FHC’s resurrected blog

In which FHC will eventually go to sleep in some random white heaven

I felt sick all day. Thanks for asking. I have a terrible sore throat and my palms are clammy. It becomes more and more obvious that I will be flying out to the unnamed destination on Monday for at least two weeks. It really feels like the best decision after the Saturday night youtube incidents. Also Mark publicly acknowledged developing some Xanax addiction and plotting with Ed M. to poison his guests on Saturday (I quote: “by keeping adding dry ice until everyone is dead”). My publicist, who is handling all post-dinner "issues", has been downplaying the whole thing as the mere consequence of mixing alcohol and harmless drugs prescribed for some blood pressure issue I do not have. But we all know that the truth is that I became so very good at spotting and medicating psychological problems in my friends but less keen at seeing them in my own behavior. I might just be a vapid little creature myself (not as much as them, of course, I am European).

I mean all this partying, the friendsterization, the myspacization, the facebookization, everybody constant insolence, the “Populus vult decipi, decipiatur" line at the bottom of Mark’s e-mails, my stock portfolio crashing, not knowing my blood type, listening to "I want to dance with somebody" made me feel a little hazy and sick to my stomach. I will enjoy being bored to tears in some moldy hotel room for a while. It reminds me of that French song I loved in my youth called “le Paradis Blanc” (the white heaven – I strongly suggest you watch the video for your own sake and maybe learn a few lyrics and then recite them to me with your thick American accent). And they pretend they never noticed I was gay. The song is about laying down with polar bears and playing with Penguins but really I know it’s about crushing Xanax tablets and snorting them while having the fog machine at its max. It’s also all about nuclear winter, being too kind with North Korea and Aish Passaic I will be leaving behind many very competent doctors; most of them listed as Washingtonian Magazine top docs.

In which FHC tells you about that dinner you did not attend

I woke up a 8 a.m. a little panicked by the memories of Saturday night in a freezing apartment and had to take another Xanax before returning to bed for another 4 hours. The progressive dinner was spectacular and Joey P. had done an amazing job. I think “Say It Right” by Nelly Furtado was playing everywhere we went. So many people were mentioning things about this fictional character Peter something and I was trying really hard to remember but I did not and I am not even sure his first name is Peter anymore.

In the first house, I saw TJ, Clint F. and the good looking Jesse P. TJ, in some Red Cross Emergency outfit, pretended once again that I told him something really traumatizing in the past. Marshall S. looked slimmer. I spoke in French on the phone with some type of woman called Aline and hate something delicious called “Shiite in a blanket”. Everybody looked right off friendster. The theme was so outrageous I cannot write about it. In-between houses, Mark H. and I, suffering from a little euphoria from our Benzos excess, returned to his place to make youtube videos that I really cannot afford to ever see online. In the second house, I hate mussels while talking to the Slaters. Tim and Kobie were shirtless. Finally, the guests stormed Mark’s house. I kept on playing the “Rehab” song obsessively. The Judge Khalid made a great emotional speech. Far away in Los Angeles, LL was doing something consequential. We lost because Mark H. and myself dancing in our underwear was not considered “quality entertainment” and it is difficult to argue against that.

Later on at Bebar, things got out of hand. I think I saw Jeff L. throwing his drink at someone. I remember dancing next to Mark and his boyfriend Eric T. Sushi was insisting to everyone that his real name was Andrew and that he was being persecuted by a bartender. Then it all came into crystal clear focus that it always is all about not sleeping alone and someone was constantly repeating “Oh, you don’t mean nothing at all to me”. I must have played my cards terribly and my new (only (?) $150) jeans must suck because the closest I got to human warmth this WE was when I masturbated today at 2 p.m. and when I IMed my imaginary friends in other cities all day with some melodramatic bullshit.

In which FHC briefly discusses the lies and delusions of Mark H.

Mark H. enrolled me in some DC social activity for Saturday night. I would usually not mind, as the location where I get plastered on Saturdays has become completely insignificant to me as most of my real friends died in the 1990s, but in this case, I actually do mind a little. In yet another desperate bid for popularity among the illusory Washingtonian gay A-listers, Mark blackmailed his closest acquaintances into joining the “Team Dessert and Drinks” of 50-person progressive dinner organized by Joey P (the local Go-Go Mike for your Baltimore-based readers). Our heteroclite team composed of half a dozen middle-aged respectable lawyers with Southern accents, three illegal immigrants and one paid twink will compete against a local toned-down version of the Hot Boy Poss composed of cute paralegals and real estate agents. I did not quite understand the rule but I think that it mostly is about food and sexual favors. Our team’s only motivation being not to get in the way of Mark’s last attempt (the whole youtube thing, mystic tan and pectoral implants thing was a complete fiasco apparently) to graduate from Elk Moutain team to Chicago team and become DC Prom Queen as well as a tiny chance to score a date with members of the opposing teams.

Of course as the days go by and Mark’s complete inability to lead our group into our looming defeat becomes more apparent, every member of our team has been slowly withdrawing from the competition. Ryan T. for example claimed that his dead grandmother will be in town that very night, even after Mark H. threatened suicide if another of his “friends” let him down. You cannot blame them when his latest suggestions were “some sort of entertainment -- lip syncing, maybe?”, “what about hiring LPs? ” and dressing as teletubies. As I am a little smitten by Mark’s extreme conservative christian background, love lost causes and am terrified of what he could reveal if I decided to resign too, I will be there Saturday but I’ll be heavily medicated on alzolam 0.5 mg. Just so you know. Sometimes I really wish I’d live in Scranton, PA.

Ok I am off to finish putting together my Oompah Loompah costume. TTYL

Posted from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

In which FHC returns from Poconos 2007 on a 1mg/day dosage

I was driven through Pennsylvania on a cloud of Clonozopam (1mg /once a day) for the last three days. “Suddenly I see” by KT Tunstall and “Rehab” by Amy Winehouse were constantly playing in the background. Half of the crowd was in its early twenties, glorious, free, slim, on Ritalin, well-read and idealistic. The other neurotic, miserable, troubled, enslaved and vapid half, released a last time to the wild, tried to sing along, mixing alcohol and prescription drugs. It became quickly difficult to differentiate the lawyers from the college seniors and the computer programmers. Everybody wore layers, hoodies and boots and tended to be of the homosexual orientation. There were two trucks and we skied enough to justify getting together and yet it felt like we were traveling really light. I think someone played Keane and “Fidelity” by Regina Spektor really often but I was too f**ked up to understand the lyrics. There were a lot of fast words and witty comments and cute smiles and my accent went berserk as my mind collapsed. We all went to meet the Scranton community at some point and eventually some of us even ended up having sex with the said-community. The pictures were really embarrassing for everybody involved. Nobody talked about real estate or Iraq. Ecology was merely mentioned by David D. and I said something trite about love and friendster. Everybody had really white teeth besides Mark H. who chewed tobacco and spitted for three days straight while telling stories about scary fetus, semi-famous drug-addict Dcisters and his next youtube video. He also tapped into my Alzolam 1978 reserve and appeared to be manic in the morning. I hope he is hooked. Jesse S. was sweet, laid back and unafraid. Julius’s hands were shaky. The second day at lunchtime, I felt really good and lucid. I noticed that everybody had really beautiful eyes. It freaked me out a little then the Klonopin kicked in and I thought maybe it was not that bad to be 28. Somebody told me “relax. It's only a song” and I replied “you’re a good person” but at that point, nobody could understand a word of what I was saying anymore. Someone wrote “I love cock” on my forearm and it was really true and it just does not go away. I kept staring at the lawyers as their week-end of freedom was slowly ending. Tomorrow I‘ll have to blackmail jogging doctor into increasing the dosage of my current prescription. It’s going to break his heart but it was worth it.

In Which LL and FHC are Busted. Again.

Originally this post was going to be about how LL and FHC were spotted speeding by some secret Soviet-era spy camera in far Northwest DC on our way back from the Billy Goat Trail.  But then we realized there wasn't really enough to say except that FHC was driving and will probably be deported.  Instead, after another night of binge drinking (congratulations Shira T!) we decided we should take this alcoholism quiz and post the results as a public service.  Apparently answering three or more with "yes" means we are definitely an alcoholic.  We're concerned with what happens if we answer "yes" to all 20.

Do you lose time from work due to your drinking?

No.  We don't even have a job.

Is drinking making your home life unhappy?

Nor do we have a "home life."

Do you drink because you are shy with other people?

Is there another reason?

Is drinking affecting your reputation?

We're usually too blacked out to notice.  Please keep us posted on this one.

Have you ever felt remorse after drinking?

Only because we're fairly certain we did something embarrassing but can't remember.  See also, "Is drinking affecting your reputation?"

Have you gotten into financial dificulties as a result of your drinking?

Law school costs a fortune so we haven't noticed.

Do you turn to lower companions and an inferior environment when drinking?

We only have three friends.  And yes.

Does your drinking make you careless of your family's welfare?

We tend not to notice slash care about other people, and especially not their "welfare."

Has your ambition decreased since drinking?

No.  Alcohol actually magnifies our delusions of grandeur.  Why do you think we prefer to be drunk?

Do you crave a drink at a definite time daily?

Does "constantly" count as a definite time?

Do you want a drink the next morning?

We would die for a bloody mary right now.

Does drinking cause you to have difficulty in sleeping?

This one's a joke, right?  Because we sleep like a baby.

Has your efficiency decreased since drinking?

Since we plan to charge by the hour as a lawyer, we certainly hope so.

Is drinking jeopardizing your job or business?

We will let you know after this summer.  We will try not to jump into the Potomac after a night out boozing.  See also, "Loul a la mer."

Do you drink to escape from worries or troubles?

Obvi.

Do you drink alone?

We don't feel alone.

Have you ever had a complete loss of memory as a result of your drinking?

See answers to all of the above.  See also, our phone call to EKK this morning to see if we had made plans for tomorrow since we couldn't remember our conversation from last night.

Has your physician ever treated you for drinking?

During our last check up we filled out a form that said we drink 4-5 drinks 5 nights a week.  Our doctor looked at the sheet and said, "That seems about right."

Do you drink to build up your self-confidence?

Haven't we answered this one already?  Yes.

Have you ever been in a hospital or institution on account of drinking?

We have pretty crappy insurance so we hope not. 

In which FHC has a doctor's appointment

My hypocondria reached a new high in the last few weeks justifying an interruption of my blogging services to seriously explore imaginary diseases. Mostly I found a real pusher in that little jogging Jewish doctor I talked to you about. The one who sneaked Klonopin in my life (not enough obviously). I also got a little panicked after Anna Nicole’s death because after all she was only 12 years older than I and had a much healthier lifestyle. She also experienced a short albeit fulfilling relationship, which is supposed to ensure longevity. I have been flashing my useless Aetna PPO insurance card in most ambulatory care and doctor’s office in town this week. I spend all of my savings to obtain the confirmation that I am healthy besides two “mild” leaks in my heart valves and some minor emotional damages imputable to my mother.

I take pleasure in seating in patient waiting areas in DC. I find myself at peace in a purple chair surrounded by multicolor carpeting and old people quietly dying of pneumonia and heart diseases. Their painful breathing soothes me. I read the little pamphlets which feed my conversations with my primary physician (did you know that Levitra can turn you blind? Or that Ambien shouldn’t be taken with alcohol? Anyone? Anyone? Kevin W?). I also try to engage with the medical support staff on how tough it is to live outside the beltway when you make $8.50/hr (shame on you GW).

The annoying part is that it pollutes all of my conversations with other human beings who do not automatically have a similar interest in my health. Besides perhaps the very empathic LL, who always says “Awww, I am sorry FH”. My flirting conversation almost always include some “parasite story” these days and I am afraid it does not contribute to the “positive mental attitude” image that my PR guy wants me to convey.

Ok I am leaving because I don’t want people around here to think I don’t have a date. Happy Valentine’s day Kiddos.

In which FHC tombe au fond de la piscine

It’s amazing how gay leisure time flies by since I became single after LL’s death during that terrible boating accident back in August. Often when my long week-ends are expelling their last breath in a depressed sigh on Sunday night and I emerge from my stupor, I wonder where these hours went. I always find little pieces of to-do lists scattered all over my apartment with awful little things on them like “read a book”, “read a book”, and “send an e-mail to Fred” . I never get around doing any of it. Often I merely found the time to brush my teeth or clean up the vomit on the bathroom’s carpet over the week-end, let alone read anything.

Drinking is that missing link between the professional thingy and the gym. Drinking is that massive black hole which captures gay dreams and gay fears and turns them into nothing. When I say drinking, it encompasses related activities such as nurturing hangover, sleeping with strangers, going to the gym, stalking people on friendster, and discussing meditation techniques with male dancers, the hours curled up on people’s doormat, various embarrassing moments and the occasional 3 a.m. traffic accident. It’s all related to drinking. Drinking is the cornerstone of my very gay cathedral. Incidentally all of my posts are connected to each other by a drinking monotheme. That puts me in such an awkward situation when The Others ask me on Monday “so what did you do over the week-end?”. If you are genuine and have the strength to answer you can reply “I got a little drunk”, then they chuckle and then they say “for the last three days?”, then you reply “for the last six years” and then they chuckle again and run away. I usually tell them I read the fountainhead all week-end, it gets them going and reassures them.

In which FHC listens to Mr. Blue all day long

Now that I painfully solved this DSL story I needed space on my computer so I committed a little musical genocide today. I started with all the Jazz: even the Ken Burns and Jazz FM compilations went in the garbage. I had to keep Duke Ellington and Miles Davis out of politeness and in case someone audit my computer post-mortem (let’s just say I hope that will not happen).  Then I deleted all the Dixie Chicks, all my R&B and half of my Hip/Hop including The Game, Trey Songsz, Zapp & Rogers and Jeffrey Osborne. I kept DMX because I think it was LL’s break up gift. I destroyed all Morcheeba. I hesitated to get rid of Morrissey but I knew Kevin W would never forgive me. I trashed all Brazelectro and the Dawson’s Creek soundtrack which had infiltrated my music collection. I saved me about 5 GB.

Then I played “Mr. Blue” by Catherine Feeny and “Shiranakatta” by Yoko Ono all day long trying to get the meaning of it all. As it was a difficult exercise, I went through two weeks worth of peapod groceries. In the meantime, Vividblurry and Frenchbenj were more or less blogging about hating their body for completely opposite reasons. Also I found out that Vernard Gilmore is staying until sunday night room: 307 at the Watergate Hotel and had some cheap flowers delivered to him.

In which FHC experiences partial gay death

I went running today. It was about 14 °F with an awful wind particularly on the segment that goes from the Senate to the Washington monument. I had no idea what this number meant because I never even tried to understand this Fahrenheit business. Fahrenheit is already an awful thing to spell (compared to Celsius), let alone to understand. I admit I completely lack intellectual curiosity and am incredibly shallow. I did manage to get used to pounds. Still I had gathered it was cold but I am still fighting the peapod effect so I felt I would never forgive myself if I skipped this run in my “weekly routine”. As I do not have running gloves, I went without any. In addition, as I suspected there would be other crazy gay people running on the mall in order to get strong legs (a must have this season), I decided against wearing a hat. There was not anybody jogging on the mall.

Unconsciously I knew this was a risky thing. I even thought it would probably be painful. It is an important trait of my personality: I am obsessed with pain to the point that I often forget about the possibility of death. I actually would not mind death too much if I could get a guarantee that it will be painless. Anyway all that to say that about 25 minutes into the run, I discover with amazement that I had lost all feelings in both my hands (particularly the one which was clutched firmly on my ipod) and one of my ears (the right one). That ear had actually already experienced frostbite more than ten years ago because of another esthetic choice of not wearing a hat during a ski trip.

I managed to revive my hands (clearly I am not typing this with my tongue) but my left hear has doubled volume and I contemplate having it amputated. Also I don’t really expect my hands to ever look the same as they turned black. I feel I have reached a new milestone in my gayness. I am known to exercise even when I am sick or injured but running to the point of damaging my delicate extremities is new to me. Moreover, we all know I’ll be severely ill tomorrow and won’t be able to exercise for a week.

In which FHC tries to chill out and fails

Verizon pissed me off last night. In case, you people are wondering, I have not had a proper internet connection for about three weeks (mostly because of the evil Drew W. I must repeat) and it does not seem to get any better. As I was telling my cute lunch date today, it is not so much the hooking up on manhunt.com that I miss but the porn blogs. Anyway as I was getting very very frustrated trying to set up that damn network for five hours last night and writing hysterically an insult letter to Ivan Seidenberg, I became increasingly conscious that I needed to step back a little. I tried…five seconds and then just doubled my usual dose of benzos and passed out.

Of course, it is a little annoying not to have an internet connection but I have been through worse moments in my life like that time I had to chose between my son and my daughter to be spared away from a tragic gas related death and eventually they both died anyway. Anyone ? Anyone? (good movie btw, really got me depressed on Friday night). Why do I always get mad over such small insignificant small things? I get my mindset on something stupid and puff I turn into an hysteric serial killer. I really would like to chill out more like that Asian guy in Kill Bill. Well maybe it’s not such a good example…he does take people eyes out on some occasions but mostly I think he has the relatively casual attitude I wish I had (without the hairdo and a little more indolence). When I was with LL and he used to hide the kitchen knives because of my temper, I suggested that if I smoked a little weed everyday, I might develop a calmer behavior but he of course vetoed the whole thing. Or maybe I can resurrect that old inner peaceful place of mine (which clearly isn’t Fresh Fields on a Sunday, I had a claustrophobia attack and physically struggled with some poor clerk at the meat stand because I couldn’t breathe … I incidentally had ran earlier into vividblurry at the beer section looking really buff).

Anyway I have to go to the gym but basically what I mean is that my life isn’t that bad. I have health, enough money for sport memorabilia and I get laid occasionally. “Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death.” as Auntie Mame would say. Of course, on the other hand, some people’s job consist in attending fashion shows and getting generous gift bags. So what? my banquet would be more like a cold buffet but still.