FHC’s resurrected blog

In which FHC ends up in Maine

We all know I hate to be pessimistic but tomorrow is going to be yet another happy airport day in FHC’s miserable existence. I am planning to leave for Portland, Maine tomorrow evening from Dulles for a long Week-end with some “friends” who will remain anonymous at the exact time Ernesto had in mind to destroy DC. Additionally, I am planning to do so on an award ticket, on an American airline on the eve of Labor Day Week End to make everything more exciting. But I have never been to Maine and I hear there are whales, trees, homosexuals, Rick H. and that you can eat lobsters and clam chowder and hunt and it all sounds really lovely and worth spending 10 hours in an airport with overexcited college girls while interacting with ugly flight attendants who do not understand my kind of English. I am very excited. Moreover now that the “host” just wrote: “Since the weather is going to be cool, bring a raincoat and a sweater”…which is an expression for “expect serious flooding”. Additionally as I strongly suspect that my “friends” will never actually pick me up from Portland airport and the whole thing is just a big scam, I already booked an hotel next to the airport to spend my Week-end. Perhaps I’ll take this unique opportunity to see the Portland Pirates… I have always been a huge fan. Now I just have to figure out what on one wears in New England.

In other news, Mark H. called me “silly” in an e-mail which I found quite ironic. I noticed that among my 60 friends on myspace, none is a girl. I also discovered that Tony B., the flamboyant Brazilian, is back in town after a year of absence…curlier than ever. Ok I am leaving…it’s late and I have to go to the gym so see y’all !

In which FHC has a busy day

What I like with busy days is that you do not see them go by. For me a good day is either a day I haven’t noticed at all (like today minus perhaps my lunch with Kevin W. and Jonathan M….even if I have no idea what the conversation was about or if there even was a conversation) or a day I spent lying down. My goal in life is to minimize the time which I do not spent drunk, being part of an orgy, lying down or opening e-bay packages…or being drunk lying down at an orgy while opening e-bay packages. Unfortunately, I am fully aware that it might not ever happen because one would need a lot of cash to lead such a lavish lifestyle. Yet, I have reached a somehow satisfying place on earth where in a given year I open on average a hundred e-bay packages, participate to at least one orgy, lie down most of the time and am drunk one day out of three. I struggle so much to find meaning … as Woody Allen would say “Most of the time I don't have much fun. The rest of the time I don't have any fun at all”. I need a self improvement Programme and a sponsor.

In other news, here is the clip from dearest Russ I wanted you to look at. I also ran in a phantom from the past at JRs yesterday evening which was quite traumatizing. I checked out this guy on myspace. And…I gained 0.8 pounds.

In which FHC is not in Kansas anymore

I watched “The Wizzard of Ozz” yesterday evening for the first time ever. I felt it was time as I have been subject to many Lollipop Guild jokes in my life and in a sense that it is the right follow-up to Bad Santa (which also features a somewhat tough looking elf). I personally feel closer to the Lullaby league which is much more racy and distinguished. Under Kevin D.’s influence, I spent a great part of the movie looking for munchkins hanging themselves in the background. It wasn’t that difficult as I often have visions of midgets committing suicide anyway. I also was amazed on how gay the whole thing is, particularly the lion and the tinman (whom I quote “is blatantly pushing his gay agenda on the people of Oz”) those are really campy protagonists. I know understand the expression “friend of Dorothy”. I bet I would score a date in Oz. I was all in a yellow brick road kind of mood this morning and then….by 10 a.m. I was on the verge of yet another stapler-throwing binge to the Great Bitch of the West. Sometimes I feel I am becoming like Frif but younger.

In other news, I have reached an e-bay level where I am too scared to look at my Bank account moreover after LL confessed to having stolen all my checkbooks on the way out. Also I suggest you check out this Wikipedia article that Russ sent me to make the case that he is an asshole because he is British. Tonight, I’ll finally get to taste the best of DC at Dakota Cow Girl because one shouldn’t exclusively spend his evenings watching netflixes.

In which FHC craves adventures and stuff

I noticed accidentally (in a book) yesterday that there are people out there who live pretty interesting lives (by which I mean who have other activities than getting wasted on week-ends and other adventures than crashing sailboats in landing lights or befriending Mark H.). Revolutionaries like Ashaa, adventurers like Alexandre and Sonia Poussin who crossed the African Continent on foot for three years or Laurence de la Ferrière who spent 100 days crossing the Alpes. Those people have interesting blogs too. Sometimes I am not sure what my social role is. Perhaps I should join Moot Court too.

In other news, yesterday’s blog was sufficiently self-deprecating to unleash the kind of sympathetic reactions I craved for. I received many words of encouragements such as “glad you didn't die in your vomit.  that would have been an embarrassing way to go!” and “Good news, we are playing cards this Wednesday”. Additionally LL, who is kinder everyday, told me “I have no need for you not to be in jail anymore”. I watched the Sound of Music yesterday evening and played Edelweiss on my ipod on my way to work. I also finally bought C.R.A.Z.Y. on DVD as it now becomes clear that it won’t come out in a cinema near me.

In which FHC does not mention Bebar

When Christ suddenly lost both his legs and arms on Friday evening, I started to suspect that this week-end was going to be a tough one. I had planned to drown my sorrow in alcohol on Friday night and score some pity sex but instead I inadvertently sank everything at once: my soul, dignity and hopes…at Apex of all places. I was a little apprehensive while waiting in line with people I had written awful things about in my blog, already drunk from Kevin D.’s brilliant concerto and a halt at JRs, but I felt that the place had not changed and I must have managed to rebuild some social contacts as I remember dancing shirtless with some crackheads at one point. Kevin W., my nemesis whom I thought was barred to step in Apex, asked me to have a “look at [myself] right now” to which I replied by spitting my drink at him. I also remember Mark H. smelling like cigarette and Ben T. being all bentaylorish. Deep down, I am such a vapid f*ck because I really believe in the underlying promise of gay clubs that you can achieve happiness overnight if you are sufficiently lubricated. Eventually, instead of leading to some healthy rebound anonymous sex, the evening ended with FHC passing out (very grateful to the gentleman who brought me back and left a glass of water on my nightstand) and waking up in a puddle of vomit on Saturday morning. I have had better times and I experienced what I would describe as a pretty lonely moment as Drew W. kindly acted as if he believed I had caught some stomach bug. The only positive aspect is that I partly threw up in the H&H bucket LL had given to me as a break-up gift which is an improvement to my puking pattern. I spent my Saturday cleaning up and sending text messages of apology.

On Saturday night, Carlos U.’s farewell party was the social event of the season. It really felt like gay pride… There even was some trashy faghags and a Pinata full of kinky stuff (I brought back a fantasy cock ring). Mark H. was showing his extra-large Magnum condoms to the crowd which had invaded his house conveniently located in the ghetto (as if nobody had been savagely murdered in DC lately). Gerald had some nice words about DC when he told me “I have never met that many nest-building real estate gay men” to which dearest Neil B. added “and if you look at their faces, it looks like they haven’t lived”. Russ and Sam K. were both charming and Russ let me quote my father on British queers. Bruce was shitfaced. David D. was yummy. I was a little careful as I had just recovered from the previous night and drank very reasonably as a logical consequence, once again, I did not get laid even if I was wearing my new undies.

In which FHC welcomes his new cleaning technician

Your might remember that our maid service went bankrupt after some poor speculation on the futures market. After months of negotiations, the new cleaning technician (and incidentally a lady) came today with a friendly mute assistant and turned our disgruntled hut into a gorgeous mansion for a very symbolic amount of money and a few drops of magical and safe chemicals. She was recommended by a couple of friends who live on Swann street. A true professional in Kevin’s words (he would know… he is a slob and I quote “dozen or so of my aunts and female cousins are cleaning ladies”), a fairy in mine. I have no idea how she manages to do so much in such a short period of time: I myself tried to clean the bathroom a month ago and it took me an entire evening for an awful result. It must be genetic. She even left behind her a delicious scent of pine mixed with lemons, a friendly atmosphere of Germanic order and to some extent poetry as well as some hope for future generations. No one would imagine that butt pirates live and have sexual intercourse in such a pretty environment. Every room is sparkling clean and even the awful cat looks as if it had some decency. I myself feel cleaner than the day Kevin D. introduced me to enemas (or enematas depending which spelling you prefer). The downside is that she spoilt my depression, she kind of killed the buzz for a few hours and I could not find anything depressing enough to write about. Life seemed unpleasantly bearable with all this cleanliness around. It was all going fine and some freaking cleaning lady had to spoil my mood. Here…I just emptied the garbage can in the kitchen….bitch.

In which FHC is an online wh*re

After a delicious meal kindly cooked by Kevin D. (who just reminded me to“get the f*ck off heebay and write [my] stupid blog”), I might have browsed friendster a little last night to slowly re-acclimate myself to my gay toolkit. Besides noticing that two of my exes friendster-died recently, I felt a little jealous when reading there that Thomas B. had“added new photo(s), added new friend(s), last updated 8/21/2006”. I would not dare updating my pictures there (nor my marital status in consideration of some unwritten friendster étiquette) and really don’t have any friends to add (unlike Stefan R. who has been managing his profile heavily lately). If anything, I might have some friends to delete (what I’d be interested actually is if there was some way to rank my friends on there). I meant this friendsterization as a clear sign of my strong motivation to re-start a social life. I actually reconnected in the last few days with some friends who had disappeared of my life and felt that nothing had changed besides some physical damage on both sides. Tomorrow, if I find the strength, I’ll go on myspace to see how the trashy p-art of my online social life is doing.

In which FHC indulges in a fair restaurant review

I had a dinner with a friend scheduled yesterday. As usual I suggested “Hamburger Mary” (Dakota Cow Girl for the in crowd) and of course was severely rebuffed so we ended up at Local 16. My terrible experience there once again confirmed my determination to exclusively eat in lower end joints or excellent tables in DC (mostly lower end joints actually). At all cost, one should avoid dining in middle range places such as Local 16. Dining out is already a bother but in these places it is just painful.

Among other insufferable things, there was no space between the tables and quickly both conversations on our left and right had died out because the straight couples surrounding us had realized they couldn’t compete. The setting was basically much worse than most people’s work cafeterias. Additionally the food was simply disgusting, not odd… just plain disgusting. Some butt-ugly complex salad which contained some gross cheese which pretended to be a Saint Marcellin but certainly wasn’t and a cold hamburger. Additionally, it was impossible to know what was in my plate because of the awful lighting. The barmaid was an ugly bitch who gave me an awful drink in a plastic cup. The other clients were overdressed, bored and came in very weird shapes. Maybe the service was bearable but only because it was ethnic, slightly dirty and dull. Basically, Local 16 is an awful eatery on a rooftop.

In which FHC shares his thoughts on the gym

I had lunch today with a naïve European friend of mine who was thinking of joining Results the Gym. I suggested Mint to him instead because I felt he wasn’t yet ready. I believe that Results is more than a "gym”: it is a lifestyle, a profession of faith, a Zoo, a Chapel, a hymn and a bonfire of gay vanities (particularly in the evening). A work-out at Results is actually an interpretative dance of the painful experience of gayness in DC: every little movement is the physical translation of an aimless life, a battle for social recognition or some deeply rooted self-hatred. Individual performances have been rehearsed so often that Results members seem to float in their tiny colorful spandex outfits jumping from one machine to another while exchanging some sad kisses and scared glances. After years of membership, I am still amazed by the harmony of it all and often forget to work-out which might explain my unfortunate abs situation. Results members, by submitting their minds to a public daily mind-numbing artificial exercise in the name of the tyranny of appearance are creating a unique place where conversations are superfluous because everything is already told. At Results one can safely grin while flexing his bulging biceps in front of a mirror or lift his shirt to lovingly feel his own abdominals without feeling judged. All Results members have transcended ridicule a while ago and confessed their loneliness by getting a membership card. To me Results is the antechamber of the great gay intellectual death. For each work-out there, there is half a self-help book which is not read, a cocktail which is not invented, an original thought which does not occur and a somewhat interesting or enriching human experience which hasn’t happened. The gym is the new vacuum of gay creativity, transforming already rare gay neurons in “work out routines” and redundant flesh. And yet I believe it is still art because like art, the gym has no real purpose. Its portrayed function, keeping your body from decaying, is just a lie as we all know that this is an impossible goal and a lost battle. Results is a warm and comfortable place to abandon one’s dignity, ambition and dreams surrounded by anorexic skeletons agitating themselves on their treadmills and oversized steroid queens parading in flattering and sophisticated outfits. Everybody is concentrating very hard to overlook life going by while striving for an elusive goal and shutting down any hope of personal accomplishment. People have “leg days”: they devote an entire day to their own legs every week. There is the same atmosphere of desperation and quiet small talk that you would find in a funeral home. Even the personal trainers and the elliptical machines seem appalled. Overall Results is a very peaceful place because one knows that nothing important will ever happen there besides lawyers dying of exhaustion. I even noted the Director of the Washington Ballet in an abs class yesterday evening. I suspect he was searching for ideas for his new show. Don’t get me wrong I love the place; I just think one needs a little preparation before stepping in that wonderful world.

In which FHC barely blogs

Returning from vacation is always a painful process moreover in our difficult circumstances. I tried to take it easy: got an allergy shot, had lunch with my old friend Arturo who gave me the opportunity to place in the conversation an “I don’t regret the drugs as much as the promiscuity” and ran into the unbearable Kevin W. Yet I ended up with a terrible headache at 4:30 p.m. drooling on my best new tie after going through thousands of personal e-mails (mostly from e-bay and Carlos U.) and checking out some random guy vacation’s pictures. All of that to justify the fact that once again I barely blogged…thank god Universal Gear has its own blog. Those who love me, will forgive me. See you at Results tonight !