Archive for the ‘For the Win…’ Category

As Promised, Tension At The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum

April 18, 2014


This post should be an interesting attempt to relay an uncomfortable yet amusing incident whilst still maintaining an a modicum of respect towards the setting. Hopefully, this won’t come off as “yah, so we were at that Nazi place in DC and these bitches…” Knowing me, it probably will. Alas!

The other Mr. Harvey and I were in DC to celebrate his 40th birthday at the beginning of this month. He’s not one for big parties where people look at him (that was actually a concern he voiced once…people looking at him…when he doesn’t have his hijab on) so we thought a quick jaunt somewhere fun would be keen. Plus, we’re both currently unemployed (we’re the American nightmare) and had the time laying around and look, Jet Blue has a deal! Cherry blossoms and new bars in which to get intoxicated and new sidewalks to stumble upon while drunkenly abusing Uber!

Despite it being a birthday trip, there were some tourist attractions we had wanted to see that weren’t exactly going to be the ball pit at Chuckie Cheese (that’s not a gay sex reference). We had both heard that the main exhibit at the Holocaust Museum was a sobering must-see. We got our tickets online for our 1st day there so we could get the horror portion of the other Mr. Harvey’s birthday out of the way.

It’s an interesting space. I wouldn’t call it pleasant because it’s designed to evoke concentration camp imagery with a lot of brick and exposed girders. Another interesting feature? The staff, for the most part, are made up of some really extreme personalities. Most of the service industry members we encountered in our nation’s capital that trip were really friendly, laid-back and warm. I’m not sure why, but most of the staff at the Holocaust Memorial were WROUGHT. Witness our first exchange with the female human that womans the entrance elevators to the main exhibit.

We make our way in-between her velvet ropes (that came out dirty) but Scotty has us pause so we can call up our tickets on his phone. Please note in advance that there is no line behind us or in front of us. At that moment it’s just the Harveys. My husband has been searching and scrolling for maybe two seconds when she attacked.

Holocaust worker: Tickets?

Husband: Just calling them up on my phone here…

Holocaust worker (perhaps she didn’t hear him?): I said, do you have tickets?

Me: He’s just getting them on his phone.

Holocaust worker: Well, maybe you should move over there to find them so you’re not blocking the way, ok?

I look behind me and note the absence of any other people behind us. Just some velvet ropes. Air. Is this a fire exit? My husband, who does not suffer being spoken down to by fools, bitches, or maniacs, jerks his head up from his phone. Sometimes I feel like there’s a rubber band stretched to its extreme in his brain. That rubber band is marked “JUST TRY IT, BITCH.” I myself loathe confrontation. I’m the shrinking violet who nervously laughs when he forgets to hold a door for someone AND RUNS BACK TO DO IT because I want them to know I didn’t do it out of spite. It makes me look like a wackjob but it’s all designed to not get a dirty look or have anyone think “remember that asshole who didn’t hold the door for me at the mall” before they fall asleep that evening.


“I’M CALLING IT UP RIGHT NOW,” he said in a slow, emphatic tone. Oh dear. Before Officer Friendly could ignore that and ask for tickets again in a disgusted monotone, they popped up on his phone. She waved us through towards a bank of elevators with a chubby, indifferent hand. Another holocaust worker shot out of nowhere with blond curls and a peppy demeanor. She was the radiant ying to ticket bitch’s yang. You would have thought she was seating us at a Disneyworld character breakfast. She had obviously never read up on XYKLON-B or what they were making the lampshades with in Nazi Germany.

We were put in an elevator with a large, equally happy family. Mom was smiling widely as they bantered. She was standing directly in front of the elevator’s panel of buttons. Smiling. No button was pressed. Nothing was lit up. Nothing was moving. A couple of dreary pics of German soldiers added to my discomfort from above. Do I…move her? What do I say? Can I get in there? What if she thought I meant her ass? Her ass was almost ON the panel. NOTHING WAS HAPPENING. WE WEREN’T MOVING. There’s no switch outside they can press? It’s hot in here. They’re talking like it’s fine. Is this like the Haunted Mansion and we’re actually going down but it’s so mechanically deft we can’t feel it? Scotty didn’t notice. He’s looking at his phone and reading the walls. Swiss Family Oblivious are laughing and chatting like it’s the cherry blossom festival. THERE’S GONNA BE FOOTAGE OF EMACIATED CORPSES BEING MOVED OFF OF TRUCKS WITH PITCHFORKS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THOSE DOORS. I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE. I made my move.

“Can I…” I advanced towards Denim Elevator Panel Ass, weakly pointing behind her. She looked at me, and then turned to see why I was invading her space. Her mouth opened wide and she began giggling.

“Oh! OH! We were just sitting here! I’m sorry!”

“Way to go, Mom!”

“Duh, Ma!”

I smiled nervously (“Oh, that,’s ok!’ I shrieked), sweat beads barreling down my ivory expanse of a 10-head. Social anxiety is the fucking worst. Button pressed. Nothing happened.

Nothing happened. We were in a hot elevator with nothing happening. They didn’t even give us a button light for assurance. Was this part of the show? That’s fine, we deserved to suffer. We deserved a portly ticket taker making us feel stupid. We didn’t go through what all those people went through. We deserve to sweat and feel awkward in this hell-avator.

The doors sprang open. Cool air rushed in. The happy Holocaust worker regarded us quizzically. Blonde curls bounced as she cocked her head to the side like a curious toy poodle.

“Well, um, wait? What happened?”

“I guess we weren’t going anywhere…” Denim Elevator Panel Ass Mom offered helpfully. Happy went to get Grumpy. She waddled over with a ring of keys and her usual stank face. Resentfully flipping open a little door on the panel, she shoved a key in, and pressed the button again with a girthy finger.

“This breaks…,” she announced moodily to no one in particular. She was never one for an apology.

The doors shut, the floor shook and hydraulics hummed. Up.


“Hyperbole And A Half”: The Most Accurate Descriptions Of Depression I’ve Ever Read

May 9, 2013

Screen Shot 2013-05-09 at 3.32.19 PMI’m clinically depressed, and I also have an anxiety disorder. I’m not whining. Just saying. Had it for most of my life. It ain’t going away. Survivors of childhood cancer, gay men, and children of alcoholics are prime for this sort of thing, and I’m all three. Anyway, I’m fine. I take meds, and I talk to someone, and I stick around and try to stay on top of it. It’s kinda all you can ask of me. I’m resigned to the fact that it’s not going anywhere.

Two things that make it worse:

1) Guilt about it. “It makes me a pussy, it’s all just excuses on my part to not excel at life, I’m a coward, I’m weak, etc.”

2) Anger. If it had physical symptoms, I feel like it would have less of a stigma. I don’t talk about it much with friends cuz’ there have been times when I’ve felt looked down upon by them over it. So I shut up about it and keep making jokes.

This is Hyperbole and Half. She’s an artist/blogger who had an awesome blog of drawings that poked fun at life. Then she vanished. She came back with this. Holy shit. I don’t know what else to say. She knows me. I want everyone in my life who knows me to fucking read this because now you know me. Well, a big part of me. And even if you shrug and don’t believe it or understand it, it’s ok. At least I’ll know you know now and can never say you don’t.

Part 1.

Part 2.

J. Fall Down. Go Boom. With His Face.

April 28, 2013


“GGGFAAOWWNNUUHHH!” is roughly the sound that issued from me before my face smacked directly on to the sidewalk.

I went DOWN. DOWN DOWN. As if poleaxed! If you translated that sound, it would come out to be:


As I lay there stunned, not even in pain yet, I heard two cars pass me. Two cars. Neither of them slowing. There’s a man lying facedown on a sidewalk in broad daylight. And not in the sort of area where people lying facedown on the sidewalk (whether dead, dying, high, drunk, lazy, or just plain fatigued) is a common occurrence.  And he’s hoping to hear someone’s power window slide down and a tentative, hoping-to-hell-he-answers-in-the-affirmative-because-we’ve-got-little-Shenandoah’s-soccer banquet-to-go-to voice ask if he’s alright. Nope. Two cars drove by. “What’s that man doing?” “Bleeding dear. Take a pic and Facebook it.”

When I took my face off the cement and noted the pretty drops of blood that were starting to pepper the sidewalk, I was pretty scared. I didn’t have a compact in my purse, so I had no idea of just how bad the damage was. Had my nose been reconfigured and pushed to the side? Was my eye hanging out? I could have answered that one for myself because my vision was fine. What little deductive reason I possess tends to fly away in the face of sheer panic. And my teeth – were my teeth all there? I know people with gaps in their teeth. People automatically assume you watch Duck Dynasty when you have one of those.

The worst part of it, after all was said and done, was that my husband was at the movies. With the car. And I was two blocks from our apartment. And I looked like Bloody Face, I assumed. I was able to deduce that from the pain and the blood. From my face.

Alone. I was utterly alone. No cars had stopped and I probably had a skull fracture and part of my brain was probably leaving (I hadn’t seen it on the sidewalk yet, but who knows – maybe it had fallen into a shrub or something) and I had to walk home alone.

I took my hoodie off, and held it to my face like people do when they’re trying to prevent smoke inhalation. I was trying to prevent unnerving people. Which is odd seeing as I was still resentful about the TWO CARS THAT DROVE BY, PROBABLY SAW A MAN LYING FACEDOWN ON A SIDEWALK, AND KEPT DRIVING TO SHENANDOAH’S SOCCER BANQUET.

It was a long two blocks. I passed three people. One was a small Asian woman. One was a young white man getting into a car that had been idling waiting for him. And one was an older white gentleman walking a dog. Apparently they had been invited to Shenandoah’s soccer banquet as well. Cuz’ not one of those assholes asked me if I was ok. And the sweatshirt wasn’t covering all the damage. That patch on my forehead you see is post-initial clean-up. It was bleeding pretty heavily at first. So the three people who saw me would have been able to see THE BLOOD STREAMING DOWN MY FOREHEAD. Wow, that must have been some fucking soccer banquet. Maybe they had a DJ.

What did people think I was doing? Converting to Muslim but had gotten confused about which gender wears the niqab? A stupid Muslim who was gender transitioning and couldn’t work her niqab correctly? Concerned about the smog levels in Quincy, MA? Really?

Now that I look back, I honestly think the general public’s apathy towards my plight had something to do with the marathon bombing. It was probably a case of “Look, guy. We’ve all had enough of the death and maiming and we’re trying to get back to normal. Can you swing this one on your own? KTHANKSBAI.” So the One Fund won’t be supporting my recovery. I’m ok with that.

The only damage I really did was give myself a non-displacing fracture in my nose. Which means I broke it but not in the way where you need surgery to point it back in the right direction. This is good news, because I have that modeling career to get back to and Ford Models demands that your nose go in the right direction or you can kiss that Marie Claire cover goodbye, darling.

My face hurts.

Overheard: Red Line, Wollaston To Kendall, Beginning At 8:42 AM

November 12, 2012

This is what came up in a Google Images search for “Terror Train.” This was much more interesting than Jamie Lee Curtis screaming. The dog seems happy to be riding on a big pig head.

The source: Male. Late 50s. Large. Very large. Eyes turned beady due to fleshy face. Oxygen tank parked by his legs. He’s wearing shorts with athletic socks. Cell phone. He’s got a cell phone and he’s conducting all of his correspondence on it.

Transcript: “No, no. Patti. PATTI! PATTI, JUST GET IN THE SHOWER AND PUSH THE BUTTON! I can get off. I can get off. North Quincy? I’m at North Quincy now. PATTI, DON’T MAKE ME COME DOWN THERE! What did you have for breakfast? Oh yes, dear – ME, TOO! Blueberries! And bananas! My doctor got me hooked on them. Yeah. Yeah. He says they’re good for my ‘tasium or something. I don’t remember. How’s the DVVV player working? I love it! I love mine! That ray thing. Yes, yes, and when my cable went out that time, I was still able to watch movies! It was incredible! Oh, that DVVV player. Hold on, it’s Daniel. *clicks over* Daniel! DON’T YOU GET ME ANGRY ON THIS TRAIN! I’m on the train! You are a big boy, and you do what you think is necessary, Daniel. THAT DOCTOR SAID SIX WEEKS! DANIEL, I DON’T WANT TO ARGUE WITH YOU – I’M ON THE TRAIN! You’re a big boy. You do what you want. You’re mad and going to do what you want anyway. No, six weeks. The doctor…he said…Daniel. You are wrong. You are in the wrong, but I don’t care. I’m out of it. I’m staying out of it. I gotta get back to Patti. Patti. I SAID PATTI! Bye. *clicks back over* Patti? Patti? Are you there, dear?

How Being A Messy Eater Makes You Socially Unacceptable (9:49 AM, Near Kendall Square)

September 18, 2012

Time: 9:49 AM
Place: Off of Kendall Square

Sleep last night wasn’t happening, whether because of wedding worries or Scotty constantly putting the dog in our bed and then going to watch TV and the dog wanting to be with Scotty so it has to wake me up to get him to Scotty. Go fuck yourself, Cooper. Anyway, all I could think about during my MBTA commute was:

A) a medium hot tea with skim and three Splenda
B) the can of Diet Pepsi I was going to shotgun once I got to work (gay internet sex workers get free soda, it’s a perk and something to drink while you’re praying the next set of pics you have to look at doesn’t include a prolapsed rectum)

and I’m setting the next one apart so you realize it’s importance…


I got my muffin, but it was ruined due to me having the mobile table manners of a feral child. Read on.


The Real Highlight Of This Debbie Gibson/Tiffany Catfight is The Hot Piece In The Deputy Uniform

July 27, 2010

Vodpod videos no longer available.

gatoroid, posted with vodpod

Bitch, please. I have the same reaction to Teri Hatcher too, Kathyrn. You just want to club her like a seal.

The above footage are outtakes from a cat scratch fever brawl between TIFFANY and MUTHATRUCKIN’ DEBBIE GIBSON on the set of Scorcese’s Mega-Python Vs. Gatoroid. Pies, cleavage, Tiffany’s now juicy juice ass and plastic champagne sippy glasses from Izzaparty (there’s a LOT of financial backing behind this SyFy masterpiece) go flying in all directions. Homegirls end up wet in a swamp (because of the swamp, this is a family film) but the real deal is that broad with the shocked expression on her face representin’ the popo! Mrs. McCluskey, I see you!

That’s hot character actress Kathryn Joosten, who plays the evil (and by “evil” I mean “the only reason to watch that show since they killed Edie”) neighbor to Felicity Huffman on Desperate Housewives. I know they sorta hint that she has a heart of gold, but I used to love to watch her scare children and irritate the yentas up on Wisteria Lane. I often wanted her to cuff Teri Hatcher one in the Botox. Just on principle.

Ms. Joosten needs to pay that condo note, so she will appear in a whole bunch of silly shit. And bring class to every occasion!

So not only is this shit going to have bad CGI, dueling 80s pop queens in bad prom dresses from Cache’s 1992 collection, and what I pray will be softcore porn actresses in bikinis being chomped on by radioactive animals…but Karen McCluskey is the sherrif! She’s the sherrif. My DVR is going to give me oral out of gratitude!

So We Went To The Monster Ball Last Night…

July 3, 2010
Mom, cut it out.

Mom, cut it out.

That’s not Lady Gaga, that’s one of the many fun hos who came dressed as her. Scotty wouldn’t let me take a pic of his Monster Ball outfit because we thought the ASPCA would have a problem with the fact that he wore Cooper in a cage on top of his head as a hat. Seriously, Scotty wanted to put all those other bitches in the ground.

It was the show to go last night here in Boston. Picture every disaffected and Rubenesque teenage girl who wants you to read her blog or she’ll stab herself in her pot belly (shut up and stop looking at me), aging queen trying to recapture pop glory dance fun (shut up and stop looking at me), twink with a set of sparkly pumps in his closet (and they werked em’ last night, let me tell you, ankles must have been snapping from Section 330 and down) and suburban mom who saw how surprisingly eloquent Gaga was on Oprah that time come together in a big sweaty melting pot to watch Stefani Germanotta hump a piano in a swirl of glitter.


Tiffany and Debbie Gibson To Fight Giant Snakes and Alligators

June 26, 2010
Debbie seems to have won the preservation contest, huh?

Debbie seems to have won the preservation contest, huh?

This is what Google Images gives you when you ask for a python and an alligator. So Tiff and Deb will be fighting this. But bigger?

This is what Google Images gives you when you ask for a python and an alligator. So Tiff and Deb will be fighting this. But bigger?

The Hollywood Reporter has their finger on the pulse of my need to know about whatever Debbie (eff that “Deborah” shite) and Tiffany are doing at any given moment, so they really gifted me with this one. Hot on the heels of Debbie’s triumphant turn in Mega-Shark vs. Giant Octopus, SyFy has announced that she will now star opposite her chief rival for 80s relevancy in Mega-Python Vs. Gatoroid. Ohmygod, I love life.

And not only that, but the bitches will be duking it out in a catfight. IN A SWAMP! Is Tiffany playing Gatoroid?

Gibson will play a fanatical animal-rights activist who frees illegally imported exotic snakes from pet stores, sending them into the Everglades, where they grow to mega sizes. Tiffany will play an overzealous park ranger who uses dangerous methods to save endangered alligators.

In the script, the pair brawl at a party, then take matters outside into the swamp.

Fuck, what wasn’t I invited to that damn party? The party of the century! And I love how Debbie is playing a stupid character who releases snakes that grow to epic proportions because the water is….irradiated? Well, there is a big friggin’ oil spill currently ruining our ecosystem, and the lives of several thousand people, fish and fowl so why not? BP is going to be SCREWED when a giant water moccasin attacks their world headquarters. Dumb bitches.

Anyway, the girls are thrilled to be working again even if it’s an a giant monster movie with crap CGI for basic cable. Please, Tiffany just finished her last Hot Pocket and those things don’t grow on trees!

“I know that pop culture fanatics have been dying for Tiffany and me to collaborate for the past 24 years!” said Gibson in a statement. “What better way to do it than by battling each other in a campy romp through the Everglades?”

“Only in my dreams have I been able to have a catfight with Debbie Gibson…until now!” Tiffany said. “This is soo MEGA cool!”

I was going to award Debbie the medal for best pre-filming quote when she rightly noted this is “campy,” but then Tiffany had to go and use a Debbie Gibson song title basically insuring herself the win. Kudos, Tiff.

p.s. And if you want to see how awesome(ly bad) this project could be, check out Debbie giving her finest actress skillz in her previous project. When the shark eats the Golden Gate Bridge, I come alive inside.

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You ARE Beautiful Enough To Do What You Want, Snooki.

June 21, 2010
I'd duck.

I'd duck.

Radar is getting ALL the good shit lately. So you probably know the gnome depicted above, she’s Snooki from Jersey Shore! She’s the one who sucks pickles, gets punched in the face by steroid insane drunk dudes, and totally got burned by Tim Burton when she wasn’t cast in this role. Seriously, is her last name Roy?

Word is that Snookie got her Bump-It in a twist at SL in NYC on Wednesday night, threw a drink at the bouncer, and then uttered this gem. This sparkly, sparkly, bauble of awesome.

“I’m a f**king star, beautiful enough to do what I want!”

Jesus, that did me right. This is so the line I’m using next time at the ATM, the barroom, my dry cleaners, or at your local grocer. I need to ask RiRi Harvey if I was using this line at age six out on the playground when some dolt cut in line for the slide. Picture a sassy little large-headed munchkin with his hand on his hip interrupting Four Square with THAT pronouncement.

Anyway, Snookie was scuba diving to the bottom of her drink when she said that and tossed it in the bouncer’s mug for no reason. The best part? Bitches started cracking up at Deep Roy Snooki.

“Everyone just sort of looked at her in shock but then started laughing, including the bouncer!”

She’s so hilarious that they probably let her garden gnome ass keep drinking so she would impart more gems of wisdom on the crowd. Team Snooki over here. How do I get what she said on a vanity plate?

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And The Winner Is…

June 16, 2010

So I actually got TWO entries for the “Draw/Create/Envision/Project/Spew A Picture of Jason Bateman and Dustin Hoffman Kissing” contest! Can you believe it? TWO! Which proves my point! Two people are as bored as I am!

Anyway, here’s the winning entry which was sent in by faithful J. Harvey reader Massimo!



I’m assuming the blue marker is Bateman. It even looks like him. For a marker.

Massimo will have this amazing portrait added to this entry for ALL ETERNITY (or until WordPress decides that this crazed bitch needs to go) and will also receive a free song on iTunes courtesy of me! What? That’s a good prize! It’s not like I have a lot of funding here! Oh yeah? No, YOUR blog sucks!

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