FHC’s resurrected blog

In which FHC suffers through his wednesday

It is 8:30 p.m. and I am still at the professional thingy which completely ruins all my wonderful plans for the evening (like taking a mock GRE test). Things have turned really ugly for me lately around here. I really wish I could be a waiter like Kevin W. The soundtrack today was Momentum by Aimée Mann (courtesy of Gavin), which she apparently had written for me initially. Maybe I’ll fax it anonymously to my shrink. I also added pictures of me with a baby to all my online profile to start re-marketing myself as a friendly family-oriented stable fag.

In which FHC is doing well...thanks for asking

I have reached that tipping point where I typically have to draft half a dozen apologetic e-mails on Monday morning. I barged in; uninvited, drunk at the Gs on Friday and verbally assaulted Kevin D in front of the appalled guests, ruining what must have been a wonderful dinner party before stumbling to Apex (TM from the Gs on Saturday morning: “we worry about you”). I cannot remember anything about Saturday besides maybe listening repeatedly to the remake of “Forever Young” by Youth Group while watching half of the “Cider House rules” on mute. I mauled Mark H. so badly at Logan Tavern (leaving a still-noticeable scar on his forehead) on Sunday that Julius/Julian threatened to call the Humane Society. I hanged up on LL after he called my attention to all the Palm Sunday brunch/ trendy parties I was not invited to over the Weekend and the new minor local celebrities I have not met (if at least I could be ignored by models). Note to self: claw and severely disfigure LL when he returns to DC to bring to an end this unhealthy competition (I think the “who’s viewed me” feature on my friendster has been broken for a month). I also snapped at Erica G. for sending me too many Passover e-mails (a. no, I do not want a free box of matzah; b. I cannot make it to Seder Dinner, c. I am gay). Her silly response: “FHC dear, what’s wrong?”.

As I did not want to take any risk with the professional thingy today, I half-klonopined myself early on. I also told Mark that we’d go out on Tuesday but I am afraid I might go berserk once gain. It’s really a good thing, that I am being sent away for the WE.

In which FHC slowly re-emerges

I just woke up from a 48 hours self-induced coma and found the World, at least my world, exactly as I had left it. I am wearing the same clothes than Tuesday, nothing ugly... just very very wrinkly. As soon as it appeared that the sore-throat/fever was going to be an obstacle to my living happily and that Mark H., my amphibious friend, was not going to withdraw the video from youtube based on my arguments, I treated it with my trademark bold-faced holistic method: “the FHC Valium approach”. It basically consists in popping valiums each time you wake up until the symptoms/issues have disappeared while playing “The Lovers” by Peter Doherty in the background. It does not only work for imaginary diseases, I also went through two divorces applying the method. There were two messages on my voicemail, one of which was from my acupuncturist about missing my appointment (nothing is funnier than the accent of an upset Koran doctor when you just took 4 valiums) and another one from the joggin’ doctor reminding me not to drink anything while on Cipro. I also noticed that I lost 1 pound. Don’t judge me. I mean you go to a gym which has “inappropriate behavior will result in immediate membership termination” signs everywhere so spare me.

What a coincidence that on that day, I would also reach 300 friends on friendster. I now have only a few hours before some cute straight girl starts a visit which will end with my departure to the unnamed destination. How fun, a week end of straight-bars hopping drinking Shirley Temples. I can’t wait!

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 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.

In which FHC says really mean things about his own friends

With all this little rehab incident, I never ended up telling you about my trip to Baltimore. I will summarize it by saying that most of my friends have become nest building f***cks. They were turned into a bunch of gender-confused pastel-tones-painting Martha-Stewartesque f***ers. All conversations during the week-end were devoted to topics such as paint blistering and peeling, original features (of contemporary houses: see the irony) and bird wreath chandeliers. Nobody ever mentioned war, sodomy and the economy for the entire two days. I actually did not speak at all because I was either too busy reacting with derisive snorts or suffocating because of some domesticity overdose. Our activities included going to an open house without the slightest intention of buying it and visiting a local tacky arts-and-crafts exhibition at a neighborhood Pentecostal church. I always thought it was a joke people going to open-house to gather decorating tips but no it’s all very true. Hearing my ex-roommate saying: “yes we are really concerned with keeping as much as possible of its unique character” and “we are thinking of revealing the original wood pattern on this door” cured forever my [mild] crave for a stable relationship. I mean these kids, which were cool whorish alcoholic Trotskyite kids at one point (Drew excluded…at least for the cool part… btw I still have no internet access until next thursday), are now exclusively sleeping, breathing and masturbating about house decoration and renovation. Is that what love does? turning revolutionary faggots into homemakers crazily obsessed with domestic matters. Are there other options than settling our sexual frustrations in a perfectly decorated nest, which we will decorate and re-decorate for eternity? Hint: yes there is, undergear parties as an example. I almost feel closer to my straight friends with babies: at least they are obsessed with human beings. Many people blame me for spending time with Mark H. these days but is it my fault if all the decent gays of my generation are too busy fixing their giant gingerbread houses with their partner?

In which FHC goes to the doctor's office

As I have been enjoying a huge hypochondriac crisis lately, I went today to see my primary physician. For those of you who know me well, there is nothing that I enjoy more than a day spent talking about myself, bowels movements and testicular and prostate cancer. What’s a better place to complain about your life than your physician’s office? For me paradise is a doctor’s office. He gave me a bagel with cream chesese, prescribed many tests (I even did some really cute tuberculosis related stuff) and I even managed to score a prescription to Clonazepam which will reduce my dependency on Kevin W.’s Ambien stash.

We of course evoked my drinking problem and one’s habit of sleeping on one’s old doormat and it was painful for everybody involved (I blamed it on my mother though). On the sexual side of things I think he had already assumed I was a wh*re. Anyway the guy asked me to stop caffeine, alcohol and dairy products for two weeks for some kind of a little experiment. I negotiated and he agreed that I could wait until Monday (a.k.a when LL and Fagat will be out of town because obviously they won’t be interested in playing the whole let’s-be-sober-and-see-what-happens-game). So here is to another week-end of pitiful decadence.

In which FHC feels that he really is f***ed this time

Yesterday dearest Fagat, who kindly decided to return to the States and is announced for a visit to DC on January 12^th, called to blackmail me (which is kind of ironic, I know! and what a kind way to check in also) over some absurd rumor. I of course settled and sent him a check (nothing big, just enough to get him back on his feet after he lost everything in a relationship with a Spanish stripper). You see I get that pretty often. Well first because of my unruly behavior (which I completely blame on alcoholism, a very low sense of ethics and a Borderline Personality Disorder) and second because I have left so many electronic records of all my dark little secrets everywhere. I am not exactly what one would call a discreet and cautious person. I am not the only one by the way (follow my beautiful gaze..it takes two or three to tango). I consider that all the e-mails I sent and received in the past few years as well as my Friendster, Myspace, Manhunt (etc..) and Facebook profiles constitute a huge liability (not even mentioning this blog which will represent my doom at one point – we all know that). When I think about it, it really makes me feel paranoïd and threatened and also it makes me crave for a cocktail (at 2:30 p.m). What if I ever decide to run for office or feel called to be a priest? Will all this dirt accumulated on thousands of servers all over the globe just resurface and get in the way of my vocation? What if I decide to become straight ? Will I ever be able to escape my past and start anew like baby Jesus? ô rage, ô désespoir, ô vieillesse ennemie, N-ai je donc tant vécu que pour cette infamie [question mark].

Sometimes I think a good step would be to change of identity. Maybe I could steal LL’s identity: I have everything I need, his social security number, his birth date etc…and he left to lead a new life in Mexico. It would take months before he notices and by then I will be free again. I just need to get circumcised (no, not with your teeth Mark).

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 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.