more funny war name game suggestions:

    Jason Labbe contributes

    operation starbucks expansion

    operation corporate claw

    operation benevolent bullet

    operation assonance and alliteration

    Alison Adleman watched the tv news this weekend, and a broadcaster claimed that most americans support our actions in Iraq "because this war is 'zesty'!

    "yes," says Adleman,

    "zesty, fresh, light and lively, vim and vigor, I believe salad dressing provides ample inspiration for this war name game. or soap."

    you can still enter my funny war name game.

    if you want to take you mind off the crumbling world around us, check out these fun flash games that Jenny Miller as posted on her site:

    pony pong

    the way of penny royal

    sing, swedish horse-cows

    homestar runner

    Ed Geller's sight is currently taking a nap. we will notify you when it wakes up and wants to dance.

    please send me your results.

    I promise to post them.

    only Jenny Miller told me her MBTI score.

    she claims to be an INTP

    I would put her at more of a ENTP.

    but that’s her business

    she often posts fun flash games on her site.

    here is a funny site for people who dislike evil clowns and want to control their appearance.

    you can also send brian a condolence card.

    old grad school chum Joseph Byrne dropped by debcentral today.

    on his website, he lists that, according to the Myers-Briggs type indicator, he is INFP

    the last time I took the test, I was an ENFJ

    I think Brian might be an ISFP, which may account for why we argue so much.

    I believe Alison Adleman told me was an INFP as well.

    I think my uncle is a ENTP.

    this is, of course, just a guess.

    I am not sure as to whether he has ever taken the myers-brigs type indicator test. but I do know he has been diagnosed as schizophrenic with bi-polar disorder.

    it is quite likely that our current president actually failed the MBTI test.

    he may be dumb, but that doesn't mean he's not malevolent.

    drop me a line and let me know your MBTI score. we'll compare notes. then I'll yell at you.

    friday night was yoga dinner night.

    we ate at an indonesian restaurant on E. 4th whose name begins with a "B".

    the food was good and very reasonably priced, but the portions were rather small.

    we all spoke relatively little about yoga, which I suppose was a good thing.

    brian is currently on spring break.

    his brother made one update on his website.

    I am, so far, enjoying my parents' visit.

    they help to relieve some of the pressures of extended family.

    such as visiting my uncle in prison.

    the high today is 70 degrees.

    regular debcentral reader jason is feeling a bit blue and mopey.

    he is an aspiring writer as well.

    though he has actually been published.

    (he tells me he has 200 rejection slips).

    write him an ecard and say something cheerful.

    if you yourself are feeling blue and mopey, visit the T'inator website.

    which is just silly.

    but makes me laugh.

    I am a fool for Mr. T.

    also, my uncle sent my grandmother a card for her 85th birthday.

    inside, the only thing he wrote was:


    I thought this was quite classy.

    I finished the wonderful nice short book that my mother recently sent me. The Diary of a Nobody, by George and Weedon Grossmith, was very funny, very entertaining, and very short.

    in addition, it had pictures.

    George was an actor with the d'oyly carte opera company, which performed Gilbert and Sullivan's original comic operettas.

    Grossmith was also a heroine addict and a singer of humorous songs.

    I highly recommend this book.

    and I believe it is back in print.

    in other news: Jenny Miller has something to say about our impeding war and also other stuff that makes me giggle.

    mazel tov to Brian, who is now a notes and comments editor of Fordham's iplj

    He took a cab home from his night class last night, and the cab was pulled over. the cab driver tried to make Brian think it was his fault.

    He has also been updating his blog

    his brother Ed has not.

    blogger Nick is back from his trip.

    Isn't my dad cute?

    mazel tov to me, as I wrote three-fifths of a page last night.

    this is surely progress.

    my mother has been reading my blog lately.

    my father has read parts of my website, but only after he has printed them out.

    Brian's father has also been known to glance at it from time to time.

    Brian's brother has linked to it, but never actually looks at it.

    Brian's mother doesn't own a computer.

    my sister reads it when I direct her attentions thus.

    her boyfriend Patrick is a regular debcentral flunky.

    Brian's sister Jessie may it this a secret.

    it has never been documented as to whether my brother has seen this site.

    my grandmother has not yet found my blog.

    my uncle does not understand what the internet is. he doesn't know how to work the microwave in the visiting area, claiming it's "too high tech" for him.

    my sister has taught me such fun words as:


    diurna enuresis

    neurolyptic medication

    schizoid personality disorder

    she has informed me that one sign of autism is the tendency to put one's shoes on the wrong feet.

    in addition, she sewed me an adorable pillow on which to rest my kooky head. it was an anniversary present.

    I am very lucky to have her.

    and her big book of medical terms, so we can both enjoy endless hours of fun diagnosing my uncle.

    thank you, Ali Schwartz, for helping to make mental illness more enjoyable.

    in celebration of Jenny Miller's birthday, Sarah Loffman suggests we all take a swift shot of liquor at 7pm tonight.

    in sympathy for my condition, swig a shot of pepto bismol immediately follow.

    thank you.

    my friend Susan met her ex-boyfriend on the subway.

    he was a stranger on a train. then he was her boyfriend.

    then he was kicked to the curb.

    another friend, Mary Liao, met a fellow on the 4,5,6 line. he approached her at the 86th street stop.

    I think they are still dating.

    I have run into two people whom I knew in college. this was on two separate occasions.

    mostly, I just meet crazy people on the subway.

    and deaf people with those little "deaf people" cards, and people singing doo wop, and people selling batteries and flashlight keychains and candy to raise money to buy basketball uniforms.

    which is why I'm in the market for another good book to read on the subway.

    today, Brian forwarded me an email from a man with whom he had an interview for a summer internship. the message said that Brian was still being considered for the position, and should hear back from the department in a week or two.

    in my heady excitement, I hit "reply", and sent back this response:


    That's wonderful. I am very happy you were not yet cut from the team.

    Keep up the good work, champ!

    I love you.


    as you have probably already guessed, I somehow managed to send the email to Brian's perspective employer.

    I feel like such an idiot.

    maybe I should consider: w.w.u.i.d.?

    what would uncle ira do?

    he would probably just drink a cuba libre and start a fire.

    if only it were so easy.

    in addition, my husband, who may never get that internship, has a something to say about the pledge of allegiance

    stop by heck's kitchen and check it out.

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