the history of debcentral


On the Eve of a New Moon

04.30.03 - 1:30pm
I feel today will be a bad day.
Nothing too terrible has happened yet. Yet. But I can feel that Incredible Hulk radioactivity boiling in my blood. I am likely to pick up bell-bottomed and mustachioed criminals and lob them over a dozen parked cars. Or maybe I'll just trip down the stairs to the subway and fall on top of unsuspecting public transit-goers. Whichever.

Yesterday, I was in the check-out line at my local Gristedes, when I saw a cute, yet schleppy-looking fellow in the next line. Dark-hair was a bit awry, collar buttoned to the top, he was wearing earphones and purchasing snackfood. My brain automatically said to itself, I am going to marry this fellow. The cashier was asking, "debit or credit." I became flummoxed -- blushingly realizing that I was already married, and had been out of the dating scene for nearly six years. I left the grocery store feeling both cold and hot. Like I was inside a pickle jar. Then my brain said, I bet my hair's all messed up. I tried to make out my reflection in the store windows, but couldn't. Once back in the apartment, I ran to the mirror to fix my hair. But all my brain could come up with was, Gosh, my face looks fat!.

During the course of the evening I knocked over two glasses filled with beverages. In the morning, as the clock radio went off, I dreamed about the news and woke up late. I kept burping in yoga class, and was stopped by security while sneaking into Fordham with Alison Adleman to buy a smoothie. Now I've found an unidentified bruise on my wrist. And I feel weirdly thirsty.

Now you can see why I am concerned.

Alison says it is all because of the impending new moon.

04.29.03 - 1:08pm
I know, I know. You've had enough about dreams.
But this one was kind of weird. Brian and I were on some kind of game show in which we were paired off with other couples. It was kind of like Wheel of Fortune, but also kind of like Family Feud from 1978. Brian and I were all clapping and excited. I had a good feeling about it all, like we were going to win. But then, I realized the other couple on our team consisted of some people I had been avoiding since I graduated college, and who presently live in New York. They asked why I had been avoiding them. I felt very ashamed, but lied and said that I had no idea that they were in town. The rest of the dream was spent trying to wriggle out of this uncomfortable situation with increasingly more elaborate lies.

This dream is remarkable because, though I have been avoiding this couple for roughly three years, I have met them in my dreams at least three times in the past two months. It is also remarkable because I had feathered hair and was wearing a frilly collared paisley blouse for my appearance on the game show.

One last thing about dreams. I got this entry to my contest from the lovely Ms. Roeder, and I completely forgot to enter it. So the following entry wins first place in the category of Dreams Deb Forgot to Enter In the Contest:

This is not "really" weird, but, I had a dream last night that I was helping this old OLD lady cross the street (or maneuver up a hill or SOMETHING). And then when we parted ways I went to buy a pretzel from the guy on the street. And my wallet was gone. And then I could see that she had stolen my wallet and put it up her sleeve (ala the old people in Dirty Dancing). And then I was yelling at her about how she shouldn't steal things and all her "friends" were surrounding her but they were all NOT OLD, but like 15 and 16, and I was telling them that they shouldn't be friends with her. The strange thing is that I have not seen Dirty Dancing any time lately, but I did watch a friends rerun last night during which it was revealed that Phoebe once mugged Ross before they were friends. And maybe that made me dream about odd people stealing things.

04.28.03 - 12:10pm
Over all, my "Weirdest Dreams of 2003" turn out was pretty shabby.
But, alas, I will conduct the awards ceremony forthwith:

Charming, witty, beer-drinking. These are just a few words which aptly describe our first contestant. She recently dreamed she was riding a passenger jet like a cartoon character sitting atop a rocket. She was trying to fly to Jamaica, but instead, went higher and higher, cold and alone, until she was above the earth. The dream ended with her tumbling in the thick dark envelope of space, knowing she was going to die. The first place award for the category of Dreams Which Most Remind Us of Our Own Mortality goes to Jenny Miller.

Our second contestant spent several nightmarish years in the US Navy, where he experienced the same non-quite-nightmarish reoccurring dream. Often, in sleep, he was hosting an enormous party in the infield of a seldom-used horseracing track in Berkeley. The partygoers were everyone he had ever know in his life. As they came in, he would greet them, ask how they had been, then send them to work looking for his keys, which he had misplaced somewhere in the grass. The first place award for Not-Quite-Symbolic And Not-Quiet-Nightmarish Reoccurring Dream goes to Brian Mack.

Our last contestant submitted no less than three dreams, all of which were incredibly dream-like. Debcentral's favorite of the three, and the "Judge's Choice" winner for "Weirdest Dreams of 2003" goes to the following contestant, who presently has a museum job very similar to the one I begin in two weeks. The "Judge's Choice" dream was also very similar to a dream I had had several months previous, only without the cameo appearance by Bob Brumfield in lady's undergarments. Debcentral's "Judge's Choice" of the "Weirdest Dreams of 2003" goes to SARAH LOFFMAN! Her dream is as follows:

Jenny and Bob both made me presents for finishing up all my community service obligations. I knew I was dating one of them, but couldn't remember exactly which one it was. Bob looked over at me and said, "God, I love you so much." And I thought, "Aha! BOB is my boyfriend." So I retreated to the boudoir and Bob followed. But as soon as Bob took off his shirt, he put on my bra. And then I thought, "Oh no. I need outta this relationship STAT."
CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL! All of your dreams were very dream-like, and they would all make Luis Bunuel proud.

04.25.03 - 1:30pm
I am very disappointed in the number of entrants for my "Weirdest Dreams of 2003" contest. So far, I have been emailed only four dreams, three of which were from the same contestant (prolific dreamer Sarah L.).

Because I am a fool for non-pornographic fan mail, I will leave the contest open until Monday, at which time I may be forced to enter a dream I had in college in which I discovered, much to my dismay, that I was pregnant . . . with a VELOCIRAPTOR BABY . . . IN MY LEG! Needless to say, I was much relieved to wake up and find I was not in fact pregnant with a velociraptor baby in my leg, but had simply gained 15 pounds in the past semester, so much so that none of my pants fit. Phew!

I want to send a shout out to all those yogis who read my site. I think I practice with about 3 or 4 yogis who seem fairly up-to-date on my blog life. I wonder if when I fall over and scream in pain, whether they are thinking, Well, she must be upset because her uncle will be transferred from prison soon and she will have to move.

Speaking of which . . . my father wrote me yesterday concerning my uncle's impending transfer from loony prison. He spoke with my uncle's attorney, who says she thinks it may be between a year and two years before my uncle is let loose. Though it could be sooner. Or later. No one really knows.

This is about where I was before in not knowing how much longer we would be living in my uncle's apartment. But we will most likely be there for another year to two years. Or more. Or less. In honor of this ambiguous news, I tried updating Uncle Ira's page a bit. I plan to post some more cards and pictures, as well as that famous poem he wrote, "Jessica", in which there reads the lines:

Ah! Poetry!

04.24.03 - 1:20pm
I am still flapping my phoenixy wings and hovering majestically above the atkins bar-smelling lump of garbage which is my present place of employment.

Can you identify the following quote?

". . . . it is like I have awoken from the long nightmare of being trapped inside a atkins-bar-smelling pork chop and am now ascending to the heaven of big-hearted, yet poorly paid workers."

Ha! I said it! Haven't you been reading my blog lately? Why don't you pay closer attention to what you read?

Speaking of dreams, I am submitting a call for really weird dream stories. I suppose they don't have to be real, but they have to sound real-enough that they pull the wool over my eyes and I think they are real.

This is a contest, and I will post the first-place dream on my site (text version). I will also email the winning dreamer a really scary old picture of my uncle which I found in a box in the apartment.

Requirements for your dream:

    it must be a dream (no fantasies, please)
    it must be amusing or so un-amusing that it's amusing it should not reveal facts about you which make me feel uncomfortable. if I am in your dream, I must not be doing anything that would cause me to feel shame in real life. if reading your dream makes me chuckle until snot flies out of my nose, this is a plus.
Let the Submitting begin!

04.23.03 - 1:30pm
Ah! I am like a phoenix risen from the ashes!
How happy am I to be working once more in the "atrocities sector", and getting paid a non-profit salary.

Several days ago, I received an unsolicited rejection from none other than Sarah L. It was preceded by this disclaimer:

I just wanted to let you know that I was able to use debcentral as a resource today. I'm writing rejection letters to all those poor college students who will have to enjoy the great out of doors working as lifeguards instead of trapped inside a stuffy museum with me all summer.
And I thought, what do I know about rejection? Nothing! But Deb does!

It was then followed by this lovely rejection:
Good afternoon,
Thank you for the opportunity to consider your application for a Summer Internship at the Corcoran Gallery of Art. This year we received over 100 applications for the Summer Internship Program. Unfortunately, we only have spots for twelve students. This means there are many talented and qualified (even over-qualified!) pplicants that we are unable to accept. I apologize for this impersonal response, but assure you that your application has been carefully considered. Thank you very much for your interest in the Corcoran.
We appreciate your patience during this long selection process, and wish you the very best of luck in the future. If you are searching for an internship next summer, please check back with us.


Sarah Museum-O'Person
Coordinator of Little Museum O'People

You see what's going on? I'm HELPING people. HELPING them to WRITE BETTER REJECTION LETTERS. HELPING them, like I will HELP them in my NEW JOB. I will help YOUTHS to REACH OUT, as I will be the OUTREACH COORDINATOR for YOUTH GROUPS.

I already feel blessed.

Thank you, Sarah. Thank you, Museum of Jewish Heritage. Thank you World!

04.22.03 - 9:36pm
I really must call some people and then go to bed, but it would be wrong of me not to tell you that I GOT A NEW JOB!!!

Thank you, thank you.

I had a whole blog prepared, but then my boss was having one of those "stand over my employee's shoulder and eat in her ear" days. And then THIS! So it will all have to wait until tomorrow.

What I will tell you is that it is at the Museum of Jewish Heritage, and that I have no idea about their policy of blogging-while-working.

04.21.03 - 12:00pm
My uncle has been giving out his home number (which is now our home number) and that of his mother to inmates who are being transferred to different wards, or to civil facilities.

We received a phone call from someone identifying himself as Clark Kent and a friend of Ira's. This fellow, whose real name, we have discovered, is Merced, was recently transferred from ward 2 east (where my uncle is) to ward 3 east, and my uncle had given this man his contact information well in advance of either of their releases.

My uncle was annoyed that this fellow had called. "I told him to call once he was transferred to a civil , not another ward. Why "Clark Kent", I asked? My uncle said, "SUPERMAN! He loves comic books. He's a bit retarded.

I am happy this man has not yet been release, to drop by Ira's apartment, which is presently our apartment, to say hi in the way that criminally insane individuals say hi to their old jailbird buddies.

The logic behind giving people who may be released before him his contact information is baffling. And humorous. But only when it's not you who is slated to get a visit from a criminally insane individual who's been chucked out onto the streets.

04.18.03 - 1:35pm
So, anything interesting happened to you yesterday?
Ha! I've got you totally beat. Listen to this: On Tuesday night, we received a message on our answering machine from someone identifying himself as a friend of Ira Schwartz, and giving his name as Clark Kent. He asked for a call back and left an unfamiliar number.

A friend? my uncle? Through the years, Ira has been known to associate primarily with society's lowest common denominator. Most recently, he has been taken out of greater society to reside in a prison for the criminally insane for the past seven years. Last night, Mr. Kent left us another message.

I checked the caller ID, and saw that the message was actually coming from inside the institution. I listened closely, and heard him say again that he was a friend of my uncle's. Then he mumbled Ward 3 East. Hm. This is great. A criminally insane person is repeat-calling my home. At least I know he cannot come and get me.

I spoke to my grandmother that evening, and she said that she too had received a phone call. She had answered the phone, and the man on the other end said his name was Clark Kent, and that he was a friend of Ira Schwartz. "Yes," said my grandmother. "Ira asked me to call you." he told my grandmother. "And?" My grandmother is very no-nonsense. "And?" said the man. "I'm not sure. Ira just told me to call you, but he didn't tell me why."

So my Uncle has been giving out the numbers of his loved ones to fellow mental patients. I called up my uncle and asked him about it, and he insisted that he had never ever given out phone numbers to other patients. Then he yelled about something else for a while. Then he repeated that he had never given out his digits to fellow patients. Though, he had given them to people who were being transferred a the civil facility.

I got a call back from my uncle about 9:30pm. He repeated that he had never given out this phone number or that of his mother to any other mental patient. Except for some fellows currently living in his Ward. But never to anyone in Ward 3 East, and never to anyone named Clark Kent.

Then he insisted I call the police and report the incident. "Uncle Ira," I told him. "This man has only called me twice. He is not exactly harassing me. And besides, what can the police do? He's already in prison."

The slings and arrows of living in an apartment of an outrageously crazy person.

04.17.03 - 2:59pm
Did I lie?
I though we might be at last nightís seder until after 2am. Actually, we left about 1:40. Will you forgive me?

One apparently needs a lot of energy to be a religious person. I enjoy sleep far more than I enjoy serving god and being holy. While this may become more of a problem in the afterlife, it keeps my living days a little less complicated.

As we were leaving in the elevator last night, Brianís aunt reveled that she had had a strange dream in which she was trying to choose a studio assistant. Her mother, who died about a month ago, was there, wanting to help in the decision-making. Bonnie turned to her mother and said, "Mom, you canít help me with these kind of things anymore. Youíre dead, remember."

It was a very odd and dreamlike dream. And reflecting on the nature of dreams, I had to turn away, because it made me think of Jennyís recent dream of petting a penguin which felt like a dog, and I couldnít stop laughing. Which I suppose could have been misconstrued as rude, crass, and unfeeling by someone in mourning.

Write me and tell me an embarrassing and inappropriate laughing story. If itís really spiffy, Iíll post it. If itís better than anything I could ever write, I will hide it away from the world, so as not to jeopardize my own potential fame.

04.16.03 - 2:59pm
Tonight is the first night of Passover.
We are spending the evening at Brianís auntís friendís seder. It wonít begin until 8pm. They are Orthodox, and there will likely be singing and dancing until two in the morning, which is what happened at Brianís auntís seder two years ago. Eventually, I passed out on the couch. When I woke up again, people were still singing and tossing back large glasses of kosher wine.

I grew up a Reform Jew in Fort Lauderdale. We used a coloring book as a haggadah. Often, my family would take a moment to look at the funny pictures, point to a bunch of stuff on the seder plate, then sing the song about the pharaoh waking up with frogs in his bed and frogs on his head. Then we ate.

We would begin the evening around four in the afternoon, because the elderly relatives didnít like to drive after dark. Our seder would end in enough time for the elderly relatives to get back to Boca before dusk.

Then my brother, sister, and I would sit around watching the Lance Link Secret Chimp marathon on Nickelodeon.

The Lance Link marathon may have only happened a couple of times. But I will hold the memory in my heart for an eternity.

04.15.03 - 3:50pm
Just a quickie to say that I posted the dumb little press release I wrote and which was "featured" (this means it was printed on the third to last page) of the very elite Composites Fabrication magazine.

I also updated my resume, which was embarrassingly incorrect.

I have been receiving an increasing amount of junk mail on my debcentral email account. There was a story on this very topic on WNYC this morning. They suggest that one should write out oneís email address in full. This apparently prevents the evil Spambots of the Planet Zipton from picking up the address and using it to send you advertisements for penis enlargements. An example of this would be:


I think we should write our email address out, but with commentary in the middle, so as to throw those evil spambots off the trail. Like:
contact@--you know it, grrlfriend!

Heh, heh. Those evil droids will be searching for DAYS for the correct email address. And do you know why? Because they lack human emotion.

A third option, which is utterly evil, would be to list the email address of someone you hate. For example, you might write:

Please email me at my debcentral "contact" address, which is

This is a very subversive way to piss off your enemies.

04.14.03 - 12:10pm
Brian, Alison and I had dinner in Astoria Saturday night.
This is where we met the least-helpful waitress in the greater New York metropolitan area. Aside from having a generally surly disposition, which became evident when she yelled at us for being a party of only three instead of four, she insisted on making snide comments concerning the food we ordered.

We kept requesting water, and she kept ignoring us. Until finally she said, exasperated, ďLook. I am very busy right now. I am not able to bring you water.Ē Then she disappeared entirely, and we had to ask another server for our water and the check.

Brianís school chum Brad threw a party that same night. The party was held in honor of the 180th birthday of Russian playwright Alexander Ostrovsky. And guess who showed up sporting her sassy Batman underoos from Target? None other than ME!

I had the most wonderful time as I regaled fellow party-goers with stories of Uncle Ira. Iím not sure if I ever left the kitchen. I chatted with Richard and Carolyn and Kevin and some guy with really fun hair.

Finally, Brian shoved me mid-joke out the door, as it was after 1am, and we had to visit the real Uncle Ira at noon. Then we got lost looking for the subway. Then we got found by a gypsy cab, and were on our way home.

During our visit to the prison, Uncle Ira was decidedly less funny than my stories had painted him. He was especially talkative, and especially eat-a-tive. Which meant food was dripping and flying from has mouth at a rapid pace. This made us both angry and nauseated. The only good thing about the visit was that he told us the thalidomide story again.

04.13.03 - 8:55pm
Katie of the Broken Nose Breaks the Silence. She writes:

Somehow, I felt myself drifting slowly forward with no possible way of extricating my shoulders or arms (having hands available to flail near my feet was no help at all), landing on my nose, because I decided the nose is less expensive than the teeth. I even had time to think of the woman who died from a nosebleed on Six Feet Under the night before.

So there was a crunch and someone asked "Are you hurt?" and I said, "I'm not sure." I stopped pinching my nostrils and blood starting gushing out, and I had to use that little towel you keep next to you for wiping up your sweat to hold my nose instead.

My yoga teacher tried to get me to lie down, but then realized that clearly wasn't the right thing to do, because it encouraged me to inhale my own blood. He set me up in his little private hideaway with a futon and an ice pack, and I wallowed in self-pity and blood for about an hour. I used his cell phone to call my doctor, who called back and recommended a nose doctor, who said he could see me at noon.

After the bleeding stopped and kind yogis stopped bringing me tea and carrot juice and Clif bars. The very nice teacher's assistant walked to my nearby apartment to get my wallet and cell phone, and my teacher lent me $100, because I realized I actually didn't have any cash in my wallet. He felt guilty for not being able to protect me from myself.

Went home, showered, put a bag of frozen corn on my face, and took my sorry nose to the doctor. The nose doctor had a crooked nose. I took it in stride. Good hairdressers have awful hair, so why shouldn't good nose doctors have crooked noses? He stared at me. He told me I had 2 options: get it 'reduced' ("Reduced?" I asked. "Set," he said.) right away or wait 3 days until the swelling went down. "Do it now," I said.

They put me in a dentist's chair and stuffed anesthetic-soaked cotton far, far up my nostrils and into my brain. After a lot of bloody cotton had gone in and out, he stuck a metal forceps into my nose and his two assistants grabbed my left shoulder (near my neck) and hand very suddenly and adeptly and I could feel something scraping around in the left side of my nose. "OK, that's it," said the doctor. "Sorry, we're going to have to tape your nose."

Aside from the fact that I managed to get some Vicodin out of him, that's the whole story. I haven't been back to yoga yet because it hurts my nose to bend over. The nose seems to be doing OK. Better than me, since I keep worrying about what it's going to look like when it comes out. My left eyelid is a little purple, and I can't cry because it's too painful, and I keep having nose-induced encounters on the street and adding them to my blog.

04.10.03 - 2:05pm
I would like to post a correction to my correction.
I have, these past few days, been disseminating erroneous tittibhasana information to my many adoring readers. For that, I apologize. I am told by devoted DebCentral fan and regular EZ board reader Homer White the following important information.

Sorry to make a fuss, BUT:
your original image of Tittibhasana was the A version. Today's is actually Tittibhasana B. In Tittibhasana C you are in B (except maybe with your gaze down to the floor, for extra balance) and walking five steps forward then five steps back. So it's hard to get a photo image of this one.

By the way, there is also a D version, in which you put your feet like "Charlie Chaplin" and stick your head down on top of them, bending the knees as much as needed in order to accomplish this. It's easiest to fall over in D, the head goes kinda behind the heels, pretty near the floor, but since your nose is already pretty close to the ground you probably won't break it.

I saw a series of what some people have called "tittibhasana C", and it looks like someone sticking one's head through one's legs, holding one's hands behind one's back, and rocking back and forth like Humpty-Dumpty. Yoga Instructor Christopher says that we are all wrong, and that this position is actually "B", and "C" is such that no human being can actually get into it.


I went to Maggie Estep's reading yesterday, and Eleanor and Megan came with me. Maggie's lastest work is a detective novel, and I love mysteries. It's funny. I often think I am a private investigator. Brian's nickname for this detective personae is "The Diminutive Pinky." I'm not actually sure why. But I will routinely run around our studio apartment trying to solve domestic mysteries. Like the mystery of the missing cheese. And the mystery of the dirty cup left on the floor by the couch. Brian has pointed out to me that we are the only two people in our one room apartment, so I don't need to say things like, "Given the clues at hand, I have deduced. . . " He says obviously it was either he or me. And if I didn't leave the cup on the floor, then there's only one other person who could have.

Obviously, he is so in love with me, he must act annoyed so as to hide his true feelings for me.

04.09.03 - 1:20pm
Some sobering news.
After learning that we may soon have to move from our comfortable yet cheap residence in Manhattan, I have decided to write this ode:

Ode to Out Our Window

Out of our one big window
the buildings of the city northward appear like snaggled teeth
packed tightly and uneven
with an incisor-like church slightly to the east.

Is that an ode? Does that count? It's all true, though. Every last word.

So it is really unpleasant out today. And I have gotten word that this tittibhasana thing is really much worse that I had thought. This was apparently no ordinary tittibhasana our Katie was attempting. This was tittibhasana C, which is not for the faint of heart or the attached of limb.

I'm feeling down about Uncle Ira's good news, and Uncle Ira seems not to be as gleeful as I'd have imagined. On the phone last night, he even revealed some lurid details concerning an event in a psychiatric hospital involving an adult thalidomide baby.

This revelation makes me hope that Uncle Ira will not receive new transfer information too often.

04.08.03 - 6:50pm
Sorry to post this so late.
I received an email today from a concerned broken-nose yogi, Katie. She writes:

Hi. Someone posted your link on the Ashtanga EZBoard. Just wanted to drop you a note and tell you I'm thrilled to see I'm not the only person who has broken their nose in ashtanga class. Yesterday morning I fell flat on my face in tittibhasana C and cracked my schnozz. I've been doing ashtanga for four years and I'm still completely clumsy. Hang in there!

From what I understand, tittibhasana C, silly as it may sound, is one seriously scary position. I think one might get more injured attempting to get into it, than in falling out of it. Kudos to you, Katie.

As far as healing goes, I think I may have posted this already, but I went to an ear, nose, and throat man after the incident. He looked up my nose with a funny little flashlight, said it would take between six months and a year to really settle down, then told me that after that time, I could ask him about a nose job. Then he billed me.

It has only been about six months, but I don't think I will ask him about a nose job. This is because I win big points in heaven for walking around with a double-broke nose. I can now make fun of whomever I want, be horrendously caddy and mean, and I will still go to heaven. Because I insist on keeping my original and rather ethnic nose.

Though if I fall on my face again, I may give up heaven. A girl can only stand so much.

Luckily, I am not looking for love in bars and night clubs. I am a married lady now, and so only need to seek love at the bottom of a bottle.

No. I am just kidding. I do not drink myself to love. I have a low tolerance and the stomach of an 80 year old. So I have to look for love in pizza.

No. I'm still kidding. I love Brian dearly. And he pretends to love me back, too. Even when I demand that he engage me in a push-up contest, then insist on being declared the All-Time Men's-Style Push-Up Cham'peen of Apt. 5N. Even then.

Now, that's dedication.

04.07.03 - 3:00pm
Geez. It's April and it's snowing.
Last night we went to that black tie fundraising event for the Museum of Jewish Heritage. It took place in one of the Waldorf-Astoria's ballroom, and was very fancy and pretty-little-hors-d'oeuvre-y. As I do not have too many nice dresses, I wore an old purple bridesmaid dress. My grandmother wore a purple old woman's dress suit, and we were two purple things in a sea of black.

I guess I forgot that I live in New York City, Land of the Sleek Black Garments. I looked like a bridesmaid from the 1990s who got lost in time and space. I was very ashamed.

Four glasses of wine of helped to move me beyond my shame, but they also helped to give me a terrible headache this morning. But before I acquired this awful headache, the four glasses of wine help to embolden Brian and me to say hello to State Attorney General Elliot Spitzer, who somehow manages to radiate an air of a boy band superstar.

On Saturday, I spent much of the day with visiting grad school friend Taryn Roeder. We walked around for many hours, being caddy and looking for a bridal shower present for a friend of hers who makes a ridiculous amount of money as a lawyer, yet still lives with her parents. This was very fun.

In the evening, Taryn went off to spend time with an old friend, and I met up with Eleanor, who suggested we eat dinner at B&H Diary Restaurant. It was very cheap, and they had a very interesting-looking juicer. At 9:30, we decided to get our nails done, and low-and-behold, the nail place across the street was still open. The manicure was rather cheap, but the lady only gave me one coat of nail polish. In addition, I am actually very uncomfortable with people looking for long periods at my hands, as they look like they might be the hands of a large troll or a very old woman with terrible knuckles.

04.04.03 - 3:50pm
I lost my lunch.
It's gone. I swear I packed it. And now I'm very hungry. I stole someone else's apple from the fridge. But I'm still hungry. Don't ask me why I can't just run out and buy lunch. It's a long story. A story which mostly involves my boss being crazy.

Good news: I can almost get into the dreaded kurmasana, or turtle pose. Or, at least I think I can almost get into it. I really have no proof, other than I feel tremendously uncomfortable and foolish as I try to stick my arms under my legs as I lean over in a way highty unnatural to my body.

I practice yoga with a body builder named Wini, who is very cool and has a yoga mat that magically never pills or sheds. She also tends to read my blog. The other morning, she came in with a scratch on her face. She had apparently tried to wake up her otherwise docile greyhound, and got a tooth in the cheekbone. To prove what a not vicious animal her dog is, she sent me a link to some pictures of Griffin, the dog. I am such a sucker for a cute doggy mug.

I have also been stewing in my own juices lately, as I have not yet finished filling out my tax return, and because my boss has been standing over me much of this week, thereby disallowing me to fulfill my destiny as a famous blog-writing superstar diva.

04.02.03 - 11:45am
I love to sing.
I am not shy. And I can really belt it too. So why was I given a singing voice with the aesthetic attributes of a chicken in the throws of death? This is a cruel joke life as played on me. To cover up my tone-deaf-ness, when entertaining small crowds, I stick to Ethel Merman. Generally, though, I try not to sing in public. I save it up for home.

Which is a problem for Brian. We have been living together for over three years, moving into smaller and smaller domiciles. We are now in a studio apartment.

Sometimes, I get that itch, and I've just got to sing.

Last night, I performed a classic rock medley, then I did my a capella rendition of John Coltrane's "A Love Supreme". This mainly consists of me chanting "A love supreme, a love supreme . . ." in my smokiest voice, then making my idea of saxophone noises.

This annoys Brian to no end. In some weird prenatal psychic mind switch, Brian was given a rather lovely singing voice, which he uses softly, and only on rare occasions. I, who was meant to have the lovely singing voice, was given the dying chicken voice, a love for song, and a unique gift for fashioning the never-ending medley.

Brian has learned to adapt. For the most part, when I try to sing, he just turns up the volume of the TV or CD player. So I am forced to jump into his lap and sing in his ear. We love each other very much, and should probably be married for quite a long time.

Taryn sent me this link to a blog by a fellow who was in our writing program.

I was picked up again by the ashtanga yoga chat boards.

thank you, yogabum, whoever you are.

I sometimes think I should get on to the yoga message boards and chat it up.

but then I fear someone will post how they saw me in class, sitting like a lump on my mat, burping to myself.

so I remain silent.

I am in a quandary, as my new job begins at 8:30 and ends at 5:30, and is nearly an hour commute from my place of residence.

does anyone know of an all night ashtanga studio?

I have been linked to by a blog called the well nurished moon.

speaking a links, it's that time of the month again. . .

here are some more odd google searches that have referred people to debcentral:

"subway commercial fraternity"
"subway commercials college fraternity"
"electronic greetings Margaret Cho"
"template stealer"
"colored lenses autism blue"
"humorous Trichotillomania pictures"
"colorado avalanche goal horn download"
"jokes about unemployment"
"College Park and Drinking"
"wrinkled saggy knees"
"blogging stalking anonymity"
"where can i buy permenant pink hair dye"
"ashtanga yoga dangerous"

Brian has a final today.

he has another one on wednesday.

I have not seen him much in the past few weeks.

and I will not see him at all this weekend, as I will be in boston hanging with close and personal friend Amy Fishman.

I will be taking the chinatown express.

which is now wickedly cheap due to the SARS scare.

how sneaky I am!

I was under the false assumption that at my new job, I would get a half day every friday.

I just received word that I was making an "ass" out of "u" and "mption."

apparently, the half-day only occurs in the winter months, during non-daylight savings time.


the kind proprietor of dura-luxe has linked to me.

since we like her blog, and we think she's swell, we will link back.

I really should leave this sidebar for persistent links.

these commentaries may be getting old.

and I haven't updated my news page in like 8 billion years.

in the meantime, I will link once more to:

heck's kitchen
bloggedy blog blog
george h. williams
my old man
I am a very important man
smartish pace
new york city maps

let me know if I've left anyone out.

my google search street cred has been wavering.

presently, if one searches for "deborah schwartz" on google, one may happen to come upon




ah! you ask yourself, could this be our "deborah schwartz"?

well, uh, er, yes.

but I was in college then.

and I have since sworn off writing about such flowery things as "twilight" and "health food".

these days, I stick mostly to writing about crazy people.

I only write about that which I know.

I thought this was a funny page:

hall of skulls

I've been linked-to by past prof of Jenny Miller, George Williams

apparently, if it hadn't been for mr. Williams, heck's kitchen would been just a gleam in the eye of a young fan of romance comics.

evidence that good things are coming my way:

I saw a small rat on the subway tracks yesterday morning

I saw a squirrel in union square yesterday afternoon

I saw one of those small crappy-looking birds flying around the subway platform this morning.

I had a dream last night that the HR director of the museum of jewish heritage took me out for beer and tasty french fries covered in ketchup.

hopefully, this will not be another toe surgery year.

oh, and heck's kitchen has posted my rant against my soon-to-be-former employment situation.

ain't she swell!

other small triumphs:

today I finally got B. Herman hooked up with blogger.

I had been trying for some time, and he had been threatening for some time to move to a blogspot page, as he was sick of writing code.

his blog is still in it's same old place, but my fabulous test page is here

I spend more time than I would have liked this weekend engaged in violent bouts of vomiting.

these bouts were not, interestingly enough, preceded by feelings of nausea.

in fact, in most cases, I was lying in bed when I was suddenly seized by the notion: I think I'm about to vomit.

this gave me exactly enough time to run to the bathroom, which is about 4 steps from my bed, and be gross into the toilet.

I wonder if it has anything to do with the new tooth-whiting formula I've been using.

which, by the way, has not yet whitened my teeth. it is probably just a scam on the american people.

on an up-note, I went to the Moroch family seder on Saturday. It was kind of fun. even if it was in New Jersey.

Brian Mack has written three haikus about a morning of excrusiating meetings.

her stutters dull my senses

and shatter my spirit.

more than anything

I want to do somethin that

matters more than talk.

That clock must not work.

how many more ways can you

keep repeating it?

farewell, dr. Atkins.

a man full of much wisdom and red meat. who died yesterday at the age 72. and, oddly enough, of a severe head injury.

Robert, oh how we will miss making fun of you.

as it would be grotesquely rude to do so now,

being as you just died and all.

we will wait the prescribed 7 days of mourning before we begin ragging on your diet again.

as if we were innocent of death and the world were sweet and new.

I received the nicest letter of encouragement from a one Michael of national portrait gallery.

for security reasons, I cannot reveal the nature of the encouragement.

but if you check the yesterdayís blog entry on a site that rhymes with Keckís Hitchen, you may uncover the truth.

for now, I will assume that you canít handle the truth.

also, zionide insinuates that I almost used a dirty word.

last night: dinner with Seth at yuppie-haven Republic, dessert with Eleanor and her brother Mark, and the military alphabet with Brian Mack.

heckís kitchen takes the time to ponder


many of the nations top minds weigh in.

Brian reveals his inner conflict.

Bob illustrates the necessity for small chocolate liquor bottles.

Sarah reflects on the responsibility of taxpayers and the importance of homemade tiki drinks.

visit heckís kitchen and let your voice be heard.

in other news: my boss is a very noisy eater, which makes me want to vomit.

I am happy to discover that studying literature for 6 years did not completely smash-out my enjoyment of reading.

last year I read a total of three and a half books and wrote a total of nearly nothing.

this year I am like a phoenix from the ashes. I have read at least six books and have written maybe five pages of words.

I have also written countless ďto doĒ and ďgroceryĒ lists.

I may be the slowest reader in the world, but I actually finished Madam Bovary in less than three weeks.

it was very sad, but had a good amount of sexy stuff too.

ps: I mailed out our tax returns this morning.

easter is almost here.

my friend Andrea's friend Matt (who is my friend by the associative property) loves peeps.

so I sent him a link to the peep research page.

which I found on heck's kitchen

Matt has threatened to post his own peep pictures.

in the meantime, he has this awesome cow page.

I just finished Maggie Estep's new book, Hex.

it was a million times more enjoyable than doing my tax return.

which is why I gave the job of our taxes over to my beloved

I read a juicy detective novel while Brian scribbled numbers into little boxes.

some good blogs to check out:
and also there is a blog
bloggedy blog blog

oh. and one last thing
happy birthday, mom.
you're the cutest!

hecks kitchen celebrates our bombing Iraq into submission.

then besmirches her boss's good name.

and sings the praises of Notorious

I agree that Notorious is one fine specimen of a film.

that's what you get when you combine:

a saucy intrigue-filled plot,

an exotic location

an evil, yet charming German,

and two beautiful people who can't cook a chicken.

I saw an add on tv last night for cirque du soleil.

it made me feel angry and nervous.

why do clowns have such a strangle-hold on my subconscious.

damn you, clowns and clown-like acrobats!

damn you!

visit zionide and get yourself a mormon name.

visit Katie's blog and find out how her nose is doing.

visit heck's kitchen, and see if the mother of all heck is feeling any better.

visit loshon hora, and ask Brian why he hasn't been updating his blog.

come to Maggie Estep's reading tonight at the astor place barnes and noble.


I'll be there, so you can visit me as well.

if you like reading debcentral, then you'll love heck's kitchen.

especially because Jenny has published some stuff I said.

Jenny and I have a brief discussion of ladies' wallets in the back pocket.

and Sarah is funny too.

also, check out the blog of another talented woman who broke her nose in yoga.

See Katie's Blog for further nose news.

a special thanks to the fine people of the ashtanga yoga ez boards.

this just in: my crazy uncle, in whose apartment we are presently living, was just approved for transfer.

Hm. I guess this means that uncle ira will probably want his apartment back.

and we will have to move again.

somehow, I don't feel up to calling him with congratulations.

due to a confluence of bad things occurring, Jenny Miller is feeling rather blue.

so visit her website and write her a fan letter to make her feel better.

tell her how funny and wonderful you think she is

and how much you appreciate it that she updates her blog more often than me.

and if you're feeling down, heck's kitchen links to a site with pictures of kittens in funny hats

domesticated animals wearing people clothing is always funny--that is, except to the domesticated animal, who is probably trying to figure out what bad thing it did to deserve such awful punishment.

domesticated animals with guilty looks are almost as funny as domesticated animal in people clothing

just a heads up:

writer, yogi, and sometimes email correspondent Maggie Estep, will be reading from her new book Hex on wednesday, april 9th at 7:30 in the post-meridian.

it will be at barnes & noble, 4 Astor Place, nyc.

I will be there, several other yoga people are coming. And bums might be hanging around too, trying to use the b&n bathroom.

so you should come as well.

it might be fun.

for those of you unaware, lying dormant in our midst is another, more evil debcentral.

this is, to which I refuse to link.

it is maintained by a real estate broker in the midwest.

she spells her name (Debby) with a "Y".

I have decided that this site will heretofore be known as bizzaro debcentral.

my parents have suggested I threaten to sue bizarro debcentral for misuse of the debcentral name.

I don't know if I will sue, but if Bizarro Deb challenges me to a fight, I will fight her.

and win!

also, Brian has a new post.

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