FHC’s resurrected blog

In which FHC gets to discuss Why Americans are just sexier

The exclusive purpose of my strategic relocation to the US, in what I like to remember as the pre 9/11 era, was to sleep with (many) Americans: I always felt they were just sexier. First, Americans are more muscular. Growing up and to some extent nowadays (to the extent that we are not completely polluted by the American culture), muscles are, in Europe, considered to be synonym of hard labor and therefore poverty. Being meak, pasty and frail was the privilege of the people who didn’t need to push carts full of coal in the mine (or whatever the working class does in the mine: I have never been) or work in the fields to feed their family and were able to rely on their intellect (or family fortune in the worst, albeit common, scenario). I, of course, converted quickly to the new American paradigm that “fit and tan is beautiful” to the point that I joined Results in 2003 (symbolically, I don’t go there). The second explanation is that I started drinking more heavily after I reached Ellis Island. The third element of answer is that Americans do not really “feel” (I won’t get here into a complex analysis of the reasons behind their lack of emotion because of a 250 words limitation but will direct you to the roots of Protestantism). And after all, what is sexier than some muscular heretic boy without any personality when you are completely wasted at 3 a.m. in a gay club ?.

Thank you for your attention and see you tomorrow for a special on “Why Americans like X-mas so much”.

In which FHC ends up getting a Xmas tree

That is what I hate about the big X-mas silence (that sad time of the year when gay people seem to prefer spending with their families than getting laid), my little cry for attention of yesterday was completely overlooked (besides perhaps by LL who is still heading to Cozumel though). My friends will be glad to hear though that I acquired a Christmas tree this evening so I hope to be in a more festive mood tomorrow. I won’t see much of it as I am temporarily relocating this week-end to Champlain street to take care of Loulboom II and Loul-Jr [FHC Show Recap Episode 43: Loulboom, the shitzu FHC dogsitted sadly dies in a car wreck]. I have to leave now because I am invited to something like a rehearsal dinner at Mark H.’s. You see I like to encourage his relentless efforts to act as a decent and well-mannered young executive. See you tomorrow.

In which FHC shares his holiday plans

I hate this period of the year, because you are expected to drink an obscene amount of alcohol at the “professional thingy” everyday and still act sober and to some extent civil. Additionally, I am constantly asked by obnoxious strangers to share my holiday plan which is embarrassing for everybody involved. I have no f***ing plans for Christmas because Eric H. just sent a message around announcing that the Diner will be closed that evening and I divorced earlier this year (with someone who plans to be hooking up with towel boys in Cozumel for the Holidays). All I want for Christmas is a f***ing break for chrissake (no pun intended). In fact I did not even know it was Christmas until my mother pointed at the stupid tree in Washington square. I usually spend Xmas with jewish friends in a Chinese restaurant but lately even the jews seem to buy-in the Christmas craziness. I have no f***ing plan for New Year either [mental note: get a life next year]. Maybe I’ll try to find some action on the internet that evening: I hear it’s really good timing.

In which FHC reflects back on the official visit

I know that you would really like to hear my final impressions on the official visit but unfortunately this blog is also patronized by children and impressible young NYU students. I’ll just say that i) I was intoxicated most of the time (Proverbs 23:29-30 and 31:4-7 – one of my colleagues told me today “you look like you have been drinking for days”) ; ii) the closest to a mother-daughter moment we experienced in those ten days of alcoholic haze is when I bought some sexually charged underwear at American Apparel on Spring Street (somewhat awkward moment) as well as when I made some smart comment on a cute kid with longish hair going by in the meatpacking district. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the friends who were very industrious in easing my pain particularly Alex A., Sergio P., Thomas B. and LL who went the extra-mile on this one. My ethnic friends and Frenchbenj will also excuse me for obvious reasons.

I got the opportunity yesterday evening to reflect on the fact that my gauche rapport with my mother accurately mirrors my sexual (some would say emotional but that would be an oxymoron) life: I always end up seeking contentment from the most elusive and ambiguous human relationships. Unrequited attraction or the appearance of it is enough to trigger my interest. This explains why I spent so much energy in my youth on dating dull aloof boys [LL excluded of course even if he too was a brat in the early days] I should only have “befriended (read, f*cked)” as Fagat would say. My biggest turn-on (ok, my second biggest – let’s be fair) must in fact be rejection and I stay blind to all other facts until I obtain what I interpret as full acceptance. Only then, do I realize that I had actually mistaken stupidity or neurosis for detachment. I was wasting my time yesterday when everybody was dancing at the Overkitsch. I sometimes wish that I would also be a mindless wh*re like Fagat instead of such a complex and romantic character.

Now that I am finally all by myself once again, I plan to rent “Santa Claus is a Louse”, repair the physical damage of such a stressful week and maybe get a little merry with some stuff made after an old Russian recipe. As Jimmy Cannon once said: “Christmas is a holiday that persecutes the lonely, the frayed, and the rejected”. Also myspace very wisely highlighted to me that “You cannot add yourself as a friend” and I placed some Alliance for Lupus Research e-mail in the deleted items before opening it.

In Which FHC Visits New York and LL Declines to Write about It

Last night we went out to celebrate the engagement of our college roommate and his (now)  fiancee.  The celebration involved approximalely 50 straight people and me.  Two things were obvious:

1) We actually Cover less when we're with straights than when with gays.

2)  The population of straight men in NYC, excluding the New Jersey/Bridge&Tunnel crowd has become indistinguishable from the population of gay men.

The engagement party was at a bar in the Meatpacking District called Brass Monkey.  It's like the Brass Monkey in DC only with fewer rats and not as close to the Duplex Diner.  For a while we thought it might be a gay bar because all the men were wearing skinny jeans, tight black t-shirts, and trendy Eurosneakers designed by John Varvatos and making eyes at each other.  If you had taken us there with a blindfold and asked us where we were after removing it we definitely would have answered: "Hole" or "Boys Room."  We also noticed that our Covering tendencies decreased around all the straight-os.  We were more flaming and queeny than ever.  We don't know why this is - perhaps we're more comfortable in our gay skin when we think there aren't any judgmental 'mos around critiquing our (admittedly drunk and wasted) behavior.

Sorry for the dullish post (we know you secretly wanted the dish on Maman FHC and the FHC family's trip to NYCville - but, in the words of EB, she was "delightful and certainly not the hideous beast Frenchie had made her out to be.")  We're trying to learn about German Corporate Law in preparation for our exam on Wednesday, and let's just say that we're a little bit on the screwed side.

In which FHc is fearful for the days to come

It has now been 7 days that my mother is around and I consider it to be a little tougher and riskier than a month and a half in the unnamed destination. The difference with malaria is that there isn’t prophylaxis against my mother. As I was explaining to dearest LL earlier today, I find that touring with her is like traveling with FHC but less fun. I had to numb myself with bloody marys and gin and tonic all day long to be able to bear it. Not only that but I also have to persuade her that I am actually drinking juice. My initial strategy was to bribe her with fine dining and eclectic entertainment (the "keep her busy" strategy) but I am now sure that sooner or later she’ll get to me. Kevin W. told me that a matricide is out of question so I might actually never return alive to Washington, DC. She has already made repeated comments on the fact that I apparently only know single men and exclusively eat hamburgers… it’s only a question of time before she discovers that LL actually dumped me. Three days to go.

In which FHC travels to NYC another time

My mother English is sufficiently weak that she overlooked the references by some of my very subtle friends to my i) my blog; ii) my e-bay addiction; iii) friendster; and iv) my relative promiscuity. She also did not notice that I got really smashed during Kevin W.’s visit last night. For this reason, the state visit will continue in NYC (who said "Washington is New York for ugly people"? anybody? Anybody?) starting tomorrow where we will mostly be capitalizing on our past relationship with LL and his very distinguished friends. We will also shop our life frustrations (I have stuff to forget too) away and make sure that my mother does not point to buildings or put on her glasses to read some silly map (rule #1: always look unimpressed and slightly pissed off; rule #2: just rush into cabs). We will additionally visit EB at City Hall, dine with LL at Peasant (very à-propos), perhaps do a little drug (nothing too serious) and go to see some silly broadway show and potentially participate in a Santacon if we feel so inclined. Don’t expect much blogging as I will be drunk and trendy under her constant supervision.

In the meantime, Carlos F. has 200 friends on myspace while Kevin G. has 173 friends on friendster for 15 pictures (3 of which without clothes on). Rodolphe B. pretended at lunchtime that Nana Mouskouri sold more albums than Madonna in her career.

In which FHC gets a life audit

Having my mother around gives me the strange feeling that I am going through an audit of my life. Even if she does not seem to have found anything terribly wrong through the audit so far – even after an accidental run-in with Mark H. - the process has been a little stressful and energy consuming. As an example, I have been hiding my drinking problem and she thinks that I am addicted to drinking grapefruit juice with ice with dinner. The audit has quickly concluded that my dietary habits are awful (in her delightful little country you are considered unhealthy until you develop an eating disorder - preferably anorexia) because she has been compulsively buying organic vegetables at some silly-ass farmer’s market for me which I’ll obviously never eat and will rot on my kitchen table. She also met a few of my friends and none of them said the “Joan Crawford I presume?” I was so much waiting for.

Yet we all know this little visit could turn ugly anytime. I mean she hasn’t yet met all my real friends (oh but she will as I was silly enough to get tickets for Friday Septime’s performance of the Nutcracker Suite), nor has she discovered the living-in mice or my promiscuity related divorce with LL… All this mother- gay son bonding will definitely lead to something tragic, would it only be a shopping spree in NYC or Prostate Cancer. Note to self: check that she has a return ticket.

In Which Mommy (not mine) Visits and LL (me) Returns

Mme. FHC is visiting from les banlieues, so once again FHC assigned me blogging duty.  The entire FHC family is making a short visit to NYC and I've taken the liberty of making some plans for them.  It's actually quite a bit of faith for FHC to put in me; not only am I a terrible travel planner (see, for example, every trip I've ever taken, most especially Paris in which I was completely dependent on FHC's binder of activities) but I also have awful taste.  So, I've selected a hotel for them as well as restaurants for dinner.  I'm not clever enough to sabotage the whole event - and I've picked what I expect to be a genuinely charming hotel (read: tiny rooms) as well as a trendy, cutish place for dinner (slash not Taco Bell).  I've also arranged (thanks to EKK) for them a tour of City Hall, where if they're lucky they might even spot Mayor Mike in his trading floor-like cube.  Some people might consider me an extra-generous ex-boyfriend to do so much for my ex-mother-in-law.  Me, on the other hand, I just consider myself an angel.

In other news, my super trendy (and expensive) premium denim ripped the other day while I was studying in the library.  After a huge tearing sound, Fishwatch didn't pause a beat before reminding me: "You're screwed."  But I used my feminine wiles to my advantage and actually convinced the Barney's Co-Op Denim Specialist to exchange them for a completely different pair.  The lesson: what I lack in courage, I make up for in whining.

In which FHC gets to go out one last time

I ended up 10 days of subtly calculated debauchery by going to Clint M./Eric M.’s birthday drinks. The concept of the party was that everyone had to bring the slimmest woman he could find as a guest (not an easy task around here as you know). Carlos F won the contest but I think his female friend did not speak English and might have been a meth addict. Everybody was a little overdressed which was very festive in a seasonal kind of way. One guy had a Mohawk but wasn’t a punk and there were at least seven afro-American males (but no asian) and one Mormon who frowned when I told him I had read “Under the banner of heaven” (right before I started Pamela H’s biography…so in 2003 or something). The bartender was very cute, albeit a little on the wired side, and there was about 50% of DC gay superlative Real Estate nobility (some looked as if they had been overexposed in local magazines). I developed a 15 minutes idle crush on some WH staffer who vaguely reminded me of a young Bret Easton Ellis and later on another one who was very Ryan Lozarish and was wearing something which looked like a fuschia satin jacket. I did not make out with Ben T. because Alex G. was there but I told everybody about my 1992 liaison with Clint M. I enjoyed meeting the elegant Eric M. particularly when he bemoaned NYC. I also tried to look interesting by sucking in my cheeks and keeping a sweater under my tweed jacket (which incidentally was matching my graying hair but nobody noticed) until I overheated because of Thomas B.’s arrival. Kevin W. attacked the buffet and then disappeared in the restrooms with older men for several extended period of time during the course of the evening. We eventually ended up at the Diner where my behavior went completely berserk.

Mummy dearest is on the plane and I am starting to think about all these togas party I’ll miss over the week-end. Also I have been staring at this new picture of Ryan all day. Last but not least, I’d appreciate if our friends in Spain be a little more discreet when we try to get information on LL’s latest sexual conquistadores. We would really not want to have to divulgate details on their staph infections in this blog. Thank you.