FHC’s resurrected blog

In which FHC tells everything about relationships with two words of the day

The guests at FHC’s yesterday briefly evoked somber topics such as the chaos going on at the Professional thingy, religion or the Virginia bloodbath. I like to keep my diner parties conversation non-controversial (calling a 3 people gathering, a “dinner party” is a stretch moreover as I don’t really own chairs and my friends are drunks). As usual, after twenty minutes, the conversation switched in a trice[1] from human rights to sex and relationships.

One of the guest argued that urban gay men are single (besides Chris R. ironically) because they are all waiting to fall in love with men who cumulate good looks, depth, creativity and maturity. In his opinion, such a combination – the boyfriend myth -- hardly ever occurs in nature and even less in cities like ours. Examples could be some freak who lived secluded on a desert island, some hippie’s settlement or Nebraska until his mid-twenties; someone who became good looking late in life or some guy with a profound understanding of Taoism (which I would personally suspect of plotting a terror attack). Additionally, these very rare occurrences being on high-demand are virtually impossible to win-over. The very basic assumption in the argumentation is that good looks naturally drive people to shallowness and dissolute fearful lives in gay urban settings and ultimately turn them into non-human enchained conformist primates. One Of Us Cannot Be Wrong by Leonard Cohen was playing in the background of course.

Isn’t it a charming explanation? One could even add that after all the reason behind this general quest is that we try to escape the guilt of our own shallowness by dating people with a spark of individuality. The guest continued on recommending that the solution would be for (us) shallow people to settle for other shallow people. It reminded me of that e-mail I received recently “I give it a couple of weeks before that dude realizes that [his boyfriend] has no depth and absolutely nothing to say. Then again, this guy doesn't seem like the type who would notice anyway”. As a draconian[2] measure, I decided that I would not go out this week-end to avoid perpetuating this vicious circle.

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[1] Trice: Word of the Day. A very short time; an instant; a moment.

[2] Draconian. Garner's Usage Tip of the Day.

In which FHC suggests that someone sends in the clowns

Years go by so quickly when you are heavily relying on medication. I have to admit that I enjoyed the day of « la douleur qui ne me quitte pas pour le reste de ma vie », to quote some late Hollywood friend of mine. I repeated to myself all day long “quick send in the clowns…there ought to be clowns”. So far, they sent a morning erection, half a klonopin, many high-carb cakes and a bloody marry at lunchtime. I also registered for the Word of the Day on Dictionary.com and stayed oblivious to the various bloodbaths in the neighboring states. However, all I really wanted was for my son to call me and say that he forgave me for abandoning him when he was just a toddler. No, just kidding, I do not give a damn about him, my friends sent me kind hopeful little messages and endearing phone calls.

I still have to make some wishes. May the year to come be way more tumultuous than the previous and FHC become more courageous, deep and unconventional than he was in his youth, which is somewhat gracefully ending today (I have stretch marks on my ass). Wo sind die Clowns? Schickt die Clowns herein!

In which FHC has an online diary

I am always amazed at how many activities people manage to fit in a given day. People row in the morning, take classes, have second job, take the bar exam, go out, entertain their girlfriends, read books, shop and listen to NPR. People watch TV shows regularly, cook for themselves and have somewhat successful relationships. When you ask them, they know what’s really happening in Iraq and they have plans for the summer. They f***ing live their life to the fullest (but they are clever enought not to mention it to me cos I would go wacko).

In the fog of my memory, I can only recall sitting there at the professional thingy with an odd expression of panic (which is often mistakened by my colleagues for blankness) and then collapsing into my 9 hours clonazepam-sponsored coma days after days. I must have time to do stuff like everybody else though because I have everything delivered, refuse to take public transportation since 1981 and have a cleaning lady.

So today I wrote down everything I did and then during that silly drug-free 20 minutes window which occurs between 8 and 9 p.m, I read it aloud in front of the bathroom mirror. I had acunpucture this morning (no particular disease in mind, thanks for asking). Apparently I answered a call from my mother even if I have no idea what was said. I bought a “Don’t eat me, I love you” pig T-shirt on e-bay size M. I found a place for Nicolas C. to crash on the W-E of the 27^th in NYC. I had lunch with Savvas P., Juan V. and two Brazilian guys from OAS one of which had really wide shoulders (no memories of that conversation either). I took an hour class in Portuguese (no idea what I was expected to learn). Mentioned something about Yoga to everybody I ran into and said “post-9-11” twice in the same conversation with a busboy. I answered two inquiries from friends about my job. I also got allergy shots and picked up some pictures at the frame shop. I sent for $2,000 of bills to my health insurance. Wrote a nasty “no” to Jesse S. (which used to be my hero a month ago) in an e-mail. I placed e-mails by Mark H., Ari S. in my junk inbox. I checked friendster and facebook every 15 minutes with tears running down my face. I googled “Effexor” for 20 minutes. I biked to and from work. I changed two bulbs in the living room. I listened to whole albums of Shirley Bassey and The Pretenders.

In which FHC celebrates hug a lawyer day

Mark H. and Carlos U. just interpreted for me by e-mail the lawyer’s mortel chant du cygne. This traditional desperate complaint usually takes place on Janaury 2^nd when your average gay lawyer in his early [late] thirties (approximately 80% of the gay community here… the other 20% being constituted of real estate crooks and waiters which weren’t admitted to Law Schools as well as some college students I never meet) is reminded that he wasted his best years in law school only to be caught in an endless cycle of hard work, business lunches, gym and delusion. NDLR: lawyers have to go to the gym really often because like most depressive professions, practicing the Law is directly correlated to obesity. What a bitter fraud the lawyer thingy is. The firm let him a few days off for New Year and then an obscure President kindly passed away but right when he starts once again to feel the sweet taste of freedom and flap his wrinkly yellowish wings, the firm mercilessly catches him by his throat and calls him back. He partied freely, interacted with non-lawyer human beings perhaps even managed to get laid without too much difficulties in the big Cobalt New Year confusion and he does not want to return to his dark office where he has to justify every minute of his time to football obsessed partners. He discovers for the first time with unmitigated horror that he would have been so much happier if he had stuck with his original plan of using wisely his political science bachelor’s degree in his father’s grocery store in rural Alabama or to be a school teacher in his Mormon community back in Utah. But no, he felt the need to compensate the fact that he was gay by becoming an incredibly successful and financially secure lawyer Mummy could be proud of and brag about in her tupperware meetings back home. His secret hope is that with all this money and his granite kitchen countertop, he at least will manage to date some cute artsy twink which will provide him in the evening with the fun missing in his career….but no he won’t…because he’ll end up with another overweight yellow faced lawyer with droopy eyes. Laywers have to mate together because only a lawyer can deal with the insane hours, a complete absence of conversation or cultural interest as well as the endless social interaction with straight couples of the firm in order to maybe make partner one day. And for all the whining gay lawyers, how many anonymous straight lawyerly lives of quiet desperation are spent in the thousands of law firms in Washington, DC so if you have a lawyer next to you (and you do) give him a big fat hug.

FHC, Esq.

In which FHC has some wardrobe issues

When I look at pictures of myself, I am always amazed at i) how bald I am getting and ii) how tights and short my clothes are. There is always this amazing gap between how I think my clothes fit and what they actually look like. I am just amazed I haven’t yet suffocated to death accidentally. More importantly, I wonder how and why my friends let me go out dressed as if I was wearing my little brother’s stuff. What the f**ck happened? did my wardrobe shrink? am I ten pounds heavier and in complete denial? or did I really buy some tight skimpy-ass stuff without noticing it? (…yeah … I did buy a pair of jeans in some stretch fabric once…). Perhaps it just a mix of these reasons but in any case I refuse to end up looking like a bald toddler.

I think this is a general problem in the gay population. The rule of thumb is that when you raise your arms raise their arms, you shouldn’t see your belly button and when you climb stairs, your jeans shouldn’t feel painful. Additionally, if your stomach sticks out of even an inch, you shouldn’t wear anything but shirts. After 24 years old, one should always buy clothes to hide and never to show.

In other news today was a little painful even if we made sure we never went to bed before 4 a.m. in Lisbon to avoid any jetlag. Additionally it is now unclear when I'll move to my new apartment and if my next trip to the unnamed destination is in a few days or a few weeks.

In which FHC is really alone this time

I have to hurry to meet my new landlord. Someone yesterday asked me if I wasn’t afraid by the perspective of living by myself. I was tempted to reply that living with Kevin D. and Olliver-le-Chat was just like living alone but sadder in the same way than being in a relationship with Clint M. was like being single or being raised by my parents was like being an orphan. But that would have been a mean spirited lie: I am a little scared of having to live alone (to be compared to the fact that I am completely panicked about moving). Mostly because Kevin would feed me at least one hot meal a week, fix me fancy cocktails and have some sort of a conversation with me now and then (he would ask interesting questions such as “How was work?” and I would reply “Awful, why? How was your nap?”). Overall I liked him as a roommate compared to the previous one: sure he was too an alcoholic but he wasn’t a drug addict and never went completely insane on me. He wasn’t a friend or a family member but more something like an insolent majordomo.

I naturally tend to live like a hermit and it might become worse if I have no reason to leave the house anymore (my only motivation in the past was to escape Kevin’s half-wit). My real fear is that indeed I will spend the rest of my life eating crab legs with my glass of scotch in front of TV every night. The way I see it, I will be probably talking to myself by February, then move in a wooden cabin in West Virginia by the summer and die of a heart attack a year later but nobody will notice for ten to twenty days after that. It has happened to better bloggers.

In which FHC is sooo proud to be an American

The 4^th of July barbecue at Ryan T.’s was definitely the social event of the week-end for anyone who was gay, witty and wore shorts in the district that evening. Unfortunately, Fagat had snubbed us and decided to go see the fireworks from the White House lawn. We got to meet Nick L., the new genuine kid on the block (red arrow – photo courtesy of Russel W.), the cheerful Southern boys had charming stories on their WE in Rehoboth, Mark H. looked like he had been ran over by some gigantic truck, Carlos U. was obviously the current owner of Kevin W., I talked about the Northern snakehead fish to some kid who did not care and there was a really cute couple I wasn’t introduced to.

Following a tip of dearest Ben T. who claimed at that party that he invented the expression “embarrassing for everybody involved” – while we all know it was created by LL in 1995 -, I went ahead and googled it. With only one r, "embarassing for everybody involved" led us to a 2003 entry by a relatively strange guy called Scott who vacations in Cannes and actually invented the expression stigmatalike and a comment on FAGAT by …myself. However, the “embarrassing…” version (two rs) indeed massively leads us to FHC’s. "Embarrassing for everyone involved" is actually the big winner, with about 220 results.

Also zipcar charged us a $25 late return penalty (for 12 minutes) on top of our $312 bill for the week-end. It just kills me. It is official that DC is testing metered cabs: something LL and I have been recommending for years. There is a rumor that Rory D. is back in town…under his real name this time. And all our condolences to our Portuguesse friends (particularly Alex A., Frederico C. and Sergio P.) who have been crushed by the French soccer winning machine.

In which FHC wastes his friday away

FHC:               I just can’t believe Ben T. and John J. are that popular these days…

Kevin D.:        They are not popular. They just go out a lot. It’s like malaria: it happens a lot but nobody would think of describing it as popular.

As the upcoming week-end is going to be quite busy between our sailing lessons, Fagat’s visit and LL’s unbelievable social life, I chose to have a very low key Friday. After having my hair - or what’s left of it - shortened at the grooming Lounge, I participated to the Celebrity Homosexual Luncheon on Connecticut ave. which included today a very horny Kevin D., a sleeveless Michael G. and lawyerly Carlos U. I spent most of the lunch lamenting over the long lost good old days of Washington, DC group sex: why o why is the cheerful habit of sexo collectivo frowned upon so?. We then went to Francis Pool, where I read the beginning of Pamela Harriman unofficial biography while glancing at Grégoire’s impressive package, something Pamela H. would probably not have disapproved in her time as we all know she died at the Ritz in Paris while having sex with a rent boy. I am now going for a run shirtless before LL returns for work. I suggest you reflect on this quotation (via Daved A.): “No! I would rather have my babies burn -- BURN! -- than be saved by that gay fireman!” as well as the fact that I apparently owe $3,915 to my credit card company. Oh and yes, I had a name tag on my jacket all night long yesterday night.

In which FHC evokes the possibility of a world without indie boys

You’ll have to excuse me as I just woke up from a two days long coma which was only induced by my summer-ale lethargy (still better than Kevin W. who managed to be paralytic for a few hours this week-end I hear). LL and I went to Taint on Sunday night as a last attempt to spice up our social life. I love Taint: everyone is so much tinier and paler than everywhere else there (besides Girard, Ari S. and Andy L. of course but they don’t count as to be an indie kid you have to be younger than 28): indie boys are just plain adorable. The attempt was a complete failure though. First my boyfriend doesn't believe in dancing, because he would rather study the Law and secondly because, about an hour after we arrive, I started thinking about what would happen if the all place went in fire. Totally killed it. That would be such a disaster. There are a lot of memorable characters in DC, but few as lovable as the delicate and unintuitive Taint’s crowd. First we would lose Karl who represents the entirety of the “alternative crowd” of Washington, DC (if any) and the Petworth neighborhood advocates, all the indie scenesters and their down to earth cute little assistant friends, at least half of the MNDC members, 5 gay dwarves, 3 punks, some f***ing two steppers, and in that specific case a third of Lizzard Lounge’s usual clientele (the cheap third which couldn't come up with the new $15 admission cover). Imagine the hysteria. Nothing would be left of gay DC besides a crippled Kevin W., a few wealthy crack heads and half of the city’s lawyers would be reduced to ashes. I laughed a little nervously with Drew W., tiptoed on the dance floor two minutes while LL was reading an article on liability issues in computer security at the bar, drunk two beers and then we returned home and watched some Lost episodes which make up so well for a disastrous social life! Also we learnt that evening from Summer Camp about the upcoming Crack DC which seems to be yet another cheerful event.

In which FHC gets sedated and spends the day in a complete haze

Today the blog is late because …..I have nothing to say (in short nobody has visited my friendster, myspace, HI5 or facebook profile today – you’re happy ?). Let alone something which wouldn’t qualify as useless prose on selfindulgence but then what do I know? – thank god Fagat decided to write about literature – gay novels but still that’s literature for all of us (fishwatch hasn’t even posted so give me a break will you?). I did not even notice the day going by as I was in a total fog mostly induced by the fact that I had to take a Benadryl to fall asleep last night (I decided against taking another Excedrin PM or a Xanax as it is clear for everybody involved that I am addicted to both). You see the problem is that Benadryl makes you even groggier than Xanax (my motto though is “Better badly damaged by anti-allergy medication than totally fucked by antipsychotics” but that’s just my point of view). Of course I barely made it to work this morning because my eyes were so puffy I could not even see 5 meters ahead and I think I might have caused two car accidents on 17^th street – one of them fatal to the driving teenager. I spent my day strolling around the office telling people that I am much smarter than I look. I really wonder if it will be difficult to hide my new over-the-counter/prescription drug issue when LL gets here (Note to self: ask LL to sleep on the couch). It reminds of my youth, when I would stay awake all night just because I did not want my (very demanding) tricks to notice I needed both earplugs and a sleep-mask to fall asleep (in the winter I also wear earmuffs in bed which is why I never hook up in the winter) – thank god for long term relationships. Anybody has some ambien leftover or are you going to force me to see a physician? I fear I won't make it without. What’s the life expectancy around here? 90? That’s way too much with my sleeping pattern. I also read somewhere today that indie boys are not only neurotic but they also suffer of tanorexia (via our friend KMZ). have no clue how to get back home and what to do there - commuting, work, a salad, work, call LL time, work, commuting, home, call LL once again, cook, call LL one last time, insomnia.