FHC’s resurrected blog

In Which LL Blogs from the Airport on His Way Back to DC

Bonjour, je m'appelle "twink back in residence."  I'm sitting here at the Delta terminal, set to return to the nation's capital for another 12 weeks of crabcake induced obesity and fun as a summer associate.  Because I once didn't say hi to Ben T's roommate when passing him on the street, I've been blacklisted from that apartment and so for three weeks FHC and I are giving this "friendship" thing a test run as he's gracially agree to let me rent his guest bedroom.  Somehow I have a feeling there'll be lots of brussels sprouts and baked chicken involved.

Leaving New York City was quite an adventure this time.  I had my last exam on Thursday morning, and by Friday 2pm I had the Chelsea mansion entirely packed up and by 4pm, moved into storage.  I rented a very masculine zip-pickup and drove it approximately 100 feet before panicking that it was too big and unweildy.  Forch, the storage facility was only 150 feet away from my aparment.

Obvs, moving out was bitter sweet.  Clearly I'm excited for DC, but it was also depressing to see all my worldly belongings squished into a 4 x 8 x 6 storage room and two suitcases.  It reminded me a bit of the beginning of the universe where all matter was stuck in one tiny, condensed ball.

Saturday I had the day off, and we celebrated over brunch my 26th birthday and 10 year gay anniversary which I had rescheduled for May because of exams.  After the meal, I took EB and Josh back to my apartment where I collected all the change I'd been keeping over two years and put it into a small plastic bag to be counted.  Clearly one step out from the building the bag exploded and like homeless people fighting over old sushi, we sat for 20 minutes picking up the coins from the sidewalk (see photo, left).  It paid off: Coinstar gave me a $109.70 Starbucks card. 

We then had dinner, followed by another birthday, in which I did not get nearly as drunk as expected.  I sent EB, Josh, and Fagat on their way home, and crashed, completely exhausted.

So there you have it; for half of you, this marks the return of LL, and for others the temporary departure.  Either way, see you soon.

Kisses,

LL

In which FHC reflects on America, White People and Drinking

The fact that lately I am constantly constrained by my medical advisors to monitor my drinking (in order to switch alcohol for prescription drugs), confirmed my worst fear: I am an alcoholic surrounded by alcoholics. In the meantime I rediscovered that New Yorkers, who are more civilized than Americans, still do not drink, they do lines of coke. By the way, I am always amused when people pretend that if gay New Yorkers are slim it is because they walk everywhere.

There is this purely cultural white people thing in America that they can only effectively socialize with other human beings by getting tipsy in the very first moments of any interaction. Worse, it takes them at least five drinks (the definition of binge drinking) to be fully fun and inhibited. Finally, they require about seven drinks to be able to dance or have intercourse. They only live during their “happy hours”. The expression “to grab a drink” is considered a social activity similar to “watch a movie” or “go for a run”. Above all creatures, the gays are the ultimate drunk community because they actually value drunkenness and alcohol addiction as a sign of “coolness”.

On Friday, I had to leave early some friends of mine at Bistrot du Coin because, as they were getting more inebriated, my relative sobriety was clearly becoming an impediment to a fun conversation. At Vlada (definitely not a place to visit sober), I was seating on the couch with a bottle of Water when some fugly twink suggested that I should smile more. And, I only managed to go through le Souk (on avenue B) on Saturday by getting smashed on Sangria. Everybody who made it to Mr. Black on Saturday, woke up with a severe hangover but nice memories. Those who went to Nublu, only had a headache. And I ran my first 4 miles race, a step closer to rehab.

In which FHC "goes out"like everybody else

In New York city, after having dinner with Cub B. and LL in some sketchy italian joint, Nicolas C. and I tried our best to act young(ish). Nicolas went through five gin and tonics while I tried to insert a bottle of water every two vodka cranberry hoping that Dr. Christopher S. would never hear about the whole thing. We went to G, Barracuda, Vlada and The Ritz (in which we stayed exactly 30 seconds). A few ugly kids (1) talked to us and if we hadn’t ran into Tim K. at Barracuda I would have really thought that I was invisible. To put the pressure even a little higher, Fagat sent us text message all night long which read “you got laid yet?” and "Lame". I really do hate NYC and all young people.

In which FHC is asked to sober up once again

eaMy primary physician, finally agreed after tough negotiations, which included a mediator, that I could increase my clonazepam dosage to a meager 1 mg twice a day as I declined his kind offer to hook me on Effexor forever (1:15 minutes to ejaculate minimum). On my side of the settlement, I had to accept to reduce my consumption of alcohol I quote from “two drinks a day during the week and 20 on weekends, to two glasses three times a week”. The rationale behind this condition, besides ruining what’s left of my social life, is that mixing alcohol and Klonopin can potentially lead to death.

This of course gets in the way of my trip to NYC this week-end which includes, based on Fagat’s recommendations (who clearly does not welcome all the visiting French people the same way), a circuit through Mr. Black, Vlada and the Ritz on Friday and a Bachelorette party on Saturday at Budha Bar. I hope I can at least order decaf green tea there.

Additionally, there is a strong rumor that I am taking 5 days from the 11^th to May 15^th to join my grandparents (at least I am slimmer this year) in Parrot Cay, Turks and Caicos. Sure, I'll have to connect in Charlotte, NC but then they apparently have Yoga classes. Yet I have never gone through a family event without being smashed before.

In which FHC wants to give up the internet

My rapport to the internet is unhealthy (read: neurotic). I also believe that this might get in the way of both my plan to become a yogi (very time consuming) before the fiscal year ends and the hermitlike behavior I plan to adopt to reach my goal.

Checking my personal and professional thingy e-mails is the first and last thing I do every day. The rest of my awakened time is spent frenetically refreshing CNN.com, dragging thousands of spam e-mails in the trash and placing LL and Kevin W.’s messages in little folders, checking my bank account, my health insurance portal, e-bay, friendster, myspace, facebook, itunes and my favorite blogs. Nothing really changes during the day (besides mass murders on CNN.com) but I still behave like an addict and return to the same webpages repeatedly interrupting my substantive activities every ten minutes. Whenever I send an e-mail to a cute boy, I then constantly check outlook until I finally receive an answer ignoring the fact that there are people out there who have other things to do then immediately answer everything they receive and constant access to the internet. I am lucky that the professional thingy concluded that I was too unimportant to be given a blackberry (and a company car both requested earlier this year).

Among the potential solutions to end what clearly constitutes yet another obsessive compulsive behavior, I envision to check my e-mail only once a day, commit to keeping my inbox empty, give up blogging and take one day offline every week. If I successfully gave up Mark H. and Crystal Meths (not simultaneously though), this must not be much more difficult.

Election Day Special: That French Woman versus the Guy Whose Name Sounds Like that Cancer versus Le "Stylo"

Today is French election day.  It brings back fond memories for me because the first fight I ever had with FHC was during the last election while we were walking to the French Embassy to cast his ballot.  Like a Geisha, he asked me to follow 30 paces behind him, and only after we bumped into a co-worker of his did he become embarrassed enough to talk to me again.

This time around, FHC refused to reveal who he was voting for, indicating that in France it's impolite even to ask the question.  So much for my feigned interest in French politics.

I now have to return to studying federal courts because next weekend we're having a French convention at my apartment and I won't have time to work.  Also, FHC, EKK, and I will "faire a quatre miles" that morning.  Please come out and cheer us on.

In which FHC tells everything about relationships with two words of the day

The guests at FHC’s yesterday briefly evoked somber topics such as the chaos going on at the Professional thingy, religion or the Virginia bloodbath. I like to keep my diner parties conversation non-controversial (calling a 3 people gathering, a “dinner party” is a stretch moreover as I don’t really own chairs and my friends are drunks). As usual, after twenty minutes, the conversation switched in a trice[1] from human rights to sex and relationships.

One of the guest argued that urban gay men are single (besides Chris R. ironically) because they are all waiting to fall in love with men who cumulate good looks, depth, creativity and maturity. In his opinion, such a combination – the boyfriend myth -- hardly ever occurs in nature and even less in cities like ours. Examples could be some freak who lived secluded on a desert island, some hippie’s settlement or Nebraska until his mid-twenties; someone who became good looking late in life or some guy with a profound understanding of Taoism (which I would personally suspect of plotting a terror attack). Additionally, these very rare occurrences being on high-demand are virtually impossible to win-over. The very basic assumption in the argumentation is that good looks naturally drive people to shallowness and dissolute fearful lives in gay urban settings and ultimately turn them into non-human enchained conformist primates. One Of Us Cannot Be Wrong by Leonard Cohen was playing in the background of course.

Isn’t it a charming explanation? One could even add that after all the reason behind this general quest is that we try to escape the guilt of our own shallowness by dating people with a spark of individuality. The guest continued on recommending that the solution would be for (us) shallow people to settle for other shallow people. It reminded me of that e-mail I received recently “I give it a couple of weeks before that dude realizes that [his boyfriend] has no depth and absolutely nothing to say. Then again, this guy doesn't seem like the type who would notice anyway”. As a draconian[2] measure, I decided that I would not go out this week-end to avoid perpetuating this vicious circle.

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[1] Trice: Word of the Day. A very short time; an instant; a moment.

[2] Draconian. Garner's Usage Tip of the Day.

In which FHC suggests that someone sends in the clowns

Years go by so quickly when you are heavily relying on medication. I have to admit that I enjoyed the day of « la douleur qui ne me quitte pas pour le reste de ma vie », to quote some late Hollywood friend of mine. I repeated to myself all day long “quick send in the clowns…there ought to be clowns”. So far, they sent a morning erection, half a klonopin, many high-carb cakes and a bloody marry at lunchtime. I also registered for the Word of the Day on Dictionary.com and stayed oblivious to the various bloodbaths in the neighboring states. However, all I really wanted was for my son to call me and say that he forgave me for abandoning him when he was just a toddler. No, just kidding, I do not give a damn about him, my friends sent me kind hopeful little messages and endearing phone calls.

I still have to make some wishes. May the year to come be way more tumultuous than the previous and FHC become more courageous, deep and unconventional than he was in his youth, which is somewhat gracefully ending today (I have stretch marks on my ass). Wo sind die Clowns? Schickt die Clowns herein!

In which FHC is hard on himself

The implementation of my new two delusional projects “FHC becomes a yogi before he reaches thirty” and “FHC gets a break from the real world in 16 months” this week end, was seriously hampered by my lack of English (and to a certain extent mathematical) abilities.

I was at Sports Club L.A. Saturday and at Results Sunday for Power Yoga 2 and my performance was clearly disappointing. I could not understand a word of what the instructor would say. She would mention words referring to parts of my anatomy I had never heard before like collar bone and tail bone. I know cock, legs, back, neck and stuff like that but I am sorry I don’t know the name of my bones in English (or even in French actually). The names downward dog and warrior 1 just left me distressed even if I had popped half a Klonopin ahead of time. After the class, old men in the sauna room showered me with advice (like using a real mat) and I just realized it is going to be a really long journey.

I did not only fail at Yoga over the Week-end. I took a GRE diagnostic quiz early on Sunday which turned out to be dramatic. Later on, LL told me on the phone with his usual kindness: “you did better than the monkeys, didn’t you? they get about 25% of the questions right”. Well yes I did, barely. All my answers for the analogy and antonym questions were wrong. I just don’t know these words. The mathematical problem solving was also a disaster. I guess there too I’ll have to study.

In the meantime, I lost 4 friends on friendster (probably the result of not going out for two week-ends straight), it’s raining and LL (whose new friend is a real yogi who eats raw food at 26) also said “you sound so depressed” on the phone today while Chelsea Hotel No 2 was playing in the back. I listened all day to Sung-lo by Erin McKeown.

In Which LL Realizes 'Mos Should Be Nicer to Each Other

Apologies.  When I first heard about Imus' outrageous comments, i didn't realize they were also racist.  I thought "hos" was the offensive term, but it turns out "nappy headed" is a tad on the offensive side, too. 

Imus' comments and overt racism obviously are indefensible.  But now some people are also going after hip hop lyrics, which also tend to degrade black women.  (NDLR: "Even when I'm with my boo, I only wanna be with you" seems tame to me, but whatevs).  Since I couldn't care less about racism or trendy music, I'm not going to write about that; instead, this all got me thinking about whether we as gays perpetuate the same sort of hateful stereotypes in the same way mysogynistic rappers do.

Last year, for example, Nick D. dated someone a little on the effeminate side who also had a high squeaky voice.  We called him "FemBot."  Another friend coined a term - "Marcia" - for really hot guys who turn out to be, well, FemBots.  And don't even get me started on Fagzilla.

To be sure, I understand that emphazing more masculine qualities at times is just the same sort of sexual posturing that animals like mountain goats to in the wild; posting quasi-athletic photos of ourselves on friendster is the equivalent of the rut. 

Still, I think it's hypocritical of us to expect acceptance - to be taken simply as normal - when we're equally guilty of separating ourselves into Queens and Varsity.  Just remember, next time you're at Vlada or Apex and someone says, "That guy is so cute you should hit on him," your response "Yeah, but he's soooo faggy" is no different from saying, "Niggas ain't shit, but hoes and tricks".  (NDLR:  And if you're at Apex, you're probably on your last gasps anyway, so you're really one to talk.)

So go home with him.  I bet he'll end up being a top.

In which FHC has an online diary

I am always amazed at how many activities people manage to fit in a given day. People row in the morning, take classes, have second job, take the bar exam, go out, entertain their girlfriends, read books, shop and listen to NPR. People watch TV shows regularly, cook for themselves and have somewhat successful relationships. When you ask them, they know what’s really happening in Iraq and they have plans for the summer. They f***ing live their life to the fullest (but they are clever enought not to mention it to me cos I would go wacko).

In the fog of my memory, I can only recall sitting there at the professional thingy with an odd expression of panic (which is often mistakened by my colleagues for blankness) and then collapsing into my 9 hours clonazepam-sponsored coma days after days. I must have time to do stuff like everybody else though because I have everything delivered, refuse to take public transportation since 1981 and have a cleaning lady.

So today I wrote down everything I did and then during that silly drug-free 20 minutes window which occurs between 8 and 9 p.m, I read it aloud in front of the bathroom mirror. I had acunpucture this morning (no particular disease in mind, thanks for asking). Apparently I answered a call from my mother even if I have no idea what was said. I bought a “Don’t eat me, I love you” pig T-shirt on e-bay size M. I found a place for Nicolas C. to crash on the W-E of the 27^th in NYC. I had lunch with Savvas P., Juan V. and two Brazilian guys from OAS one of which had really wide shoulders (no memories of that conversation either). I took an hour class in Portuguese (no idea what I was expected to learn). Mentioned something about Yoga to everybody I ran into and said “post-9-11” twice in the same conversation with a busboy. I answered two inquiries from friends about my job. I also got allergy shots and picked up some pictures at the frame shop. I sent for $2,000 of bills to my health insurance. Wrote a nasty “no” to Jesse S. (which used to be my hero a month ago) in an e-mail. I placed e-mails by Mark H., Ari S. in my junk inbox. I checked friendster and facebook every 15 minutes with tears running down my face. I googled “Effexor” for 20 minutes. I biked to and from work. I changed two bulbs in the living room. I listened to whole albums of Shirley Bassey and The Pretenders.

In which FHC returns imperceptibly changed

One cannot stay on his island forever and I am now waiting for a 45 minutes delayed flight back to DC. I am trying to contain my anger while watching dozens of Winnie the Pooh and Miss Kitty backpacks pass by. I am still not completely sure where the island was really located and frankly I really don’t care. I remember that the melancholic songs by Judy Garland, Dinah Washington, Nina Simone, “Amigo Mío” by Naüta, “Why” by Annie Lenox and a hundred remakes of that “Ne me quitte pas” song were playing. Nico was also incessantly talking of breaking my heart in two but I ignored her and kept repeating “resistiré calle sol” to myself. I am certain I wasn’t in Chelsea even if someone wrote that he saw me, drunk beyond belief crying on the bathroom floor surrounded by empty little plastic pockets, Saturday at Boy’s room. My English sounded awful all week-end and my Spanish was even worse. And there were humming birds, slightly tropical fishes, memorabilia of silent movies icons, smaller islands within the island, kites I couldn’t fly, the rainforest, and quickly I lost track of time and purpose. Pictures were taken. I was laughing most of the time and had that little tan thing going on. And I was continuously talking about what I was going to do next: that I’ll go to Yoga, I’ll go back to school, I’ll leave Results and maybe I’ll get more efficient meds. There even were trips within the trip. It was all very hopeful and full of promises. And sometimes we probably did not sleep as much as we should have. In the evening, we would lower our voices. It felt a lot like the Lost Island without the whole Dharma initiative and f***ing polar bears bullshit. And I was confused most of the time, and I had to Klonopin it away frenetically cutting tablets in half with my long fingernails. I drank very little compared to usual and I ignored the internet cos now I seriously hate it: it’s lame. I think I’ll miss the island. Now I have to survive the 17 and then I’ll be in NYC on Friday 27^th-29^th.

In Which FHC's Unnamed Destination is a US Territory For Once

I received a text message from everyone's good friend FHC today that said "We hope you did not take advantage of our absence for not blogging.  Kisses from the islands."  I think what FHC really meant with this message was "LL, who did you sleep with this weekend, please tell us in blog format."  See, FHC gets to hop off to the Caribbean and, me, I'm stuck studying.  In any event, there's very little to say because I had a very well-behaved weekend, involving mostly karaoke with heterosexuals and a vist to Flushing (that's in Queens) for dinner last night.  Fagat's mother was in town (imagine Fagat only prettier) and even she asked how FHC was doing; I had to tell her that unfortunately there was a divorce in the family.  So FHC - who if you remember claims to always be suffering - gets to go away and tan for five days whereas I am sitting here in the library writing a stupid paper and losing melalin at drastic rates.  For future, when FHC tells you how hard life is, or asks you for a favor, just remember how charmed the lives of the French really are.

In which FHC suffers through his wednesday

It is 8:30 p.m. and I am still at the professional thingy which completely ruins all my wonderful plans for the evening (like taking a mock GRE test). Things have turned really ugly for me lately around here. I really wish I could be a waiter like Kevin W. The soundtrack today was Momentum by Aimée Mann (courtesy of Gavin), which she apparently had written for me initially. Maybe I’ll fax it anonymously to my shrink. I also added pictures of me with a baby to all my online profile to start re-marketing myself as a friendly family-oriented stable fag.

In which FHC is doing well...thanks for asking

I have reached that tipping point where I typically have to draft half a dozen apologetic e-mails on Monday morning. I barged in; uninvited, drunk at the Gs on Friday and verbally assaulted Kevin D in front of the appalled guests, ruining what must have been a wonderful dinner party before stumbling to Apex (TM from the Gs on Saturday morning: “we worry about you”). I cannot remember anything about Saturday besides maybe listening repeatedly to the remake of “Forever Young” by Youth Group while watching half of the “Cider House rules” on mute. I mauled Mark H. so badly at Logan Tavern (leaving a still-noticeable scar on his forehead) on Sunday that Julius/Julian threatened to call the Humane Society. I hanged up on LL after he called my attention to all the Palm Sunday brunch/ trendy parties I was not invited to over the Weekend and the new minor local celebrities I have not met (if at least I could be ignored by models). Note to self: claw and severely disfigure LL when he returns to DC to bring to an end this unhealthy competition (I think the “who’s viewed me” feature on my friendster has been broken for a month). I also snapped at Erica G. for sending me too many Passover e-mails (a. no, I do not want a free box of matzah; b. I cannot make it to Seder Dinner, c. I am gay). Her silly response: “FHC dear, what’s wrong?”.

As I did not want to take any risk with the professional thingy today, I half-klonopined myself early on. I also told Mark that we’d go out on Tuesday but I am afraid I might go berserk once gain. It’s really a good thing, that I am being sent away for the WE.

In Which LL's Identity Makes Like His Personality and Vanishes

Remember how in Back to the Future, Marty McFly (played by Parkinson's sufferer Katherine Hepburn Michael J. Fox) slowly starts to disappear from a family photo because he's gone back in time and F'ed everything up so badly that he no longer exists in the future?

Well, welcome to my life.  You may remember that when I came to DC in January with Fagat, he Jetblue I lost my driver's license.  Almost too perfectly, Maria and Pedro arranged for my passport to be transported by sailboat from NYC to DC so I could get into Cobalt without having to use Ben T.'s ID.

I never found my license, so I've been using my passport as identification for binge drinking.  Until Friday.  When I lost that, too.  I spent Friday afternoon hurriedly running around NYC looking for my passport, but obviously it's now in the hands of Muqtada al-Sadr, who could be my twin.  All day yesterday I wandered aimlessly, with no proof of identity, and no ability to verify to anyone that I'm actually LL (not that anyone was interested). 

I thought it couldn't get worse, but then at dinner last night I reached into my pocket and realized that I was missing -- my cellphone.  No identity.  No ability to contact the outside world or FHC.  It's like someone had gone back in time and erased the events that led to my conception and I was slowly vanishing.

This morning, the right earbud of my ipod headphones came off, as if only my left ear had any hearing.  Little by little, I'm fading away.  So please, whoever went back in time and stole my identity, may I please have it back soon?  Or at least can you also reinvent the past so that I have an enormous trust fund or get to marry a prince?

(NDLR:  I found my cellphone this morning - I'd foolishly left it at my sister's.  That doesn't change my vague sense of obsolescence.)

In which FHC gets a surprise visit and klonopins it away

It all started really well with “Good morning Baby”: by Dan Wilson & Bic Runga playing in the background. At least I felt I could make it through the day (even if I now officially weight 142.5 pounds) without puking. But by 1:00 p.m. I had to take a Klonopin because some distant ultra conservative and very snobbish cousin of my mother and her husband (which are very good friends of my parents and unbearable) called to say they were driving from New York to have dinner with me (of all people). I had to cancel an amazing dinner party at the Gs and brace myself to look like a normal (straight(ish)) human being. I ran home at lunchtime to collect all my Têtu magazines and the pictures of my exe lingering everywhere, I also put away half of the beauty products in my bathroom.

I tried to book a table for there at Cashion’s eating place and was offered 6 p.m. or 10 p.m. What the f**ck ? we are not in NYC yet? are we ? Impossible to get the New Bourbon on the line. I am just planning a walk-in at Saint Ex which might turn into a walk-in to Local 16. It has been such an hectic day that I might have to pop yet another Klonopin to go through dinner.

In which FHC is a little bitter about Spring

As I was watching X. in madras shorts and some sort of sandals passing me by yesterday, I felt I was not ready for spring at all. If it was not for the fact that I am still in a wintry mood, I anyway never understood why grown-up men feel that they can wear culottes, polos and all kind of wild colors as soon as the weather get a little warmer. This is particularly unbearable after 9 p.m. I barely tolerate shorts in footballers, Indian cricket players and teenagers with nice legs but let alone middle-aged gay men in shorts on their way to spread their tyranny a little further in the gay world. Soon summer will come in and they will wear tank tops exposing both their soul and their flesh bare. I will be repulsed but then hopefully they will all have moved to Rehoboth and us pants wearing people will breathe more easily. I should work on my spare time on a list of the best-dressed gays in town, I think Andy L. would figure on it, Kevin W.’s 2003 (pre-poverty) wardrobe and then…nobody.

Overall, I just feel that spring is not a good time for Clonozepam, wood-paneling, crying in your custom-made closet (courtesy of Mark H. who monitors Craig’s list for all of us), tweed jackets, canes, l’UOMO magazines and that song “Bohemian Like You” by the Dandy Warhols. Also spring kind of creeped on me: the trees blossomed while I was dying on valium in my cave and yesterday, while I was drinking a cosmopolitan at Regent with perfect company, I felt it could have waited a few days for me.

In which FHC has some mid-afternoon revelation

Kevin W. who always knows how to cheer me up lent me his copy of “Long Day’s Journey into night”. Of course it reminded me of my youth as much as “Ordinary People” did when I watched it last month. It was sordid. Dean Stockwell, then 26, looked gorgeous though. Aging is such a terrible thing (particularly for us short people).

The soundtrack for my recovery Monday was “Crazy Baby” by Joan Osborne and Crazy by Gnarls Barkley. I don’t have any Genesis in my music collection and there is a good reason: I hate their work. On the other end, I have about 50 different songs by the Cure which all have between three and five stars. The entire Cure is good besides perhaps “The last Day of Summer”, “One hundred years” and “Torture” maybe.

In the afternoon, I ran into Mike W., who was telling me of that Thursday afternoon he decided to quit the "whole thing". He looked as handsome as the day I saw him for the first time emerging naked from a pool at a crack party four years ago. A few minutes later, I briefly exchanged with Andy L. who too is some hardbody. And then it really all made sense and I thought that the solution is to quit the professional thingy and just be rich and slightly idle.

In which FHC denies the rumor that he got bird flu

I don’t have gonorrhea either, damn it (it’s so plausible, that it would almost seem true, doesn’t it?). I treated my illness, whatever it is, with my usual combination of Valium and Xanax for three days, and then as I had completely ran out I just started swallowing unlabeled random pills that I found in my “little drug house” and a vague resemblance with my valium pills. Now I am down to taking sleepgels maximum strength (some over the counter bullshit I bought before my prescription drugs period). I just refuse to experience even the slightest pain (mostly due to some odd sore throat which is more fluesque than malariaesque one has to admit) or awaken moment. The boredom of being sick is enough. As a result I am acutely confused (much more than usual). The jogging doctor prescribed yet another cycle of antibiotics and some flu stuff that I take out of politeness on an ad-hoc basis. I watched two awful movies Vanity Fair and Heads in the Clouds and read my favorite book about a serial killer for the 17^th time. Then I moved to the guest bedroom so I feel like I am in some (oddly Tintin-themed) upscale clinic and also because the stench in my bedroom had become unbearable (I haven’t showered since Thursday morning but sweated profusely over the same period). My temperature, which I obsessively monitor, had reached 103.5 at my worst is now at a disappointing 100 and only shows up at night in order to make sure I don’t sleep more than twenty consecutive minutes.

A few friends called me today only to relate how much fun they had the previous night at Fagat’s fabulous NYC birthday party (must have been pretty good, he spent his day adding friends on facebook between 8:12 a.m. (!) and 1:18 p.m.). Others to tell me how they got wasted on Thursday night and they plan to get laid at Russ’s birthday bash. Some hunk delivered me flowers and a nice card. The unnamed destination ended heavy street fights a few hours ago and I was told that the Saturday plane was hit by a truck last week.

In Which We Wonder Why the Post about FHC's Malady Received the Most Comments Ever

Nous venons d'accompagner Rodolphe FHC a l'hopital.  Les medicins nous ont dit que les circonstances sont graves.

Before everyone starts trying to cash in, just remember *who* is first in line for the Kalorama mansion.

Wishing FHC the best, always and lovingly,

- LL Jr.

In which FHC is off for a few days anyway

There are two schools: the malaria school and the flu school. If it is malaria then you will not see me for quite a while. If it is the flu, then my life is just really trite.

In which FHC returns to his usual domesticated despair

My American existence is mostly about polishing shoes, picking up dry cleaning, ordering groceries, replying to Mark/Ryan H. that “no, we really cannot hang out tonight” (let alone play kickball together) and fighting the natural aging process. It is also about managing multiple online profiles, writing short witty e-mails to people I previously met through my online profiles, and going through the lyrics of thousands of new indie songs that Tim K. forwards my way. Of course, there is the professional thingy that is filling some time too, and the endless time-wasting to-do lists (to neutralize the Klonopin side-effects) and the binge drinking on Friday and Saturday night. I am painfully clueless about the meaning of it all. I am not saying it has anything to do with the US, I am blaming it on being gay, self-centered and uncaring. Maybe I’ll get a puppy in April.

Happy birthday to Russ W. (who already got LL as a present). OH… and Mark H. -- the rich, successful lawyer (and a responsible adult too) who is rumored to have very large, thick feet -- wowed the crowd again last week-end with his charming personality and witty banter.  I really see good things in store for him! See you at the gym.

In which FHC did not get laid in France...

Not that it was the purpose of his trip or anything...

Now in CDG, I am just a vegetable. I just popped half a Klonopin because I was feeling a little edgy without any reason. It made me really sleepy and I am not sure if I’ll have the strength to crawl to the boarding gate. I am reading Agatha’s blog which is so genuine. Actually, I suspect that my plane has already taken off but cannot see any screen around. My luggages are full of vintage Tintin albums, new shirts, a biography of Nicolas S. and soft porn gay magazines. I also have a wooden cane that has been searched a thousands time on my way here because I could not fake polio well enough.

Yesterday Nicolas C. and I, after we discussed my theory that Rodolphe actually died, ended up at Raidd Bar. Maybe we also stopped by Cud. I felt invisible which was unpleasant. I stared blankly to a gorgeous go-go boy with stars tattoed on his shoulder who must have showered a dozen times in an elevated Plexiglas cubicle the time we stayed there. He was so polished I could see my reflection on his ass. Then I tried to flirt with a gorgeous semi-deaf kid but only managed to lure his ugly boyfriend. Outside, drunk at 2 a.m., I could not find a cab to drive me back to my hotel and had to walk up rue Etienne Marcel sobering up and meditating on the fact that I haven’t had sex in Paris for a very long time and maybe I should have gone to Le Dépôt. I am such a pussy when it comes to anonymous sex. You guys could teach me so much.

In which FHC is in the XVIth arrondissement

In Paris, it’s not clear what time it exactly is and while waiting for my niece who cannot even hold a conversation (yet … I guess), I shut down all the curtains in my hotel room to avoid the usual wintery low grey sky. I read the obituaries in the Figaro hoping to find some dead high school friends, watch Frenchbenj’s cats reenacting the Peter S./Mark B.’s Apex encounter and listen over and over to “California all the way” by Luna.  I finally have to check what it exactly means but I can’t remember who gave the song to me. I delete Sofia from my myspace friends…bitch. I also end up tolerating “Chicago” by Sufjan Stevens even if overall I think it sucks.

I feel slightly overweight in a Mark H.’s kind of way and pale and it reminds me of a long forgotten time where the first thing I’d do after landing home would be to get a fake tan, a haircut and run to the Overkitsch party to end up getting laid in Vendôme hotel. I also suspect that LL made out with both Go-go Mike and Russ in our absence and we will get to the bottom of this in due time. Also it appears that Nick L. is now single. I also have to clear the hidden files from my professional thingy computer because I surfed a lot on “L’Homme est un concept” while traveling (a really clever blog if you speak French or not).

I’ll have dinner tonight with one of Fagat’s Parisian ex (hint: not the couple).

In which FHC leaves the unnamed destination

I received another witty e-mail from Fagat today which said “How's the unnamed destination? Slept with everyone yet?” so I felt it was time to leave (amidst some slight militia turmoil) to clear my stained reputation in the United States. I will be spending the Week-end in Europe because this is what sophisticated people do and I need to rest in my tribe before I return to my little gay peapod-based universe that LL described so well in his post. I’ll make sure to let you know if anything interesting happens over there but most probably nothing will. I did not manage to get some off-the-counter xanax here as I originally planned (I guess it’s not considered essential medication here) and so will have to travel back to DC Xanax-free on sunday which might be a little challenging.

MTV Spring Break 2007: DC Edition

While FHC toils away in the Heart of Darkness, some of us are on Spring Break.  (By "on spring break" we clearly mean "Fishwatch could still smell alcohol on our breath even though it's 3pm").  We're not supposed to be working, but we received a call this morning from our "ex" reproaching our failure to blog the entire time he's been away.  So we're using this post as an update to all you curious 'mos.  As you may have seen earlier, we and Nick D. decided to take our vacay (or at least the first few days) in Washington, DC, because, let's be honest, the thought of getting drunk in NYC just seemed too depressing.

We've written this before, but this trip to DC made it all the more clear: there are only 25 gays in that town, and we, our friends, and FHC have slept with all of them.  Twice over.  Nevertheless, we had a fabulous time as usual and Ben T. was a terrific host, even if he forced us to drink 594302 redbulls.  Unforch, we had to take some GD ethics exam Saturday morning, so we didn't make it to DC in time to see the Apex throwdown Friday night, though we heard reports that Peter S. was spotted at Heath Bar the next morning sporting sunglasses worthy of Anna Wintour to hide his bruises.  Saturday night was a "birthday" party at Tom A's (and yes, some gays were spotted consuming carbs, see photo above), followed by Infamy, hosted by queen bee Carl J.  (NDLR:  We usually refuse to go to events like Taint, mostly because we're convinced the floor is going to collapse any day now, but Infamy at the 930 Club totes lived up to the hype and more than a few people were spotted making out at the bar and trying to sleep with other peoples' boyfriends.)

In some ways, DC is no different than NYC.  Instead of the Hot Boys Posse, DC has the self-proclaimed Axis of Fun (*snicker*).    Instead of Fabiola Beracasa, DC has FHC.  Instead of Mr. Black, DC has the Black Cat, and instead of Vlada and Therapy, DC has . . . ok, the comparison ends there.  But still, DC has a sort of small-town charm that NYC, for reasons that should be obvs, never will.  Maybe DC appeals to the suburbanite in us; the thought of knowing all our neighbors is actually kind of nice, especially considering we've been living in the same Chelsea aparment for 18 months and have yet to meet the people across the hall.  We know NY'ers will never really take DC seriously and will always consider it the retarded nephew of "real cities."  After all, there can be only one center of the universe.  Yet we think DC deserves a real chance: if NYC is that pretty Prada-wearing gay who's the constant focus of everyone's attention, DC is the sweet, reliable gay in the polo shirt who might not be the coolest kid in school, but is always there when you need him. 

In which FHC sounds slightly tired

I have now been in the unnamed destination for about a week and have been quite isolated hearing only some rumors about a fistfight at Apex on Friday night (please send all details by e-mail), the fact that Toby will soon be my neighbor and seeing some pictures of my ex’s “Spring Break” visit on facebook. The kid looks slightly drunk (he has a “life-is-a-bi-party attitude”) as usual and Ben T. is encased in some garbage plastic bag with Alex G. by his side. It looks all too perky. I managed to finish a book I had already read twice and might have watched that movie “Elf” one evening. I ran out of Xanax last week and did not tried to find what its generic name in the unnamed destination is (a somewhat good sign in mental health terms). Maybe I should send my driver to avoid any embarrassing interaction. Because of internet connection issues, I ended up e-baying much less than I usually do so I have a little cash ahead and am thinking of taking a trip to Puerto Rico in early April. I also got a little jealous of Fagat’s new design.

In Which Gawker Steals Its Idea Back From Us

No fewer than 6 days after we stole Gawker's "Unethicist" idea, it struck back by copying our suggestion that, just perhaps, people were submitting phony letters to Emily Yoffe's "Dear Prudie" column.  Don't get us wrong: we thoroughly approve of Prudie's inclination to select easy targets of mockery.  But we're concerned that in her effort to get in a good line, she's letting some totally fake letters in through the cracks.  We only wish we were clever enough to write some of these doozies.  (Our new guess for the fake-letter-bandit is Kenji Yoshini, who dressed up one of the questions on the final exam he gave us to make a tidy little piece for Slate). 

Sorry for the short post, but it's not even our day to blog and we're too busy getting ready for spring fling to keep Le Blog in order while FHC relaxes poolside solving some sort of make-believe world health crisis.  [NDLR: Being oceans away doesn't seem to have kept FHC from adding Friendsters...]

In which FHC gives you some news you did not ask for

I spent my first day at the unnamed destination doing a lot of professional thingy, trying to call someone at GW Hospital who must be high on morphine right now and wondering if my lips were chapped because of the tropics or Xanax. I took a few breaks to listen to “F**ck and Run” by Liz Phair and read over and over again Sam King’s four blog entries to learn how to be genuine. On that last item, I made very little progress as you can imagine…well at least I have not hanged out with Mark H. for four days.

Now as my mood evolved a little, I am playing “The Hours” soundtrack and my hotel room is already a mess after only one night with its very dim lighting. And it just feels ô so very melodramatic and lonely that I might very well finish my parasites-filled tea and go to bed. It is not really NYC here, there is not much to do besides getting fatter and we will not let that happen even if we have to confess we are worried.