FHC’s resurrected blog

In which FHC is surviving

The unnamed destination was seriously in the news yesterday. Strangely nobody besides my delightful ex (which Halloween blog entry we really enjoyed over here) as well as Fagat seemed to wonder if I was still alive, particularly my parents. I really feel loved. The unnamed destination was a great surprise in many ways compared to its awful reputation even if one sometimes wonders if one is safe, particularly when taking cabs, giving a print of one’s credit card, trying to leave the airport or in light of the country barbarian laws on sodomy and one’s terrible habits. I got to meet some young expatriates and an ex military ruler and party in a nightclub which clientele includes mostly aged businessmen and working girls. I did not cry once for my entire stay.

I am now getting ready for a pretty long trip by plane to another part of the unnamed destination which I know to be much more pleasant and will keep you updated of my endeavors. I expect the trip to be painful in many ways.

In other news, I have decided that the next step in my life, when and if I am shipped back, should be to get a Nespresso machine.

Yes, We Once Dressed Up as a Teabag

Well, it's that time of year again when we're forced to ask the quintessential question in the 'mo fight for equal rights: What, to the American slave gay, is the Fourth of July Halloween?

You can feel the excitement build as the day grows closer.  For the past week, I haven't had a single conversation with a fellow OUTLaw in which the topic "OMG what are you dressing as for Halloween" hasn't come up.  Even our friends on the New Jersey Supreme Court got involved, dressing up our cute friend "marriage" in a hilariously slutty "legally-cognizable-relationships-that-will-probably-get-called-civil-unions" costume.  (We're not witty enough come up with that one on our own).

And, to be sure, the straights get excited about dressing up, too.  But nothing compares to the fervor of the gays.  Yesterday we were talking with one of our 3L friends, who is going as Trailor Trash (apparently to commemorate our midwestern, trailor park roots).  "I'm buying a mullet wig and carrying a six pack of Natty Light, but I don't think that will cut it," he told me.  I suggested adding a moustache.  "Are you kidding?  Halloween isn't about getting ir right; it's about looking fabulous."  And let's face it, Trailor Trash is pretty tame in comparison to most gay halloween costumes that really show our inner sluts.  Another friend is going as Wonder Woman, and he's desperate to find someone to join him as Bat Girl.  Whether it's Nina Garcia, fashion director of Elle Magazine, Princess Di, Blanche Deveraux or Maria Sharapova, give us a stunning (or middle-aged) woman and we'll give you a Halloween costume. 

Fishwatch said it best in his post titled: "When Our Mom Helped Us Move She Found Our Wigs from Past Halloweens and Immediately Started to Cry..."  When we came out, clearly all our mothers had the same fear Mrs. Fishwatch had when she found Fishwatch's wigs: that to be gay meant to abandon - instead of to find - our sexual identities as men (or women, in the case of lesbians, who I'm pretty sure don't read this blog). 

So, what does Halloween mean to us gays?  Why do we use the opportunity to dress up as -- fabulous divas?  Are we just masquerading as the dolls we were laughed at for playing with in kindergarden middle school as a high school senior?  Why do we love putting on trashy eyeliner (ok maybe some of our friends wear this out regularly anyway), pumps, and cheap jewelry?  Do our costumes represent who we'd like to be, or who the world sees us as?  And for those of us not going in drag, is it because we're too heteronormative or because our idea for a costume is better than yours?  Since we spent so much of our adolescence "Covering" who we were, do the gays use Halloween, when most people hide behind a costume, as a chance to reveal a little more? 

Don't get us wrong: We like drag.  We like drag queens.  But we also like men.  A lot.  Even so, for  some reason I have the feeling that my campaign to get my friends to dress up as He-Man or Ian Somerhalder just isn't going to take off.

In which FHC is alive but stinky

We just wanted you to know that we arrived at the unnamed destination safely. Before we had reached our hotel room we had met both an arm dealer and a prostitute which was exactly what we expected. We also had to leave a print of our credit card on the way which is probably going to led us to terrible problems. We had to face two bad news in the room, first we will have very limited access to l’Internet on this segment and secondly we have forgotten our deodorant which must be close to the number one item not to forget when you go to the unnamed destination. We are condemned to stink fro the next four days at least.

In the meantime, I will be missing a Halloween throwdown, a Halloween bash and more importantly a Halloween naked party tomorrow.

In which FHC leaves the US drunk

I am now seating in the United lounge at Dulles which is some kind of a crammed concentration camp for middle managers with wooden panels and fake leather chairs. You have to pay to get an alcoholic drink (eventually twice to get two alcoholic drinks) and you also get to hear the conversation of your neighbors on the legend of King Arthur (“the whole thing is made up”, “Arthur, if he existed, was a Britain” and “I have satellite TV, I watch a lot of movies”).

I set up the last details of my move and my trip this morning and am now on a mission to get wildly drunk in order to forget what’s behind and after the long flight I am about to take. Oh but I’ll return kids …with a vengeance and I’ll also try to keep you updated.

In which FHC goes to the High Heel Race but thinks it's rotten

I just left the high heel race (not even on wikipedia) because I was afraid to catch a pulmonary disease and die at a relatively young age alone and forgotten. I care very little about drag queens or women for that matter but I was hoping I would catch some gorgeous half Middle Eastern guy (after all I am on the eve of another month of abstinence) or something. The high heel race is a bit like sex: at the end you always wonder why you wanted it so bad and why you did not have your own private little race. Eventually the weather got to me and I am now on the balcony looking down on everybody (a bit like usual…why can’t people silently watch drag queens running on 17^th street?) with Drew and Ari who are discussing the best way to set up you attic and Girard is smoking his life away (he is quitting soon …ahaaaa). I don’t see any reason why it would be that cold apart from the fact, of course, that it’s fucking November and that all good things have to end.

It’s f***ing winter people! which means that when I’ll come back (if I come back) that ugly inflated pumpkin on my street will have been replaced by another tacky Christmas related decoration. Jingle bell, F****ing jingle bell! Also now I don’t even regret not wearing my Halloween costume because as the enclosed picture proves, I would have looked pathetically ridiculous. See you tomorrow !

In which FHC wonders which ties to take on his trip

Yeah well maybe I did not have time to blog today. In case nobody has noticed yet, I am under some pressure. Today I was so stressed out that I must have self-googled myself ten times. This is a new nasty compulsive habit and it shall stop at once. I also have developed this sad little technique of sending unsolicited text message to estranged friends starting with an engaging “I am fine. Thank you for asking…” just so that I can feel human warmth. It works really well to boost one’s social life besides when people rudely reply “I don’t believe I texted”.

Now that I survived the move, I have to go through planning an entire month in the unnamed destination and maybe (maybe) a few days in Roma (so not FHCesque of me to organize such a stopover). What does one do by himself in Roma ? good question. I have a month to figure that out.

Oh come on ! the topic of today’s entry could be much worse (my advice: forward it to all of Fagat’s recent hook-ups). Also please acknowledge the fact that William L. in the new Oasis video.

In which FHC thinks that moving is the second most important experience in life

There is something mystical and terrifying about going through a two days fight with your own possession to wake up on Sunday evening on the eve of a long trip far from home, in a bare room, beat, with your sore body as a reminder of the painful ridicule of your materialism and the frailty of our lives . It’s as if I never owned anything and as if, instead of graduating from the Corcoran retirement house, I was just dying.

I think that’s why moves are so emotional and panicking: they allow us to see the concrete amplitude of our physical link to earth and how it can be summarized in boxes and assembled pieces of woods and how our lives are just the sums of the memories attached to our objects and our locations as well as our hopes. Owning things and places is just yet another desperate attempt to leave a binger print in the world and create the illusion that there is more between life and death than a bundle of flesh enrobed in a fragile layer of skin. All mankind activities are motivated exclusively by the fear of death and moving is the ultimate deathlike experience for the gays.

On this cheerful note, I’d like to thank Ari S. and Drew W. for their help and what was after all the funnier move (particularly when Drew W. tried to pin me against the wall by letting a huge piece of furniture slides): you only know your real friends when you are moving, Zipcar for letting us drive a pick up truck and eventually looking manly for the first time of my existence and Kevin D. for being such a patient, loving and compassionate roommate for such a long time: to me you’re like my life: I will only start to see how good it was when it will end.

Hola, Me Llamo "Amigo"

It is Saturday, and you all know what Saturday means: in an effort to retain their "friendship," FHC asks LL to blog and, LL agrees even though it takes time away from his moo court brief and even though Alex R. thinks it's unhealthy even to acknowledge Le Blog's existence.  Let me say, however, that as happy as I am to blog, today is the first day when I've been relieved to be relieved of my significant other/husband/LouDuty.  FHC is finally packing up ship and moving back to Paris to Adams Morgan.  That means between today and tomorrow he has to put all the world possessions he's acquired since moving to the US and everything he's purchased from eBay into boxes, load them onto a pickup truck, and carry them to his new home.  Is there any doubt - any at all - that if we hadn't divored I would have had to hop on USAir Shuttle and scurry over to Dupont Circle East to help FHC?  Is there any question that we would have had a gigantic fight ending in a violent encounter with some Waldorf-Astoria flatwear? 

So here I am, alone in the basement of the law school library writing about federal court jurisdiction something pretentious that doesn't actually matter at all while FHC sweats and worries about his imminent move.  It's hard to say, but at least for this afternoon and tomorrow, I think I'm better off.

FHC, my advice: Take the stools while you can.

In which FHC gets to panic a little more

Ah ah ah. My favorite: a surprise move. As I was told today that I am leaving to the unnamed destination for a long month starting Wednesday, I had no choice but to schedule my sudden move to this Sunday morning (10 a.m. my place, bring your own breakfast, I’ll provide a radio celebrity). My week end which was supposed to be devoted to anonymous small talk will now be spent packing kitchen apparatus and other common stuff one needs to have to survive by himself in a rental apartment as well as a gigantic luggage for the unnamed destination.

Another terrible consequence is that I won’t be able to wear the Halloween costume that Ben E. has designed for me. I won’t be able to wear it at Alex G.’s party (the new John J.) nor will I be able to re-connect with the late Kevin W. that I haven’t seen since he returned from Rehab (Note to self: maybe not a coincidence) at Kenneth D.’s party (because let’s be honest, this is Kenneth D,.’s party !). A huge disappointment! I could wear my costume at the unnamed destination but I am afraid this would lead people to believe I am crazy and would kill the infinitesimal probability of getting laid during that trip.

It’s 6:34 p.m. on a Friday and I am still doing the professional thingy. What the f**ck happened to me? Among the good news: though Frif left me a friendster testimonial which would be nice if it did not sound ironic in light of my personality, Fagat sent me the cutest thank you note ever and I was drunk-text messaged last night.

In which FHC tells the story of his plant

So I am a little worried for my plant. As I am moving into in a dark and damp dungeon, I am afraid that she might not survive it. It’s a pretty ugly plant on the greenish side with a little dirt by the feet but it has a cute story. My first living-in boyfriend (may god bless his heart or whatever organ he has where the heart should be) had a lot of plants in our apartment. The guy was collecting unemployment so he had a lot of time to water them. When we eventually broke up I was feeling very guilty because some stories of my unfaithfulness were surfacing (I might have been a little on the promiscuous side at that time as I hadn’t developed the strong set of ethics and morale I am now equipped with – rule #1 kids: never date someone who just came out) so I let him leave with everything. Per comparison my last divorce was much more economical but then I got a lot less side-sex too…anyway. So when I noticed that he was leaving with all the plants I told him: “Hey why can’t I keep a plant?” to which he replied “You cannot take care of a human being, how do you plan to take care of a plant?”. It must have been the wittiest he ever was (may god bless his heart). So I kept this ugly plant and everyday I watered it and talked to it and everything and each time the f**er would come by I would tell him “ See !!! how beautiful my plant is”. Eventually unemployment ran out and the guy became some stripper in some sleazy bar but I always kept the f***ing plant and now it’ll die. Love that story.