FHC’s resurrected blog

In which FHC ...well...does not blog

My day was awfully busy and stressful and my only satisfaction so far is to know that this annoying kid left DC for Damascus and the fact that LL’s promised to get me a pair of free Flip-Flop from his Firm (not to wear just to make fun of). I continued slowly preparing my trip to the unnamed destination by securing invitations to orgies for LL for the next three weeks while continuing to convince Kevin W. (who wrote to me “Oi, bitch" in a very British/Kennedy-like fashion today) to call Dr. Linda for my sleeping problem. And yes that would mean …NO BLOG as I am already very late for a very happening dinner at Sergio S. in which I expect MegaDCFag to be present. It better be happening because I sacrificed yet another epidsode of Lost to my always expanding social life.

In which FHC read the NYT

As LL and I sadly ran out of Lost episodes to watch (we just set up a very complex and slow system to download the Season II episodes on my ipod and then transmit to the television as contrary to most self-respecting homo in our block we neither own TIVO nor do we have cable mostly because Kevin and LL are respectively a failed musician and a financial disaster or both), we decided to go for an afternoon of newspaper reading and Craig’s list casual encounters in P street beach (we have never been in those woods ….yet … but Kevin D. and Scott G. did). Btw, Anna-Lucia is already getting on my nerves and we are only at the beginning of the season: I badly wish Boone would resuscitate (and given the seriousness of the whole thing, it might happen if itunes let me download the next episodes).

I usually seldom read the NYT Fashion & Style section and today something caught my eye in the wedding announcements: Chengwin got married (for those we don’t know Chengwin, we recommend to visit his website – in which you’ll discover that anyway the groom was already married). This announcement mostly caught my eyes because as I already stated before in here I hate Penguins – I just f***ing hate them - and I despise chickens as much as LL loves ducks. Also I spent 20 minutes wondering if Elaine and Hank Schoeffel of Princeton, N.J. find Chengwin to be a funny son -in –law and feel that their daughter married well. My first impression is that Patrick might very well be the kind of son-in-law who has trouble keeping a job even if he could sell ice-makers to Eskimos, read Marx and will dump his wife for a younger version when he’ll reach 35. I might be wrong…also in the long run it might very well lessen Elaine’s enjoyment of eating poultry.

In other news of interest in the paper today Amandeep Kaur changed his name to Amandip Kaur and thought it was worth making a general public service announcement in the Main Section page 14. I ran a little googlefight and clearly this is a good decision Amandip. However, if anybody has any idea why Amandeep changed his name please e-mail me.

So that you don’t have the feeling that you completely lost your time reading this entry: I also link to Frenchbenj’s guacamole recipe.

In which FHC tells a little about his hate-filled lifestyle

I brought LL to the Diner yesterday. This place that Scott G. once described very accurately as the “I am so cool: I am not at JR’s” bar. Let me rephrase this: I dragged LL to the Diner yesterday because he actually hates going out. There is some urban legend which says that I am the one forbidding him to step outside the house while the truth is that he is not interested in gay bars anymore. We narrowed the explanation down to the fact that is only motivation to go there in the first place was to get laid by awful Danish people. But he had fun last night, enjoyed the light breeze of gay talk and I even found an e-mail address in the back pocket of his jeans. (cutietop19@aol.com).   At least he is not in Law school, he managed to move on unlike Fishwatch.

Of the two hours and a half of conversation I had there I only remember Mark H. (who was there with a mute friend/cousin/bloke from North Carolina) telling me that my teeth are really white to which I replied “have you noticed my strong jawline too?”. I also told some awful fag-hag (or possibly Kevin G. in drag) that she looked like a supermodel and mentioned the word “camping” three times to give myself a little straight edge. I mostly tried to figure out how most of the patrons tell each other apart: don’t they ever get confused? they are all called Kevin or dated one. Someone pointed out to the fact that Joël was wearing a really nice T-shirt and I felt the fabric of that guy Santiago’s shorts (it felt a little inappropriate at that time). Some anonymous guy poured a little of his drink on me and I wanted to chop his head off but didn’t and instead smiled forgivingly with my really white teeth. As it was clear that there wouldn’t be any group sex involved we were back home at 11:40 pm

Next time I’ll score an invitation at Kia’s friends. In other news, Kevin D. asked for an MP3 player clearly he is bored or perhaps he decided to try to bond with is generation.

In which FHC evokes the challenges of matchmaking

Setting people up with each other is usually a very difficult exercise. However it is a necessary one in a world were relationships only go beyond 4 months if there is some financial interest at stake (the gay world that is). As Kevin D. recently pointed out to me (he definitely is THE “relationship guru” around here), the purpose for the matchmaker is usually to streamline his social life by creating strategic pairs of friends which will maximize his social experience while minimizing the time he has to spend on it. I believe that it can also be motivated by the wish to keep some of his close friends sufficiently busy in a disastrous relationship so that they won’t even think about calling him for a little while. I personally like to matchmake people that are already in a relationship as I am a bit of a home wrecker on my spare time: the ideal matches to me would be Ari S. and Alex S., LL and Cub or FHC. and Greg H. On the other hand, the purpose for the matchmakees is to alleviate his tremendous loneliness and constant fear of death. The matchmakees are usually desperate cases which have so many flaws that they really need the matchmaker’s guarantee (a bit like when you rent an apartment in NYC and your mother has to sign that she’s on the hook for anything you owe and can be sued or when Rodolphe B. implies to his preys that I am his brother) to have the smallest chance to score. They also have such a bad reputation, alcohol problem or/and a dilapidated body that they cannot recourse to the usual dating techniques such as cruising bars, naked movie night, sending weird messages to strangers on friendster, working out at Results, registering on Christian Single Dating Websites (why is there so many of them?) or going to private parties (I was never really introduced to any of my past boyfriends: I just got cracked out on a dance floor and they appeared).

The main problem with matchmaking is that it often shows to your single friend how little you think of him and how odd you believe his tastes are. I myself failed many couples in the past years such as Jim M. and Frif T., Daniel B. and Frif T., LL and Frif T. (what’s wrong with Frif T. one may wonder?). Thank god there is always new meat in the DC market and thousands of little gay interns are dying to climb the social ladder would it only be for the summer.

In which FHC briefly evokes gummy coke bottles and “the irony of life”

As I had to do a little operation with my e-mail archives today, I ended up going through some of my past e-mails. It is an amazing time we are living on with all these electronic permanent records of our lives building up; there is no way to escape the irony of life anymore. We have all access to our own little history of love, betrayal, our mighty hopes, crushed desires and constant mistakes. As an example I rediscovered while scanning through some past e-mails the fact that I called my first boyfriend “nono” (before I called him “f*ck face” I guess) and another one “Bradley”. I noticed that in one of my first e-mail to Rodolphe on 07/01/2001, I addressed him as “Mickey” (when we were young and relaxed - I have known the kid for 5 full years) and that Alex S. wrote to me on 03/24/2004 “How bout tuesday, lil buddy?” as well as some old pictures. My only regret is that I could not figure out what I did with that cute jumper I was wearing (how original are those footsteps print ?).

Ok I am in a hurry to go to some PTA meeting at the firm LL is interning at. I’ll take this opportunity to brief LL’s supervisor on his diet. I hope there will be a “Talent Show” (law school nerds are good at that). I also expect that they will announce that we are invited to a Week End in the Hamptons. Perhaps they will even have gummy coke bottles… (doubtful, particularly as I have never seen such an item on any buffet in the last 5-6 years). Well at least I will have missed Kevin D.’s barbecue and the Wednesday night diner club.

In which fHC attempts to complete his picture of gay DC

As I was working out at Results yesterday evening (actually more like pushing indolently some weights around while staring at the scenery…nothing fancy…really …trust me), I thought that the next step in completing my description of the day DC social stratification was to evoke the gay proletariat. Down with elitism. The main difference with the MNDC and the apparatchiks, is that the gay proletariat’s parents weren’t middle class (well everybody is in the US, so let’s say they were lower middle class) and they very rarely hold a graduate degree. That might explain why their appear to be more vulnerable to bad fashion, drugs, awful attitude, being cynical about love, the danger of indoor tanning and as a general rule getting caught in all the awful traps that snare young men when they come out too early. In my opinion, being gay in our society is unfortunately a trauma that you can only overcome with family support, money, a tiny bit of Judeo-Christian culture, a strict upbringing and a good diploma. Lacking of such tools, the gay proletariat focuses their entire lives on increasing their pleasure and reducing the pain of being society’s outcasts by looking for the quick gains and boozing it up with the certainty that anyway life stops at 35 (and it does…for them). The life of the gay proletariat can be summarized by the following scenario: being a twink at Nation on Saturdays and Apex on Thursdays, partying like crazy, getting depressed, moving to 17^th street (so far it does awfully sound like my own story), becoming a real estate agent/mortgage broker/bartender/front desk attendant/hustler/lawyers (for a minority), joining Results, building up muscle mass, becoming a gym bunny, joining manhunt, getting depressed, buying a condo or a basement apartment, flirting with an eating disorder, decorating the condo, staying in a relationship three months, seeing their buttocks go first and then their pecs sagging a little later, switching from Nation to JRs, getting light plastic surgery, becoming a troll, moving to Florida and ultimately disappearing in the huge gay vacuum. What is amazing is that they seem to be completely oblivious to the emptiness of their life, the frailty of their dreams (becoming huge, meeting Madonna, spending the Week-End in Miami, Going to gay Disney, and eventually getting laid) and their own inherent tragedy when you see them glowing at the gym stuck in tiny little shorts, their muscles shining as the promise of better tomorrows, lurking between the machines for the next high, confusing their own panic for passion, and their selfishness for grandeur. Like bulls they grow only in bulk. They never really go beyond coming out, miss some of the necessary steps to middle age (a little meditation, a little mdeication, reading one book a year and visiting lesser known parts of the world as well as investing in your career, a more sedentary life and adding some straight couple to the overall recipe) and therefore time (and cigarette and protein shakes and the occasional tina bump) takes a huge toll of them leaving them lifeless, burnt-out, often sick, always wrinkly, bitter and tired. They hate adulthood and apparently this is reciprocal. As someone once said “wisdom does not come with old age, only wrinkles do”.

Exile, ô delicious exile

§      As a follow-up to my return from exile terror, I dreamt last night that my mother was getting remarried stupidly with someone she did not really love [she happens to be ethically challenged… it runs in the family] and I mentioned it to her but it did not seem to make sense to her that it was the way for failure. Everything seemed pretty vulgar in the wedding. I think we ended up in a highway restaurant and some of my friends from high schools, two beautiful blond girls called L. and L. (one of them was actually a princess L. de L. C. and de C. L.) were there, and the one called L. P. told me that her beautiful brother (a gorgeous blond kid I used to love/be jealous of when I was young) became a casting director or something like that. And then I had a car with a driver but it was a Smart (small Mercedes car). And at the end everybody got fat, my grandfather included, at a huge buffet in front of the barrier of the President’s palace in Country X (I remembered that because there are holes in the gates). Everybody ate meringues and became huge…. Anyway that’s ok, one year I got a psycho-somatic strep throat with an amazing fever in front of Bourne Identity right before taking a plane for France.

§      On a lighter and cheerful note, I am afraid I really want to see King Kong but nobody seems interested strangely. I once had a weakness for huge monkeys. It was a time in which I knew all the seedy gay bars in D.C. as well as the ins and outs of every club (and boy) in the city. Ian S. was calling me by my first name. Oh yes…I was one randy 22 years old. As Kevin D. would say: “Have you seen my youth? I seem to have misplaced it.”

§      I have to buy a new pair of jeans, it’s necessary. I think people have started noticing I always wear the same pair which reminds me that memorable statement that Charles Bukowski said to my mother: “Of course it's possible to love a human being if you don't know them too well”. This is such a severe case of straight behavior and poverty that I could get kicked out of the gay community and lose my frenchness. That’s no joking matter!!!! I hear you young people wear Seven these days. Please confirm before I take a bold decision.

Note-to-self: go to Boston next year for pre-Christmas anonymous sex.

Migrant workers are FHC’s friends too !

On my way out, I thought that maybe you’d like to know what I plan to do of my time without LL who found a great excuse to abandon me this WE and have a romantic dinner with Tom O'R.?. I plan to cry in public bathroom and organize an insurrectionon 17th street. JK. This being said, I received many messages about Paris riots today including one from adorable Serwait P. who says “I see all this news about riots in Paris and hope that all your family is okay”, well Serwait I don’t share your wishes and I find policemen in riot gear very sexy. I’ll end up on that annoying topic with the following quote from Rob Corddry of The Daily Show (via Daniel B.): "The immigrants, mainly North African Muslims, are upset that they're being shunned by French society. They feel alienated, scorned, looked down upon. Apparently, they're unaware this is a common situation known as Being French." Clearly I would like to limit my human interaction over the Week End to the minimum possible. I won’t be able to avoid interacting  with the ghetto 17th street Safeway checkout cashier (studying Ebonics with her is much more than learning the world's most-used language) this evening nor with the unbearable liquor store guy but it is worth it as I will need plenty of beef jerky and Guinness to watch tonight “La vie de Chateau” a 1966 set in occupied France. On Saturday I will read “The History of Love” as recommended by my debilitating roommate (whom I expect will leave me in peace and think about his Thanksgiving turkey) and Ari S. Not that any of them would know the first thing about love. And maybe "Why I hate Canadians". Sunday will be devoted to driving with my mate Alex A. for the first time after maybe 7 years if my mailwoman (who clearly is one of these postal employees that have been inhaling too much anthrax) stop losing/stealing my mail. I still don’t understand why I have to see Jarhead but, if I have to, then maybe I’ll do that on Sunday night. Watch how cool grandma is.

Bolgi bolga et puis s'en va....

§      Social pariah Kevin D. sent me this right hand picture with the comment: “Hope you are enjoying your training as much as i am enjoying sleeping in” : does any of you has the address of a good plastic surgeon, I am thinking to have his nose redone ? §      I wish I could massacre seals too. §      Does “I have decided to be assertive” is just another way to say “Respect My Authority: this is my turn to be the tyrant and enforce my divine willpower over your peasant’s life” ? Just kidding... JK Before Alex A. breaks my neck, let’s try to check if there is a middle ground before softie and absolute tyranny. As soon as I have a bit of time, I’ll myself, take some of these personality tests. §      In 5 months, I flew 5 times on United to NYC and twice on Delta: I am an amazing boyfriend if you ignore my Myspace and friendster sleazy profiles. §      Someone at work told me I looked tired.. too bad they did not hire a bright eyed, bushy tail puppy when they had the opportunity. §      I wonder why I am the last person informed that 3 were stabbed in Lafayette Square on Tuesday. After all this is on my commuting way ! §      Should I confess publicly that I eventually got the flu shot yesterday and now feel like a road kill ? I think I shouldn’t.

The allergy conspiracy: a puffy eyed revolt

What is up with these so-called allergies? my eyes are so puffy and drippy these days that I consume one Kiehl’s eye treatment container a week and stumble around the office with trendy sunglasses. Everybody thinks LL dumped me for a  younger New Yorker with a full head of hair. It is “allergy season” I am told ….what again ? I thought Spring was “allergy season”. Is it like gay mating season ?. Now “Rag weeds” are supposed to be the cause of my allergies, what the f**ck are “Rag weeds”?  (we are learning so much just by reading FHC's resurrected blog, aren't we now?) I used to be in such a healthy condition in my youth and now I am dying. Thank God my allergist is a local star “named Top Doc in Washingtonian Magazine 2005” as well as a notable from the “American Board of Allergy”: I just feel better saying that loud. Patients flock to the office of Dr. Henry F. these days and he walks around with a satisfied grin on his face as if our misery was his personal victory over nature. Allergy is a wealthy people disease so his office is very well attended. It’s like a hip puffy-eyed pariahs club. Most deals on the hill are now done at allergy shots time in his K street office and puffy eyed, red nosed pimply lobbyists in a state of vertigo are giving away their business card when you come in. I was tested for allergies there, just after Laura B. who is only allergic to most root vegetables I am told (she is lucky… her father is also allergic to bee stings, facts, international treaties and Jacques C.). On the other hand Tristan is allergic to everything and Dr. FF hinted with a re-assuring wink that if I rub myself against a cockroach I might die. For someone who enjoys giving blowj**s to anonymous homeless people that’s always a challenge. He also told me that it was not only the city that was making me sick, but also my home and Olliver D. itself. As I was saying yesterday, I have killed one too many kittens and did not take that as an answer. I also felt it was too high of a commitment, what if Kevin (who probably got toxiplasmosis from Olliver and yet still feeds him) asks me “since you murdered my cat are your allergies any better?” and I have to answer no. How embarrassing for everybody involved (this being said killing a cat is easy, I hear you just need him to swallow Tylenol or a very small amount of antifreeze, no need for a machete in this case...not that I did any research). Plus Dr. F wrote once “the problem is inside you” in this very nice article “allergy myths” and it cannot be interpreted as a call for suicide among his patients. Like a never-satisfied, ever-inquiring child, I continued to ask questions on how to cure my allergies without murdering anybody, or at least anybody that is not a dust-mite, until Dr. F. hinted that there might be a magical very expensive time-consuming boring debilitating cure. In the pre-F era, I would take Benadryl, an allergy medication that would cause me to pass out after two drinks which was quite comfortable for my liver, now I get shots twice a week from a vicious nurse (the shots will only take effect in a few years) and stuff Nasinex in my nose in the morning (plus a few healthy uplifting morning lines). My weekly round of allergy shots coupled with regular heroin shots usually leaves me badly bruised in a pool of my own blood with puffy eyes but I am full of hope for the future.

Quickly in blogobadmannered, for once I had a fan but LL unleashed the full fury of his persecution (a.k.a. KMZ) against him as he had complimented me for my blog and bam ! Bluecitizen-where-are-thou ? I have no fan anymore. Thanks L&L, I’ll make do with "hate mail" from the angry Brazilians mob for now. (LL replies like yesterday : "He electrocuted himself in a mouse trap. I cannot possibly take the blame.") Finally, among other news, I watched "Bend it like Beckam" and LL promised to me I would get my own Indian Lesbian football player for christmas: it is the rage in London. Oh and they put down Goldie ! BON VOYAGE GOLDIE !

FHC, Esq.