FHC’s resurrected blog

In which FHC evokes America self-confidence

The US does not value sufficiently humility. America teaches very early on to its kids to loudly brag about their achievements and embellish them. It confuses discretion for meekness and politeness for fear. This is illustrated by the fact that young graduates will send you five pages long resumes which tell you nothing about their real faculties but a lot about their misperceptions of themselves. Resumes are the American corporate version of the French “soufflés”. This is also very clear in the university “class notes” (always submitted by the alumni themselves) where Christopher Malagisi as an example, SPA/BA ’03 takes credit for “putting together the only American government led election observation delegation”. I personally trust much more the self-deprecating approach of young European interns who sit silently in their cubicles, reading books and taking notes, until their mid-thirties at which time they let their actions speak for themselves. Humility makes stupidity and lack of wisdom so much more bearable. America also considers bluntness and self-confidence as extremely important characteristics for success. Consequently, we all find ourselves having to listen to voices who feel entitled to contribute to discussions even when they have very little to say and no relevant knowledge or experience. It reminds me of my ex, yet another ivy-league graduate waiting tables, who, when he was 20, came out furious of a dinner party which included older and distinguished guests because in his own words ”nobody paid any attention to him” even after he decided to take his shirt off. All American have this hidden belief that they are someone or might become someone, that they are too the chosen ones. Actually they were told so, often by Mark Twain himself. Unfortunately this is a great lie: most of them are called to a mediocre and obscure existence which could only make sense as part of a greater organization or community. However that terrible quiproquo alone motivates Americans, blinded and deafened by their self-awareness, to take too much room in the street, talk too loudly and fight for a business class seat even when they fly economy. They mistake their own racket for talent and sacrifice the common goods to their small interests and personal hopes. That also explains why they are so numerous to apply for “American Idol” and why you can’t find a plumber anymore. As a friend of mine put it “we think that the people that get ahead are the people who are aggressive”. Unfortunately in the words of Goethe: “There is nothing worse than aggressive stupidity”. It also explains why so many Americans have very little humor because they were engineered to ignore their flaws and never laugh at their talents. I think that the main explanation is that Americans were unfortunately deprived of the wonderful experience of communism, or at least socialism, by McCarthy. The capitalist individuality and egotism might have been instrumental to the US relative economic success but it also came with the constant unbearable noise of these empty inflated egos colliding against each other everywhere.

In which FHC is your average homophobic f*ck

LL, with the complicity of Kevin D., tried to convince me yesterday to spend my Sunday at the water park with the Southern Boys throwing in the possibility to see Matt H. shirtless (not so much an incentive as he is already somewhat buttnaked on the cover of MW this week). I declined using the lame excuse that hair transplants do not support to be wet for an extended period of time. The truth (meaning the other true explanation) is that I am scared shitless by straight people particularly in the summer and particularly when they are close to the water since our trip to Mexico last year (see how I say Mexico even if we all know I really mean Cancùn… I have no pride whatsoever). I am traumatized and now the beach wakens up my internalized homophobia and my fear to be drowned by angry breeders.

Sadly, it’s that time of the year again. LL and I fly out to the Pointe de Kerbihan, in Brittany on Saturday evening…which is about as gay-friendly as Teheran. The time of our yearly interaction with straight families (including my own) is approaching.

You see we are very gay people at the beach: we always look like we are going to engage in anal sex any minute. We have matching polo bears beach towels, I wear oversized vintage Ray Bans, T-shirts sized large boy with “It is a crime against nature to butt fuck” written in bold letters on the front, women seersuckers shorts and unisex suede driving shoes. I read “Elle Décor” and Vogue which I pick up in the Air France lounge or Pamela Harriman’s biography. We play “Teaches of Peaches” on our gayish ipod sound system and while I am typing this, I am cruising e-bay for a very very very gay pink duffle beach bag with green polka dots (maybe I’ll go for the butcher one with the mermaid and the unicorn). But what really f*cks our chances to be confused for a pair of close fraternity friends, is that we call each other by the exact same nickname which of course leads to surrealistically gay conversations. My mother is going to be soooo embarrassed when I’ll introduce my American paypal dressed in a bright polo monogrammed with my initials and a red cap which says “Mount gay”.

At least this year, we will have a car so we can escape if some mob decides to attack us. Still, I really wish someone had written the “acting straight at the beach for dummies” guide: now that we all saw on Friday that our desperate attempt to teach me sport had ended up in a fiasco once again.

I Want My MTV

It’s pretty hard to follow yesterday’s post – it’s not every day that FHC has a terrible accident, throws away millions of dollars, and wastes countless man-hours of hard work.

Today I thought I’d blog about what’s it like not having cable.  First, there are the obvious consequences.  No, I haven’t seen Entourage.  I don’t understand any of the controversies concerning Project Runway 3 that I read about on Gawker.  When one of my best friends was being overshadowed by his camera hungry co-worker on Bravo, I had to pretend I wasn’t watching out of “loyalty.”  We don’t have cable, and my ability to banter around the water cooler (slash Ten Penh) suffers. But it’s worse than that: I also have become stupider.  WIthout cable, I have no way to keep up with Hollywood gossip reliably.  Consider our BBQ last night (thanks Kevin – for giving me  the runs).  18A made a joke about the formerly N’SYNC Lance Bass.  “Ugh, he’s so gay,” I replied.  “Gay gay gay.  He should just come out already.”  *Blank Stares*  “He is out,” everyone shouted at me.  “Well, he has a big penis” I was forced to interject, pretending like I wasn’t embarrassed for not knowing.  This is what happens when I don’t watch Access Hollywood and E! News every night.  How else am I supposed to know?  And because I don’t get cable, I don’t even know who his obviously star-humping boyfriend “Reichen” is.  Next thing I know, you’ll all tell me Suri C. has been spotted in Wichita, Kansas on the set of “The Simple Life.”

In other news/blogorama, Toad’s Place is opening in Richmond, VA, and we’re really crossing our fingers that NW DC is the next stop.  DC continues to be in the midst of a crime wave, and the  apparent solution is to release more potential criminals onto the street.  FHC and I are going to try to spend the weekend doing activities that don’t involve thousands of dollars worth of rented equipment. 

In which FHC gets to write his most expensive entry ever

Yeah the blog might be late today but then I also have an awesome excuse: I basically slammed a flying scot, with Drew W. and Kevin D. on board, in Reagan National airport infrastructure mobilizing as much as three police boats (a swamp boat, a motorboat and a jetski), as many vehicles and threatening to disturb air traffic. It started like a really good, albeit windy, day, we sailed in the Bell Haven Marina for like 45 minutes and after we got kicked out because of a storm I got this really cool idea of renting one in the Washington Marina. After a little while of really cool sailing (let’s say 10 minutes), I hit a sandbar, lost control of the boat which went to slam into the landing lights dock of the airport tearing apart both of our sails in a horrible noise. The wire got entangled in the structure immobilizing our ship. My first comment after the accident was “at least I don’t have to worry about docking the thing anymore”. After that, it’s just your usual embarrassing story. The coast guars and police began to gather by the airport and on land, while we were waiting in the boat stuck in shallow waters with a pretty high wind. As no boat could get close to us, we were stuck there for something like 50 minutes with huge planes landing on our heads every 5  minutes. We were worried that the mat was going to collapse because of the crazy tension in the wires. When we were finally got rescued, I did not really discuss the bill that was presented to me by a furious Marina manager. If you see me tonight, I am on a serious mission to get wasted. It might sound lovely but it was a little painful mostly because, even if I look slim enough on the accident pictures, I never looked that bald. Also I am under the impression that the Washington Marina won’t let me rent boats and that Kevin D. will hesitate to let me borrow his car after this terrible quiproquo.

 

In which FHC cheers for the juicy giants

So yes… I went to the game yesterday. It was terribly boring as one would expect, looks a little silly and even the coaches seemed apathetic. I was waiting for the whole thing to heat up with a  “W” on my forehead and then it was finished. I tried to make the “Who is in the first base ?...who?” joke but LL rolled his eyes and bought me a cap so I’d shut up. Everybody was booing this poor guy, Barry Bonds, screaming “juice” and LL even threw one of my diabetes syringes at him. Each time I would express my worries that it might impact negatively on his well-being I was told with a sneer that “he made a lot of money” or “he is a millionaire”. I concluded that in the United-States, there is a popular belief that it is ok to be hated as long as you are wealthy. I wanted to hug Barry and squeeze his big boned body. I thought I would try to be supportive and seek his autograph along the fenceline but LL would not let me.

What’s the problem with Barry using steroids exactly? I mean: I always thought that cheating and treachery were the American ways of winning, the Tour de France in particular. Perhaps Barry has a “thyroid condition” too. That is what I revere about America: how little it knows itself.

At least I understood that there are other usages for a baseball bat than beating up Olliver when he shows up in my bedroom chasing for my delicious foam earplugs. As B. Shaw once said “Baseball has the great advantage over cricket of being sooner ended”.

In which FHC has the most charming dinner-table conversation

Attendees at the dinner included Rodolphe B. (unspeakably charming as usual), the up-and- coming Dan W., my friend LL and the celebrated Nicolas C. Rudy hammered me quite early on with a Martini at his divine place on Wyoming. We then went to Urbana on P street (or at least that’s what I am told – I would not know I was already shitfaced when we got there), a haven for gay decors enthusiasts: everything was frivolous and covered in granit tops from the Menu to the bill. I vaguely remembered that this particular restaurant prides itself in dipping fries in Duck’s fat or something horrible and uncanny like that (just so you know…consider it my review of the place) and the waiter had a sore jaw. However, the conversation covered almost exclusively controversial topics starting with ankle boots, Chinese weddings, the israelo-lebanese conflict (religion), Juan V.’s break-up/beat-up, John Bolton (politics), my plan to move to very happening Luxembourg (FHC) and Nicolas’s obscure and murky sexual life (sex). Us, the French people, never really mastered the art of dinner conversation like Englishmen, we just cannot help but raise the taboo topic of footwear. I gathered through some non-verbal clues that I mostly behaved like an asshole and LL eventually declined my invitation to go to some wild-after-dinner party (at one point in the dinner, he claimed that I have taken the habit to wake him up in the middle of the night to beat him). Afterwards I dreamt that I was attacked in my courtyard, woke up still drunk and quite enraged to be alive. It doesn't get any better than that.

I just regret that LL and I did not find an opportunity to drop the fact that we had just watched Jules & Jim.

In  other news, I engage each and every of my DC reader to watch David B’s secret sex/real estate tape (via an anonymous tip) and please let us know if you receive an e-mail from John W. because he apparently misbehaved in Les Caves du Roy. Apparently among the fun things one must do while living in Washington, Dc is to kick bikers on 11th St between U and Florida.

Anyway I have to join dearest L right now so we can go to watch the Nationals take on the San Francisco Giants: after 6 years in the US, it is time for me to start hating baseball for a reason.

In which FHC had something worth speaking about for once

I knew I had forgotten something today. Kevin D., quite the gentleman as usual, just wrote me “Hey FFace, your blog IS LATE!”. At least I know that someone out there LOVES me. One reader believes that when I have no time to blog (and incidentally no time to spend my daily income on useless e-bay WWII memorabilia or answer Kevin W’s awfully cheerful e-mails – what does he have to be happy about?), it means that I actually have a life. I feel it’s not that true: it usually coincides with the days when I think about throwing my helmetless bicycling body under a fire truck or moving back to Luxembourg. In any case, my life is uneventful as used to say Smith of his maritime career before he eventually became Captain of the Titanic. This being said, I just received a call from Clint M. (ex number four) and I am on my way to dine with Rodolphe B. so I might have something to write about tomorrow… if you behave nicely. Not that an uneventful day has ever stopped me to blog….I actually wanted to tell you today about the fact that it has been two weeks that we fired the cleaning lady and that I am seriously thinking of moving to the Four Seasons… Oh, I almost forgot LL wanted you to know about “borrowing” wireless internet. You cannot say I treat you poorly.

In which FHC is enviro friendly

To the world of commute, my style is the equivalent of being on death row while directing the jihad. I am cycling my way to death taking a few lives on the way. I ride my bike in morning traffic without a helmet, while listening to Stay Together for the Kids blasting on my ipod, (I like to play that particular lyric over and over: F*ck you, here is your holiday). As I cannot hear the vehicles surrounding me, I have to turn my head each time I want to switch lane, and god knows I want to switch lane often. I also make a point in not respecting the traffic laws as I believe they shouldn’t apply to us, bicyclists. Basically my take on this is that traffic laws are for complete suckers: don’t count on me to sit at red light while watching your ugly face in your BMW convertible. I mean we are environmentally friendly, fit, young, American and stuff, I think that’s enough: we deserve love and respect from ugly motorists (zipcar members excl.). Also I shake my heads disapprovingly each time there is a car in my way, I finger salute dumb pedestrians when they force me to stop at crosswalks and I make fun of stuck-up bicyclists using bike lanes with their fugly helmets on. I like to race cars and other cyclists on 18^th street too. I turned into your average DC bike messenger, I have the bike (Jamis Coda Sport 04), the bag (Timbuk) and the attitude…I just need the tattoos. Sometimes, I even shout obscenities but, as Kevin D. kindly pointed out to me, nobody really understand them… not even myself as I have my earphones on. I am such a dangerous and obnoxious commuter that I hate myself: I feel I deserve to be hit by some gigantic truck and have my intestines spread all over the asphalt as an example for other unruly bicyclists. My advice if you see me during your morning commute: RUN ME OVER or just open the passenger door wide open when I come by. It must be a question of days now before one of DC vicious cabs shatters my spinal cord in little shiny pieces and sends me back to France, where my dead body belongs, in a silver coffin. I am such a moron; it’s painful to write about it. On the other end, I don’t do the recycling thing because I was taught not to play with garbage.

In other news, once again it is restaurant week: a good time to stay home because who wants to dine in an under priced restaurant with an awful clientele? and tonight is the premiere of the New York Daily News reality TV show. See you at Results.

In which FHC shares a few tricks on how to avoid losing

Despite LL’s kind, yet awkward and slightly demeaning, efforts to make me win to build my self-esteem, I have been constantly losing at Tennis in the last few days.

I have always hated competitions mostly, I believe, because I am obsessed with victory and love to win as a way to confirm my worth. Sadly I tend to be a huge loser. I vaguely remember that my mother taught me when I was just a charming, albeit meek and extremely small, child that for men of my condition it always is better to die than to lose. As a somewhat logical consequence, I happened to lose the little talent I had whenever I was expected to perform at my best: I was a mediocre golfer, judoka, footballer, musician, swimmer, and sailor and later on in life lover. I am also a very poorly performing human being but that’s another story. I also have fond memories of being left out at school with the less popular children whenever we would pick teams and ended up giving away my mother’s silverware to avoid this embarrassing and traumatic situation. The only thing my mother would not let me be mediocre at was riding, because that little brat, Bonnie if I recall well, who dies in “gone with the wind” (an all time favorite of French women). I just find it so hypocritical that people call all forms of high school sports competition “a game” when it actually is the most tragic part of most childhoods and most coaches are just neo-Nazis.

After a while, I got pretty fed up of losing and then decided to spend the rest of my life avoiding contests of all kind at all cost on the basis of the very famous rule that “if you don’t play, you can’t lose” and looking for all the shortcuts. I even became gay (one hell of a shortcut if you want my opinion). If someone asks me to join some team instead of saying “I am not a competitive person”, I can just indicate that “I am a fagot”: which usually does the trick. The idea of buying trophies from e-bay to place above my chimney only occurred to me much later in life. On the professional level, I usually pop a beta-blocker or use some backstabbing technique whenever I am expected to compete but mostly I try to lower expectations as much as I can. I am always amazed that one is asked to live with oneself for such a long period of time in life.

An Open Letter about How You Need to Shut Up

For those of you who wanted to commit sui after reading yesterday’s entry, or worse, have no fear: LL is to the rescue as the “optimistic” half of the couple.  For the record, none of you should be surprised that FHC’s sometimes veers towards the borders of the morbid – there are two copies of American Psycho on FHC’s bookshelf but only one of High Fidelity.  It’s also what you get from someone whose favorite biographies are of Oscar Wilde and Pamela Harriman, and who forced me to watch the Thomas Crowne Affair only because he wanted to see the scene were the catamaran capsizes.  Practice, apparently, for when we play Loul a le mere in Brittany.

That said, if you’re wondering why FHC gets fed up sometimes, it’s because of you people.  Yes, you.  Somehow FHC has managed to find as friends, acquaintances and, arguably, boyfriends, total know-it-alls and dictators.  Every evening over dinner (sausage and soup) FHC says, “I had coffee with William today, and he told me that I have to cut my hair” or “I had lunch with Spencer and he told me that I don’t run enough and should buy a wig.”  For heaven’s sake, before criticizing FHC,  telling him what to do, or trying to explain to him why you know how the world works, why don’t you get your little lives together first.  Last time I checked, FHC was a professional, and you were the second assistant to the Deputy Hairdresser at Salon Cielo.  FHC will buy a house when he’s ready, he’ll take the pills he likes, and he’ll decide when he’s purchased too much silver from the Waldorf on eBay.  FHC may be French, but when he escaped that country he escaped its bureaucrats, too, so please don’t try to replace them here.

I know you were hoping that the blog was funny, but we can’t all be as clever as you are 7 days a  week, and sometimes we have to get serious.  So stop being so insufferable, smile once in a while, and try to have fun instead of telling other people how they should amuse themselves, it’s really déclassé.

With love, always,

LL