FHC’s resurrected blog

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 is a sad, sad, pathetic tiny creature

I am always amazed on how I can manage to draw compassion from my blog. The tragic and Dickensian portrait of FHC’s loneliness in my last entries has gotten me in avery short period of time one invitation for dinner, one invitation for Halloween (as if I already knew if I’d be alive by then), a friendster message as well as two very kind e-mails from some estranged friends (one of them kindly wrote “…i see you are now alone and depressed instead of just depressed”…what did I say about telling the truth?) and maybe a smile in the street. I guess I should work on my next entry to see if I can manage to get some pity-sex, sexually suggestive messages or free furniture too.

My (ex)-roommate pointed out to me this morning that once again Miss Adam’s Morgan Pageant and HRC National Capital Dinner take place on the same Saturday: choosing between having dinner with bright but conceited gays or promiscuous cross-dressing morons is easy for me: I’ll stay home with a netflix. Clearly I should spend more time working on my entries.

In which FHC denounces the industrious character of his friends

Everybody is self-improving these days. Frenchbenj is preparing to get a master degree (so unfrench of him) which will boost his already honorable career. Fagat is giving himself an international edge by learning new tricks in Madrid with other “super academic overachievers”. LL has been selling himself to firms so well that he got to rest his head on an engraved pillow last night and brag about it. Even Kevin D. seems to be practicing more often lately and Olliver-le-chat has ordered business cards. Everybody I know is striving on the notion that better tomorrows await them and that they haven’t reached their complete potential yet.

It might be true but you guys stress the f***ck out of me. The idea that all mankind is bettering itself right now makes me panic. The only skill I ever hope to acquire in the next twenty years is a better driving. To paraphrase Saki, I am one of those people who will only be improved by death. If everybody is sharpening their skills and discovering their untapped talents while I am just trying to maintain my limited skills at their current level than your efforts are automatically worsening me little by little. Self-improvement creates unnecessary anxiety among your underachiever friends particularly those who already were unsatisfied by their current situation.

In which FHC has E-coli

I have E-Coli. I know it. I eat a lot of bagged salad (from a brand called Healthy Choices …how ironic), that and Fresh Soup from Safeway and sausages. That is so f***ed up ! I force myself to eat vegetables and that’s what gets me in the end. Nature is such a f***ed up psycho bitch. It stressed me out all day. Most probably I’ll die of dysentery over the Week-end in the woods which is such an annoying and unglamorous death. To release a bit of the tension, I convinced successfully Gil G. that he had a bad case of Hepatitis A. I should have stuck to my initial diet of beef jerky and fake crab meat. In the words of Mark Twain “Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside”.

Also I am camping this Week-end so no blog, myspacing, friendsterization or e-baying because Kevin D. refused to find a wired campsite (if I don’t reappear on Monday this is where we are camping). Yeah I am going camping !!!! However, LL during our post break-up dinner announced his potential interest in guest blogging this Saturday. Given our long tradition of “open door policy” here at FHC’s resurrected blog we thought it might be a very good idea.

In which FHC does not get a good night sleep and it shows

I have now been experiencing unsolicited insomnia at night for three consecutive days. I usually wake up twice: once at 1 a.m. and then a little later at 6 a.m. and start thinking about all the actions that are required in my life right now (such as getting ready to backpack for a year in Peru starting in December, having my Myspace account refurbished by a professional and checking my credit card account online) and that I have no plan or hope to accomplish. I usually lose track of time during those episodes and therefore can never really determined how long they last. Did I actually sleep 2 hours or 6 hours last night? No way to tell. As it is not the first time I experience this in my short and uneventful life, I am not completely astonished with the symptoms: I am slowly becoming the East Coast Frank Chu. They aggravated today to the point that my all day was just a painful blur. Being in a state of dull floatation throughout my workday could be charming if it wasn’t accompanied by an unbelievable pain in my shoulders and some violent crimes thoughts (paerticularly when people feel necessary to mention three mornings in a row that I "look like crap"...you'll look like crap too when I'll be donme with you). Additionally, the fact that I am a little more incoherent than usual seems to unsettle people more than I would have imagined. Thank god I only have limited interaction with human beings these days and I might be able to go through the entire week unnoticed in that sad stage until the week-end. Because it only is a weekday problem, on week-end nights I drink myself to sleep very successfully.

In which FHC does not go to rehab

I am very rarely publicly scorned for my failed relationship (how do you say Fagat in Spanish? maracata?), however I am shamed for my e-bay addiction almost everyday. Most of my friends assimilate purchasing items on e-bay to dumpster diving and seem to be greatly disturbed by the fact that I use most of my available income and occasionally my savings to collect stuff on e-bay (trophies, vintage Babar books, Waldorf Astoria silverware, the Tatler, Pamela Harriman memorabilia etc….). Maybe it adds up to the fact that I speak to myself aloud and sometimes wake up in a poodle of vomit but let’s stick to our current topic. I am fed up to constantly being asked “where does that come from? E-bay too?”…it’s just awkward and embarrassing. Someone even threatened me with an intervention and hinted that I needed medical help. F**k me ? well f**k YOU.

- First, I’d like to claim my right to not fit in your protestant petit bourgeois saving plan scheme: having to make a living for oneself is sufficiently uncomfortable that one should not have to continuously justify his spending habit to strangers. Whoever advises me to live more frugally is a sell-out and when I will be through with my savings, I’ll borrow.

- Secondly, what’s wrong with recycling items discarded by other people? your obsession with purchasing new stuff is childish as well as a terrible threat to my environment. Have you even heard of Freegans ?

- Thirdly, let me fill my emotional gap as I wish. I cannot really argue that my e-bay shopping sprees are less expensive than therapy and meds… but you get the point. You are a gym bunny and an asshole…well I am a hoarder. You also are a materialistic f*ck, so don’t judge me. As Stevenson put it “It is perhaps a more fortunate destiny to have a taste for collecting shells than to be born a millionaire.”

- Fourthly, I was often told that I should find something I am good at and enjoy and that I should pursue it: well here it is. You can ask LL, being a successful bidder takes a lot of technical knowledge and tactic;

- Finally, I never ask you where your ugly clothes and sorry objects come from, so give me a break. In doubt just assume that…yes… I bought it on e-bay;

In other news, I find that one should surf Wikipedia at least one hour a day and Fishwatch (who does not have an excuse for not blogging anymore) kindly informed us that we were about to be serial-killed this week-end.

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 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.

FHC walks/runs for nothing

What’s up with people asking me to sponsor them to run marathon and even to go on freaking walks? The physical activity related charity racket feels a tlittle overwhelming these days: AIDS walk, Lupus Run, Genital Warts mountain climbing, Run for the Cure, Throat Cancer cross-country, Samba for Juvenile Diabetes, Leukemia all night dance, Skipping for Hunger, Sclerosis promenade, Yoga against Arthritis, Jumping for Cheetah Conservation, Relay for Life etc… Soon I’ll have to give cash to charity every time my neighbor decides to cross the street to Safeway, wash the dishes or go to Results for a work-out. You know what? Forget about the f***ing walk/run, I’ll donate the money but it’s really not necessary for you to step outside: I AM NOT PAYING FOR YOU TO WORK-OUT. I am not pledging for you to lose weight, feel fitter or escape the dullness of your existence. Perhaps if you stop moving from your apartment and sending stupid e-mails for an entire month, I’ll give something to fight the AIDS epidemic or whatever cause you selected. It will be the “shut-up and disappear from my life for a month” marathon for the cure. I don’t understand what the rationale is: there is a link missing between your mediocre physical effort and my donation against Polio (you sweat, I pay?, you suffer, I donate?....I don’t get it). Your philanthropy gives me diarrhea. How sad it is that even charity has to be linked to fitness these days: generosity has to be fat free. At least before, we could give money while watching Jerry Lewis on TV and binging on potato chips and Oreos. What’s wrong with good old fundraisings? at least you’d cook for me. I take my bicycle to work every day and it never occurred to me that this was sufficient to constrain my friends into giving some cash to a charitable organization: Please sponsor me by sending a donation to the Boys Scout of Americas as I bicycle for the 4,000th time to work on Friday, July 21st in Downtown DC: “FHC’s ride for life, happiness and equality”. My goal is to raise $2,000. While we are at it, here is an interesting insight on the fate of charity donations. Here is to another cheerful entry...you really need to start reading something else and I really need to look for the Wellbutrin leftovers.

In other, less bitter, news Kevin D. returned from Italy with brand new underwear and Carlos U. (20 minutes late for our appointment, it looks like DC fags have decided to throw me over the edge) referred to Rodolphe B. at lunchtime describing him as “just like FHC but good-looking”.

In which FHC flushes his dermatologist down the drain

I perspired through the entire consultation with my dermatologist this morning. I think that unconsciously I was trying to drown him in my sweat. And I might have if he hadn’t been in such a hurry. Doctors are rushing you so much in the United States that it spoils all the pleasure of being sick.

Part of my anxiety was due to the fact that I could not figure out why I had scheduled this appointment in the first place. We covered very briefly the topic of my hair loss (cf. you are balding and I hate you) and my decision to stop the ultimate dilemma medicine. I was hoping that the doctor would say something such as “which hair loss?” or “have you heard about that magical product which restores your hair and makes your teeth whiter?” but instead he mumbled something about “libido vs. hair …tough choice”. After that, I felt a little panicked as I had ran out of things to say and he did not seem to be in the mood to look for little cancerous elements around my body.

I finally remembered about that miniature moldy thing on my neck. At that point (probably 3 minutes into the consultation), I was drenched and a little pond of sweat had formed at the bottom of my feet and it only got worse when he told me: “I can take that off now if you want”. I did not have time to decline his invitation or beeg for an epidural. It just became dramatic and gore: he stuck this huge needle in my neck, butchered my neck right and left and then showed me a little plastic container telling me “I’ll call you after the biopsy”.

I asked him “which biopsy? You never talked of a biopsy?”, but he probably did not hear me through the waterfall falling on my face (now a mix of sweat, tears and blood) and he rushed me out reminding me “to call in a week for the results”.

Great: the whole appointment did not last more than 7 minutes but now I have an entire week to worry about skin cancer, it will teach me to go to the doctor without popping the usual beta blocker.