Things you might not know.......
Category: Blogging

In case you thought the kids weren't paying attention.....

"He's one of those things," my grandmother said. She was talking about the flamboyant queen at the end of the Wal-mart aisle but she was really talking about me. She was talking about the thing that no one wanted to be, and that no one wanted to look at in public for fear of it jumping unto them and infecting them or staining them or giving them a smell that's particular to those things. Hide it away and it won't matter or turn you into the man at the end of Donald Street that scares the little boys because Daddy said he's one of those things. When you see him in the grocery store you try so hard not to look but you look anyway and you hope that no one sees. If they see, you think, you'll say he winked at you, and they'll say "Don't look at him anymore, because he's one of those things." Then you'll act like you don't know what that means but you know exactly what that means.

There was a man whose name I can't recall who made the headlines for being a murderer because he didn't want anyone to think him to be one of those things. I remember being sad for him, and wondering what twisted group of people produced a thing that found murder to be acceptable in the eyes of GOD. I remember being comforted by the fact that his hate and malice only served to convince the world that he was the thing that he so hated. I wonder what he does now, this killer of things. Are there young girls who send him letters scented with cheap perfume and Sunday School tears, urging him to keep his faith in the Lord through this difficult time of trial and tribulation? Does his minister visit him regularly to impart the love of Christ and the good tidings of the congregation?

Grandmother loves you and Mother loves you and Daddy thinks you hung the moon and the stars but if they find out it will stop like a dog on a leash that's shorter than he remembered. So just hide it away and it won't matter, and they won't look at you and say "He's one of those things."

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Big Macs, Bunnies, and Well Placed Carrots
Current mood: cranky
Category: Writing and Poetry

The Confederate Tour

   Hello my little darlings! I hope you've all been doing well in my absence, as John and I have only just returned from our yearly visit to family and friends who live within driving distance, otherwise known as "The Confederate Tour". In a matter of 9 days, we stumbled and bumbled our way through Memphis, Nashville, Chattanooga, and Atlanta. It was an eventful trip, filled with pretty things and ugly things and things that refused to be either. Grandeur walks hand in hand with squalor in these cities who, for all their great tragedy, still stand and thrive. They are aging yet graceful Southern Belles, struggling to remember their roots while recognizing the bloody mistakes of the past. There are thousands of stories to tell of the people that walk their streets; tales of loss, tales of triumph, and tales made up of single, perfect moments, stretched broad enough to fill pages upon pages by the sheer weight of their beauty. As usual, I will attempt to restrain myself from embellishing the details, however futile that attempt may prove to be.

Big Macs, Bunnies,

and Well Placed Carrots

The highlight of our trip was the time spent with John's college roommate, Kyle. I had heard many stories of their post pubescent capers, all of which revolved around drugs or the acquisition thereof. The most memorable involved Kyle taking a job as the Easter Bunny to help raise the $500.00 he and John needed to purchase acid, which they intended to sell to innocent children left unattended on the playground. It never occurred to them that children playing on the jungle gym rarely carried cash, but their ingenuity was, you must admit, quite admirable.

Unbeknownst to the stoned, six foot pink rabbit, the party was held in a neighborhood that was fraught with gang violence, where grown men in fuzzy costumes were an easy target. Before Percival (apparently Kyle insisted on being called Percival when dressed as a bunny) could pass out his first Easter treat, a 1976 Cadillac with no doors raced by the parking lot of Fred G's Gently Used Cars and proceeded to spray the unsuspecting crowd with bullets and half eaten Big Macs. Kyle was struck in the head by a sesame seed bun, and in the left buttock with a .38 slug. The bullet grazed his tail bone, and exited his right cheek in a mirror image of the entry wound.

Melinda Pruitt, who was 4 years old and a guest at the car sale thinly disguised as an egg hunt, would suffer from recurring nightmares for decades, tormented by the vision of a bleeding Easter Bunny, yelling "They shot me in the ass!" between bites of a moldy hamburger. Kyle recovered completely, except for two rather nasty, identical scars on his formerly baby smooth bottom. On a brighter note, and thanks to a bizarre series of events far too complicated and gay to go into, he found that if he shoved a carrot up his ass and bent over, he bore a striking resemblance to a Scandinavian Mud Hen. Although it was the source of riotous laughter within their circle of doped up friends, it turned out that most people found a man with a carrot up his ass to be too "edgy" for their parties and special events. 

to be continued............    

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Death of a Friend
Category: Friends

Death of a Friend

For Linda

A dear friend died. It would be more precise to say that a dear friend of John's died, perhaps even his best friend. Don't get me wrong. I loved her very much. But in the hierarchy of friendship I was rather low on the ladder. You must consider, however, that an estimated 300 people converged on the small, Florida funeral home to bid her fond and tearful farewells. The crowd filled every available seat and every inch of floor space in the chapel, and spilled out into the reception area. It spoke of the life she had lived, and of the lives that she touched.

I stood to the side, feeling more like an observer than a mourner, having cried more tears than my body could safely produce. From this strangely detached state I watched the people come and go and come back again. They were the same people that you've met at every funeral to which you've ever been, saying the same things that they always say. They felt the same impotent frustration that we've all felt as we repeat their mantras of "So sorry for your loss" and "At least they didn't suffer", with a healthy dash of "They look so peaceful" thrown in for good measure. Their hair might be a new color, and their skin might be of a different tone, but I recognized them from my private perch by the floral print sofa at the back of the room.

People sang songs and prayed prayers and gave heartfelt speeches with just enough humor to keep the congregation from dissolving into the uncomfortable hardwood benches that are apparently an unspoken but required punishment for remaining among the living. Children fidgeted and squirmed, while people so old that they could barely walk struggled down the aisle to view the departed, now only an empty box within a box. They all seem comforted by the ritual, despite the small voice that was buried beneath the sobs and the bagpipes that whispered "We've done this all before, and it doesn't make it better." They came and went and came back again, certain that on this trip they would find PEACE, lying unnoticed on the worn, faded carpet like a shiny golden coin.

Among the attendees were her Mother, her children, and her grandchildren, as well as family members who had not seen or spoken to her for several years. I watched as respects were paid to distant cousins and in-laws, wondering who they might be and why I had never met them. Her closest friends stood in the rear of the chapel, respectfully giving custody of her memory and her legacy to those who shared her blood. They wept as if there was no future, or as if the past were only a misty dream from which they had just awakened, finding themselves crowded into this tiny space with strangers all around, and someone who looked remarkably like their friend lying at the front of the room.  

Milling about outside, discussing things I didn't care about with people I didn't know, I fell easily into the roll of caretaker, feilding the questions to which I new the answers and finding seats for the infirm. My perception must have been clouded by grief, as it took me a full half hour to realize that everyone assumed that the man in the dark blue suit who didn't seem to belong was an employee of the facility. Amused and somewhat comforted by the mistake, I simply smiled and continued my work, thankful for the distraction of my unexpected, temporary career.

We stood close by at the graveside portion of the ceremony, the family that she had created from outcasts and oddballs flanking the small tent, pressing close to the back of her mother and children. I noticed that Ben and Arleen were standing opposite me, holding there tiny daughter, Ava. She looked every bit the princess in a polka dotted taffeta gown, gazing at her parents and the crowd with obvious dismay. She patted the back of her father's neck as he held her, trying to comfort him, knowing instinctively that this was a quiet moment, and that she must be a big girl. She met my gaze from the other side of the tent, and I smiled for her, trying to say "everything's alright" without speaking. She raised her dainty hand and waved, softly and secretly, as if no one else knew.

Later that night, as we all sat chatting and drinking beneath the stars, Ava took my finger and said "Go", which is her way of saying "Follow me". She led me to the sand box, where we sat together, shoveling dirt from one side of the big, plastic square to the other for what seemed like an eternity, at least in my memory. Both of us had suffered a loss that we could not quite put into words, and we each felt the need to take the pain out of the eyes of those we love, but were powerless to do so. It seemed that we had somehow shared these things at the service as we smiled and waved to one another. And so we sat without words, the fairy tale princess and the man in the dark blue suit who didn't quite belong, building mountains and then tearing them down again.  

Peace to you, my Little Darlings,

Harvey

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Hillary Clinton
Category: News and Politics

To those of you are familiar with my blog, both on Harvey's Hollaaaa and my more often read band page blog for LOCA, it will come as no great shock that I am supporting Hillary for President in 2008. It is not a case of "anyone but Bush", as it was with John Kerry in 2004. Neither do I fear a repeat of the questionable 2000 election, as the power on Capitol Hill has shifted, restoring our long lost and greatly needed system of checks and balances.

In 2008, I choose to support Senator Clinton based on her merits as a public servant, a public leader, and a public voice for fair, balanced legislation that benifits all sectors of American society. In an election fueled by the need for moderation and unity, I choose her from a field of impressive, capable candidates from both sides of the isle. I have no doubt that several of these candidates could hold together the brusied and fractured Democracy that we all love so dearly, but it is not maintenance that this grand nation needs at this frightening, uncertain hour. It is healing that we need, so that we can learn once again to stand tall and proud in the eyes of our children, and in the eyes of the world.

Senator Clinton bring to the executive branch a reputation of straight talk and honest cooperation known worldwide, as well as within our own borders. Her career in public service began long before being elected by the people. She stood by the side of her husband as he governed first a state, and then a nation. Her determination to affect a positve change on the world that we will leave to our children at first ruffled the feathers of those who would have her picking out china patterns and sipping tea with the girls. In truth, there are a great number of feathers that are still quite ruffled. The fact remains that during her 8 years as the partner and confidant of the leader of the free world, she single handedly transformed the images associated with the title of "First Lady".

As a senator, Hillary clinton has clealy won the trust of the voters, as was made clear by her recent sweeping victory in the 2006 election. She has proven to the nation that the work she began many years ago has only just begun, and that she will serve her fellow Americans in any capacity that they will allow. In addition, and perhaps more difficult to achieve, she has gained the respect of her peers, democrat and republican alike, some of whom will no doubt challenge her in 2008.

There will be those among you who will disagree with my views and opinions, and who feel that Senator Clinton is not the right person to lead us from the dark place in which we find ourselves. I embrace and celebrate the freedom which allows us to at once to disagree, and to live as brothers. I ask only that you examine the facts and imagine the future, shutting out the sounds of antiquated ideas and feathers ruffling in disdain.

Peace and love,

Harvey

10:17 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

The Legend of Crispy Cream
Current mood: silly
Category: Blogging

The Legend of Crispy Cream

   Although I'm quite sure you've heard it on the nightly news or read about it in the tabloids, I felt it would be best if I filled you in on the details of my most recent tussle with the long arm of the law. It involved an unfortunate creature who was dubbed "Crispy Cream" by a harsher, less mellowed version of my self. It also involved a 1976 Cadillac limo and a new designer drug with a typical name that I can never remember.

   I first encountered the odd little man many years ago, before my rock star powers freed me from my prison of frying eggs and toasting rye bread for cheap old people who smelled like hand cream, and junkies who had come down as the sun came up, realizing that they still had 2 bucks for coffee and grits. He roamed the neighborhood that I called home, but never caught my eye until the first time he came into the diner where I worked. He was quite short for a grown man, perhaps 5 feet tall, but walked with his head down and his shoulders slumping forward, making him appear even smaller. He was perpetually dressed as if he lived in the arctic - parka, boots, and all. You didn't see that very often in Florida.

   "I ain't no bum or nothin," he said as he approached the counter. "I'm just real hungry." I would later come to realize that this was his trademark line, but at the time felt a surge of goodwill toward the little Florida Eskimo man sweating so profusely that I feared he would melt. I told him to take off his coat and have a seat, both of which he declined to do. He stood, watching hungrily, as I prepared his breakfast of toast, scrambled eggs, and buttered grits. After he had finished and thanked me, I went back to my chore of cooking for the paying customers, feeling that I had fulfilled my karmic responsibilities for at least a week.

   The next day he returned, and I offered him a broom, as we were closing and the sweeping had to be done. He stared at me as if I had done something bizarre and beyond reason. His face, at first simple and somehow childlike despite his 50 plus years, darkened and wore an indignant scowl. "I'm disabled," was his only response, as he continued to stare at me, entitlement seeping from his unwashed pores. I let the broom rest against the counter and led him over to the front door. I said something to the effect of get the f—ck out, and he obliged. I had no patience for laziness, and thought that would be the last of it.

   The following morning, everyone in the neighborhood seemed to be hungry and incapable of cooking for themselves, and I was up to my elbows in milk gravy and bacon grease. Then, like a radio station that suddenly comes into perfect tune, I heard one voice amidst the din of clattering plates and chattering people, and I turned in disbelief and frustration to see the little Eskimo man going from table to table, not asking for food, but for money, repeating his "I ain't no bum or nothing" mantra first to one customer, then another.  I suffered a small blackout of sorts, but have vague memories of physically removing the little Eskimo from the premises, much like cowboys are thrown out of saloons.

   Perhaps six months had passed, and I had left the diner for some other menial restaurant job. One night, after closing the local bar, I found myself in desperate need of fried dough and sugar, so my jolly gang of circuit boys and drag queens staggered into the all night doughnut shop, much to the shock of the Blue Haired Hag that was forced to serve us. As I stood in line, patiently dreaming of chocolate glaze and raspberry jelly filling, I heard one voice rising above the considerable cacophony created by drunk, hungry drag queens. I turned, not willing to accept what I was hearing. We were miles from the old neighborhood, but there, in the middle of the doughnut shop, stood the little Eskimo man, repeating his parrot-like statement, "I ain't no bum or nothin."

   I walked toward him pointing an accusing finger, as if I were a judge in a bad witch trial movie, and assured him that he was, despite his declaration to the contrary, a bum and that he would be well advised to leave. For those of you who are unfamiliar with drag queens, let me explain that they are easily excited, and prone to violent acts at the slightest provocation. The sound of my obviously irate voice triggered the "Oh no you didn't" gene that they all carry, and the game was on. The Blue Haired Hag watched in growing horror, not sure if she should call the police or thank us for removing him.

   What a sight we must have been; Tina Turner, Cher, an extremely obese Celine Dion, and me, all chasing a little Eskimo man down Cassat Ave at 3 AM. I admit that I was caught up in the lynch mob mentality, and take full responsibility for screaming "We're gonna get you Crispy Cream!" The rest of the brood picked up the chant, and we searched for the surprisingly fast little Eskimo man for nearly an hour before remembering that we wanted doughnuts. Upon our return, however, we found that the shop had been infested with cops, like giant water bugs, slurping down coffee and eating the doughnuts intended for us. We opted to say our goodbyes, and went our separate ways for the night  

   Over the next 5 years, I held a variety of jobs in different parts of town. Quite miraculously, Crispy Cream has turned up at every business that has employed me, making a hasty exit when he sees me, a look of amazement on his face that seems to say, "You can't be here!" I may have eventually become an evil spirit in his twisted little mind, following him and tormenting him until his final breath. Though it pains me to admit it, he wasn't far from the mark, as our strange connection would come to an unfortunate end, at least for poor, well insulated Crispy Cream.

   It happened on Christmas Eve, which was only last week, though it feels like an eternity. We had just left the fourth of five holiday celebrations that Perry had insisted we attend for PR purposes. I was drunk, exhausted, and sick of watching Perry make out with his girlfriend, so I decided to play with our driver, young Frederico, to break up the monotony of champagne and caviar and top notch drugs. As I struggled to haul my bourbon soaked bulk through the slide down window opening that separated the real people from the servants, it would appear that the heel of my Prada boot connected squarely with the perfect nose of my young driver and protégé, causing blood to spray the windshield, as well as my new $2,000 tux.

   I grabbed the wheel with one hand, and tried to stop the bleeding with the other. Frederico was dazed, and I was afraid he'd pass out, then die from the loss of blood. I was frantically searching my cluttered mind for the name of an available driver for New Year's Eve on such short notice, when before my eyes I saw a sight that will chill my bones until they are burned to chalky ash. There in the headlights, as if he had been waiting for the oncoming limousine, was Crispy Cream, the hood of his parka covering his bald, misshapen head. Time decided to play its cruel game of slowing down, and I watched helplessly as he recognized me, and began to scream.

   What must he have thought in those final moments, seeing my unwelcome but familiar face in the blood stained windshield of the instrument of his demise? I like to think that it was a comfort to him that someone who knew him was there, holding his hand as he slipped away. As for the cynics among you, I suppose he could have thought me to be the angel of death, at last keeping the appointment that we had been postponing for years. It's not exactly the kind of angel I was hoping to be, but an angel, none the less.

   There were charges filed against me, even though Frederico was more than willing to take one for the team, being unable to speak English.  It seems that everyone that knows me is aware of my hate/hate relationship with the little Eskimo man, and the authorities actually thought that I had ordered my driver to kill the crazy bastard! After reviewing the x-rays that revealed Frederico's broken nose, however, they released me and subsequently dropped the charges. So, my Little Darlings, it seems that everything has once again worked out for the best. Not so much for Crispy Cream, or Frederico for that matter, whose once beautiful nose will now be crooked and hideous until he can earn enough money for rhinoplasty. But as for yours truly, it's a brand new day, a brand new year, and life's a bowl of f—king cherries.

Happy New Year!!!!

Harvey   

7:21 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

The Stranger from the Montain
Current mood: hopeful
Category: Writing and Poetry

The Stranger from the Mountain

Those of you who know me are aware that I tend to blur the lines between reality and fiction when writing about my personal life. This holiday season, I offer you the completely true story of my own Christmas miracle, which happened way back in 1972. Although my family remembers the events of that year much differently, I choose to believe that some miracles can only be seen and understood by the very young, still fresh from their journey from the place where miracles are born.

Winters are harsh in the hills of Tennessee, and in the early 70's, most families who were considered poor used wood burning heaters to stay warm. On this particular night, my sister and I were awakened by our mother's frantic voice, and by the strong smell of smoke. Apparently the heater pipe, which is like a chimney, had over heated and exploded, allowing fire to shoot upward and outward, igniting the ceiling and the walls in a matter of minutes. Mom wrapped us in the blankets from our beds and ushered us outside into the raging winter storm. Dad was still inside the house, attempting in vain to extinguish the rapidly spreading flames.

We watched from a safe distance, as half of the roof collapsed and fire filled the air above what was once our living room. Mom screamed, and left us shivering in the snow as she ran into the house, seemingly unaware that she would most likely be overwhelmed by the heat and the thick black smoke. My sister, being the oldest, held me close as we looked on in growing horror, fearing we had lost both of our parents. Just at that moment, I saw a figure running toward us from the mountain that loomed high above our little patch of land. It did not occur to my young, frightened mind that no one would be out in such a blizzard, especially since there was no shelter of any kind on the slope which faced our house.

When the figure drew closer, I saw that it was a man, about my father's age, wearing a heavy green woolen coat. He looked at me and smiled as he tousled my hair. I remember noticing that his eyes were green as well, the exact shade as the warm jacket he wore. "Don't worry, little man. They'll be alright," he said, then walked calmly toward the burning house and into the smoke filled hole that was our front door. Only seconds passed, and our tears of terror became tears of joy and relief as we saw emerging from the inferno the image of our father, flanked on either side by our mother and the stranger from the mountain. Dad was unconscious, and they seemed to be carrying his 300 lb frame, his feet dragging behind him. Mom all but collapsed beside us as the man in the green coat gently lay my father down in the snow.

In the distance, we saw the flashing lights of the fire truck and the ambulance, no doubt called by the only neighbor with a telephone, who must certainly have seen the flames. As the paramedics approached, The man touched my snow dampened hair once again, and flashed a smile that simultaneously brought tears to my eyes, and filled me with an understanding that a four year old boy could not possibly articulate. I watched as he walked away from the growing group of people, and disappeared into the snowy night. Later, my mother would be hailed as a hero for single-handedly carrying my father out of the blazing ruins, despite the fact that he was twice her weight. I stayed silent, instinctively realizing that only I was able to see the man who had emerged from and disappeared into the white, frosted hills.

Having lost everything, we were forced to live with my grandmother until my father could earn enough money to rent a place of our own. Since his car had also been lost in the fire, he would be forced to walk fifteen miles each night to the local paper mill, where he worked the graveyard shift. He had no winter coat, since he had been wearing only his underclothes on the night of the fire. I was so disturbed by the thought of him shivering and alone on the dark road to town that I prayed each night for God to keep him warm, and for the snow to stop until he was safely indoors.

Three days after the house was lost, as we huddled in the kitchen on Christmas Eve morning to feel the warmth of my grandmother's stove, we heard a car approaching, and ran to the window to see who it might be. Grandmother lived far from any neighbors, and visitors rarely stopped by. A man and woman were approaching the front porch carrying several cardboard boxes, and my mother and grandmother stepped outside to greet them. After speaking briefly, they took the boxes from the well-dressed visitors, and came inside, cold tears streaming down my mother's cheeks. They placed the packages on the bare wooden floor of the kitchen, and explained that they were from a place called "Good Will". Inside were shoes that somehow fit me and my sister perfectly, various items of clothing for the entire family, and enough dried and canned food to feed a small army.

Mom cried and laughed at the same time as my sister danced around the room in the  yellow sweater and skirt set that was just her size, and continued to cry as she stroked her long, auburn hair with a brush that looked as if it were made of fine silver, which was also included in the box. I walked over to where she sat, planning to kiss her on the cheek, when something in the bottom of the largest box caught my eye. I began to tremble, ever so slightly, as I reached inside and removed the last item. I joined my mother on the sofa, and cuddled close to her, my own tears flowing freely. I looked up into her beautiful, peaceful face and asked her, already knowing the answer, "Will this fit Daddy?" She smiled, hugging me tightly, and told me that that yes, it would fit him just fine. I wrapped the green woolen coat around my tiny shoulders, and buried my face in the rough, scratchy fabric. It still smelled faintly of the smoke from that fearful night, and of the crisp evergreen branches that grew high on the snowy, silent mountain.

Some may say that the man was a figment of the imagination of a small, distraught child. I, on the other hand, know in my heart that he was very real indeed. Perhaps it was the spirit of the mountain itself, watching over the family that has lived in its shadow for generations, or an angel sent down from heaven to save the parents of a young girl and boy. Whatever he might have been, I can still see his warm smile, and his bright green eyes, shining in the firelight that was reflected off the December snow.

May you be blessed by whatever God you serve, and may you never stop believing in miracles.

Peace and love to you, my Little Darlings,

Harvey

8:08 AM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

World Aids Day Blog/What Heaven Must Be Like
Current mood: determined
Category: Writing and Poetry

What Heaven Must be Like

I like to imagine Heaven to be an ever changing place,

being improved upon by each new arrival as they bring with them the best of who they were in this life.

I know that B.J. is there, so I suspect that the air is filled with

The sweet, sultry sounds of torch singers, their voices

Roughened and ripened by gin and cigarettes.

There are most definitely cartoon characters, brought along by

 Sweet Eddie, packed tightly into his Marvin the Martian

Lunch box, waiting not quite patiently to frolic along the boulevard.

After all, there simply MUST be a parade.

The landscape will be rich in colors and textures

That have been set free of their earthly constraints, as Stacey  is in residence, and could never get enough of

Chartreuse satin and purple feather boas.

There is an ongoing board game tournament being held

On the south lawn, presided over by Terry, in which everyone

Is awarded FABULOUS prizes, regardless of who wins.

My Kenneth holds court with the fashionistas by the reflecting pool, laughing gaily as they plan the dinner party to end all dinner parties.

It is to be held in the Great Hall every night for eternity, attracting everyone

who is anyone who, as this IS Heaven, is everyone.

 And Ron is slowly roasting himself to a delicious

Thankgiving Turkey Golden Brown on a beach so white

One would think it made of snow instead of sand. Short, fat dachshund puppy dance around him, their yelps and grunts seeming to say "Throw the ball again Daddy! Throw the ball again!" 

There are, in fact, countless patches and parcels

Of this unseen land of thought and purpose

That await the imprint that we will someday place upon it.

To those that have gone before, and have gone too soon,

I thank you for making it such a nice neighborhood,

And such a nice place to come home to, when my long day is finally done.

Peace, my Little Darlings. H

9:51 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Ruby's Relations
Current mood: cheerful
Category: Writing and Poetry

Ruby's Relations

   Hello my Little Darlings! I trust that you've been entertaining yourselves during my recent incarceration. It took some fine dramatic work on my part, as well as a few sexual favors performed by my alter ego Lulu, but the arresting officer was finally convinced that I was not, as he suspected, a necrophiliac ghoul, intent on molesting and eating the remains of poor Mabel Monroe. Upon arriving safely home, relieved to be rid of Mabel's smelly spirit, I showered thoroughly. That has nothing to do with the story; I was just a bit sticky after Lulu's introduction to the old "hide the nightstick" game. As I dried my chiseled torso with my favorite Martha Stewart towel, I heard faint sobs coming from the garage. "It must be Ruby," I mumbled to myself. "The poor dear thinks I'm still in jail." I dressed quickly in something purple, checked my hair to be sure it had that freshly f____d look, then raced to the side of my distraught assistant, being careful not to snag my frock on the many garden tools and sharp objects one finds in a garage.

   Ruby sat slumped over like a woman twice her age, weeping into her calloused hands. She seemed to be talking to someone (perhaps one of her voodoo saints or a dead relative; you know how these third world people are) and appeared shocked that I was in the room when I sprayed the mattress of her cot with disinfectant and sat beside her. "There, there, my Little Darling. Everything's fine now. I'm home." I thought seriously of stroking her hair, but thought better of it. She went on crying and whispering strange names or words in some foreign language. I instinctively reached for the strap hanging on the garage wall, but decided to let her get away with speaking in her native tongue, at least for now. After all, the woman was obviously upset. "Is something else wrong, darling?" I didn't particularly care, but after three days in the county jail, I was hungry for some real food, and had no intention of cooking it myself.

   She wiped her face with the disgusting handkerchief she always carried, and tried to smile through the tears. "Welcome home, Mr. Harvey," she managed to get out before the sobs began again.

   "Ruby, precious, I'm trying to be comforting here. You know how hard that is for me. Now suck it up, and tell me what the hell you're crying about!" The rage and frustration mixed with the hunger in my belly and visions of Ruby's lifeless body sprang into my head. I bit the inside of my mouth until I tasted blood (blood tastes just like bourbon, by the way), in hopes that it would help me to control my sometimes volatile temper. As luck would have it, Ruby has always been easily frightened by raised voices, and she turned off the water works immediately. I silently repeated my mantra of serenity, "Bush is locked away, Bush is locked away", until the anger subsided.

   "I'm so sorry, Mr. Harvey. I don't want to trouble you with my problems. You have so much to worry about." Keep in mind that Ruby's English is deplorable, therefore I feel it necessary to translate. Forgive me in advance for any mistakes I might make. "You are a big, handsome, sexy Rock Star, and I am just a lowly un-American woman who does not deserve to lick your boots." I couldn't argue with that. I sighed with relief, thinking mistakenly that the crisis had passed. I could almost smell the biscuits she would undoubtedly be baking shortly, when she went on. "It's my mother and father. When I came here seeking my fortune, I swore to them that someday I would find a way to get them out of their terrible poverty, and bring them here, to the promised land." I had no idea who had promised her what, but I certainly wasn't paying for it. She continued, "Today I received a letter from my cousin, Spatula, that my father is very sick, and that my mother fears she will not be able to care for him. My brother, Frederico, is only 20 years old, and is unable to look after himself, much less tend to aging parents. Spatula has demanded that I come home to help them but, if I go, I might not be able to return. I cannot bear the thought of leaving you and Mr. Perry, but what am I to do, Mr. Harvey?" A silent tear slipped down her greasy, chubby cheek, and my small, indifferent heart began to ache for her. Damn my charitable soul!

  I grimaced, and forced myself to pat her reassuringly on the shoulder as I had once seen in some sentimental movie. "Tell me more about your family, Ruby." She smiled, showing here rotted front teeth, and started describing the strange people that shared her bloodline. I think I dozed off after a few minutes, but I was able to determine that, with the exception of her father, Ruby's entire clan was healthy enough to be of some use to me. Mother Provertarina (yes, that's really their last name) was, by Ruby's own admission, the best cook in their home town. From the photos Ruby kept in the shoebox beneath her bed, Spatula was a voluptuous young woman of 23 years old, a prime candidate for Perry's "finishing School" for gifted young ladies. Last, but most certainly not least, there was not-so-little Frederico. At only 20 years of age, he was an impressive, 6 foot 2 inch bundle of muscle and mischief, or at least the pictures would lead one to believe. I was sure I could find some healthy outlet for all that youthful energy and exuberance.

   The next morning, I put my brilliant, highly dangerous plan into action. John, helpful as always, neglected to tell me that planes fly out of the hell hole town in which Ruby's family lived until after I had booked a helicopter and hired three rather frightful looking mercenaries to accompany me on my mission. Actually, the mercenaries were just drag queens from a local bar, but they didn't wear makeup and were really bitter. After being badgered and threatened by the miserable trio, I paid them the price agreed upon and they left me in peace. In the end, my grand adventure consisted of wiring plane fare to Cousin Spatula, along with a telegram reminding her to leave all the chickens and goats and voodoo dolls behind, as we civilized people prefer our meat from a grocery store and our God on a cross. But I did drive myself to the Western Union office, which was dangerous for both yours truly and every motorist on the road.

   So, my Little Darlings, it is with great pleasure that we welcome the new additions to our ever growing household. John acts as if we're having a baby, rushing around and making preparations. I wish you all could see the adorable little cots he found at the army surplus store. They are lined up perfectly in the garage, like an orphanage scene from a Shirley Temple film (Shirley Temple/Child Star-look it up). Papa Provertarina's cot has an extra thick layer of foam, with a rubber sheet in case of accidents. Spatula will be staying with Perry and Jessica for the time being. Perry likes to take a hands-on approach with the new girls. As for my young protégé, Frederico, who, I remind you all, is well past the age of consent, only time will tell. He will either prove to be pliable and eager to learn, in which case he will live in the lap of luxury, or he will be unruly and unwilling to take instruction, dooming him to a life of washing the sh_t stains form the band's underwear. I can't make the choice for him. After all, I'm not God; just a Rock Star.

   For now I must go, my Little Darlings. I'm in the middle of negotiating for green cards with the nice young man from immigration. His name is Eric, and in return for his help, I'm assisting him with some throat, or perhaps I should say vocal, exercises. Perry and Ruby should be back from the airport any minute, providing the flight was not delayed by some crazed terrorist plot, bird flu, rogue stem cell researchers, or gay marriage. I'm sure that most of the people in Ruby's home town are quite lovely, but, according to what I've read, there are also some real freaks living in this "Crawford, Texas" place.

Peace and Love

Harvey 

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A letter to my Senator
Current mood: hopeful
Category: News and Politics

The following is a letter sent to the listed people and publications. If you agree, feel free to copy the contents and send to your own representative, only under your name. It's really simple to find their email addresses. If you don't agree, for God's sake write your own F..cking letter. Harvey

Senator Bill Nelson

United States Senate

716 Senate Hart Office Building
Washington, DC 20510

cc: Speaker Nancy Pelosi

Florida Times Union, Editorial     

Folio Weekly, Editorial

Dear Senator Nelson,

   Congratulations on your victory last week, and thank you for the refreshingly honest, positive campaign. I and many others were greatly impressed with your obvious refusal to engage in slanderous advertisements and sensationalism. As a life long Democrat, I am cautiously optimistic concerning the future of our nation, and take comfort in the knowledge that yours will continue to be a voice of reason during what promises to be a highly charged and emotional period. Despite my own liberal position on most issues, and my distrust of the Bush administration, I feel strongly that this is not a time for a repeat of the lengthy and fiscally irresponsible investigations into the Clinton administration, which, in retrospect, served only to bring our legislative process to a grinding halt, and to deepen the polarization of our people.

   There is, as a popular book tells us, a time and a season for all things. To those who cry injustice and long for retribution, I say that it will come, and will be tempered not only by the past actions of those in question, but by their willingness to work together with the new leadership of both houses in the months and years ahead. To those who would point fingers and self righteously judge based on grudges that should have long since been put aside, I say learn humility, the greatest asset to a public servant. Justice will most certainly be done, as this is America, and we will not compromise our values or our democracy. But justice, like all things in creation, has a season.

   Our nation has been, in a very real way, wounded by the growing divide between the left and the right. Our countrymen and women are being sacrificed to a cause that is at times murky and mysterious, made so by the many conflicting facts and figures being reported by opposing schools of thought. Our population is aging rapidly, and there is a legitimate concern that our Social Security system will collapse. People, sometimes mere children themselves, are walking into our classrooms and taking innocent lives with guns that seem to be lying around in every corner of America. These are the issues that we must address in order to restore a sense of hope and unity to the beautifully diverse people that make us the greatest nation on earth. I urge you to be a true leader in the transition that is ahead by speaking of tolerance and bipartisanship, and that you work to accomplish all that we can in this unique political environment. Our citizens need their government now more than ever, but only if they will, indeed, govern. 

   The people of America have spoken loudly and sternly not only to the White House, but to you and your peers. They have stated clearly that they are tired of childish games and power plays from both major parties. We want, or perhaps I should say demand, that the men and women in whom we have placed our trust and our faith take seriously the great honor bestowed upon them, and behave in a way that instills pride and patriotism, not doubt and disillusionment. We hold you, as will history itself, to be the example of what our country is and can be. This is the season in which we find ourselves. A season of reconciliation and of brotherhood. A season of honest examination, not for the purpose of punishment or blame, but to at last set America back on the course from which so many feel she has strayed.

   The work that lies ahead will not be easy, neither for you nor for the citizenry. I, for one, feel confident that you and your fellow legislators can accomplish all that is required of you, and help to rebuild our national pride and our faith in those representing us. It is the very least that will be accepted by a people who have grown tired of divisive politics and personal agendas. It is the responsibility that you have accepted. Thank you in advance for your tireless efforts on behalf of the people of both Florida and the United States of America

Sincerely,

Harvey Brown

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Xtreme Christian Theater Proudly Presents XCTV
Category: Religion and Philosophy

XCT

 Proudly Presents

XCTV

 Greetings brothers and sisters from our new, multimillion dollar tabernacle and broadcasting center, headquarters of XCT international, as well as the future home XCTV. Beginning in January, XCTV will begin to air 24 hour Christian programming for those who long for truth and salvation. Our philosophy of "All Jesus All the Time", which has made Xtreme Christian Theater a  household name, will soon spread across the universal airways, bringing our message of condemnation, exclusivity, and traditional values to millions worldwide.

   To celebrate its debut, XCTV would like to invite members of our congregations of our southeastern branches to join us in a fighting a battle of particular urgency, in hopes of defeating a common enemy. For centuries, THEY have hidden themselves away, shamefully indulging in their wicked passions, rightfully feeling disgust and loathing for themselves and others like them. As time has progressed, this sense of shame was slowly drained away by liberal thinking world leaders, and a general relaxation of moral values and standards of behavior. Acts of lustful abandon once reserved for the privacy of their own homes are now carried out in public places and in businesses created to lure the pitiful creatures with promises of pleasures of the flesh. One can barely turn on the television without seeing this "lifestyle" imitated and encouraged.

   Three of these houses of sin have been listed below. Directions can be obtained via the internet, or by calling the businesses directly. On January 2, 2007, we ask that all able bodied saints from the chapters choose the site that is most convenient and arrive no later than 10 AM for briefing, and to get the best selection of picket signs. Participants may bring their own signs, provided they are approved by the event organizer. Some popular slogans are: BURN IN HELL, THE END IS NEAR, and GOD SEES YOU. In addition, please email pictures and/or videos from your local protest to XCT in care of Harvey's Hollaaaa. Only submissions produced by American made cameras will be considered for broadcast.

   Thank you in advance for your support. Together, and with the help of the good Lord, we can put an end to this horrid sin so hated by Jesus and those who know him. Our prayers are with you all,

Dr. Nathaniel Q. Fitzhippenship

Director of Outreach, Southeast Region

Targeted Businesses

The Hog Trough

All you can eat Barbeque

125 West Monroe Ave

Jackson, Mississippi

Mama Mary's Big Ass Buffet

6602 Corona Dr.

Atlanta, Georgia

Siam Sam's Far Eats Buffet

1 Town Place Pkwy

Jacksonville, Florida

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