FHC’s resurrected blog

In which FHC is a little serious for once

Shame on me for not blogging on New Year’s Day, that’s no way to start the new year. I watched Babel this evening which is an excellent movie with very good acting and that I strongly command you to see before it is completely replaced by Dreamgirls or whatever is the name of that little gay movie you are all raving about. Anyway here are a few serious words to start the New Year:

Blogging about my life and particularly the months with LL was not only a self-centered and exhibitionist enterprise, it was also a way to record my life events and be able to step back from each day details to describe the way I felt at the time. When I read the 2006 entries, I don’t only see my usual cynical or depressive outlook on things; I also see the silver-lining behind everyday’s contrarieties and sometimes bigger obstacles (like running my boat in National or getting a divorce for that matter). I lived great adventures in 2006, was blessed with a fulfilling relationship, great friendships, amazing trips and happy moments. Clearly much more than I had hoped for. As I glance back at the memories I feel that these months were worth living and worth blogging. As 2007 starts, it makes me feel hopeful and reassured. With the passing of time all wounds heal and what’s left are the happy memories.

I am sure I’ll get to record more in 2007 and that you'll still be around. Cheers.

In which FHC starts recalling 2006 but eventually gives up

I was grabbing lunch with my friend Alex A. at Kinkhead’s yesterday when he asked me what my achievements in 2006 and overall impression on the year were (Alex is the only one of my friend who still politely acts as if he thought I could handle a coherent conversation). I really felt like ordering a second bloody mary but did not as I have been courageously struggling to be a little more sober in the last two days after noticing that I gained 6 pounds in 2 months. So instead I faked a panic attack alright.

I don’t recall much of 2006 besides the fact that Dell recalled my computer battery and I did not return it which is a very weak form of suicide. Ok I am lying: I think it’s the first year I did not take any anti-depressant…. and I divorced in August. I actually thought about taking anti-depressant when I divorced but felt a little too lazy about finding a new psychiatrist after the old one died in a jetski accident in Palma de Majorque (he was really expensive too). I also did not do any hard drug as my dealer ended up in a federal jail. I quit Propecia and that was such a f***ing mistake. On the pills aspect, 2006 was a complete disaster basically.

In 2006, I got my first ipod and a computer. It’s also the year I started to panic about turning 30 in two years and not being able to hide the fact that I am completely lost behind the usual elusive twinkish cuteness which I anyway never really managed to pull. Someone even called me a “hairless troll freak” at a party but I ignored him. I also got a little anxious about the all dirty bomb rumor. Well that’s definitely not an achievement so forget that one. I went to see my family three times - twice with my ex - and then my mother came to torture me for a week so we could say I achieved something in the family front (NDLR: that does not qualify as an achievement either). My roommate dumped me for some divinity teacher. I resented it so much that I started  hanging out with Mark H. I organized a WE by myself in London and one in  Rome (but then I did not get laid in any of these places so…). Gosh this is depressing, vodka gimlet anybody ?

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 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.

In which FHC attempts to catch up with America

Yes, as nerds pointed out in various obscure law libraries of NYC, I have been an awful and unreliable blogger. Two straight days of hard core partying with consenting adults, like if it was 2002 and Apex was still Badlands, have gotten in the way of blogging and catching up on “Lost” episodes. I clearly suffer, as one would expect, from the “I lost five weeks of my inconsequent life in the unnamed destination and I want it back” post traumatic syndrome, the silent invisible psychological scar of being closer to being 30. This little catching up left me a sore jaw, a worsened reputation and a terrible hangover that I am going to cure at Results’sauna in five minutes. Thank god nothing changed much in the civilized world: everybody is still dating Cub, gay couple’s life expectancy does not go beyond 5 years, I saw people dancing at the Diner at 6 a.m., Mark H.’s is till a terrible influence, and Craig’s list is still better than Manhunt and Gay.com

In the midst of this chaos, I still found the time to set up my bachelor’s pad and getting it ready for the “official delegation” which will be in town this Friday for exactly ten days and will certainly put a stop to my outrageous behavior. I also received a few very appreciated courtesy visits from some friends who came to check on my life without the late Kevin D.

In which FHC finds himself locked out of his own life

I had a pretty hectic day because I forgot all of my codes while on my five-week redemption trip. My brain was already a little deficient before I left but now it’s as if they had erased all these PIN numbers, aliases and passwords in my (mostly) electronic life. I had a little card with some of them that boyfriend No3 (may god bless his bleeding heart) had designed for me but I lost it in the move. I forgot the password to get in my computer at home and had to call my exes last night (roommate and boyfriend- the late LL) who both pretended they didn’t know it which was a) a lie and b) embarrassing for everybody involved. I went through all the weird nicknames I had given LL in the course of our brief yet passionate relationship but could not log in. Then this morning I couldn’t open my locker because I had forgotten the code (cute… I just sounded as if I was a Walmart employee) and therefore wasn’t able to score a shirt or a suit to do the professional thingy. I could not get money from the ATM because I can’t remember the card code and eventually skipped lunch. Finally, I could not log on Zipcar, Netflix, Manhunt and all these vital websites. I tried really hard at one point to answer some of the security questions but must have been high when I selected the answers because it did not work out. Thank god I managed to get invited at Alex A. tonight and will be able to eat for free there but this is only going to solve my situation temporarily.

In which FHC goes to the High Heel Race but thinks it's rotten

I just left the high heel race (not even on wikipedia) because I was afraid to catch a pulmonary disease and die at a relatively young age alone and forgotten. I care very little about drag queens or women for that matter but I was hoping I would catch some gorgeous half Middle Eastern guy (after all I am on the eve of another month of abstinence) or something. The high heel race is a bit like sex: at the end you always wonder why you wanted it so bad and why you did not have your own private little race. Eventually the weather got to me and I am now on the balcony looking down on everybody (a bit like usual…why can’t people silently watch drag queens running on 17^th street?) with Drew and Ari who are discussing the best way to set up you attic and Girard is smoking his life away (he is quitting soon …ahaaaa). I don’t see any reason why it would be that cold apart from the fact, of course, that it’s fucking November and that all good things have to end.

It’s f***ing winter people! which means that when I’ll come back (if I come back) that ugly inflated pumpkin on my street will have been replaced by another tacky Christmas related decoration. Jingle bell, F****ing jingle bell! Also now I don’t even regret not wearing my Halloween costume because as the enclosed picture proves, I would have looked pathetically ridiculous. See you tomorrow !

In which FHC talks about gay economics and Kevin D.

I didn’t realize until I had a conversation with some underrated power DC fag this morning that this Foley story is very likely to lead to a gay purge on the Hill or even a wide-scale anti-gay pogrom à la Iranienne. I am not saying this wouldn’t be healthy but that would be terrible because with all the real-estate queens having their income crumbling and their political consultant/lobbyists boyfriends out of job, I am afraid that the whole gay economy is going to collapse. If you have stocks in a Granit kitchen countertop quarry, I suggest you sell now. It is a real business risk for all the 14^th street furniture stores and the new gay bars in front of churches. North Korean Situation.

In other news of interest, have you noticed how the unbearable Kevin D. has been scaring away each one of my reader by his insolence and masked hostility in the comments section (much unlike LL who never showed even the tiniest sign of post-break-up bitterness)? I think he even drove one to suicide once. Btw Kevin, Anon is a woman I believe: women too sometimes find me cute, charming, distinguished and neurotic if you don’t mind. Maybe Kevin is some sort of a cockblock in my life and now that he is being sent back to suburbia where he and all of his relatives belong, I’ll be able to lead the wild sexual life I have been longing to have.

In which FHC does not have anything to sit on

How does one buy furniture for his apartment before one’s mother shows up? Do I have to order stuff from Crate & Barrel between now and December? Right now, I have nothing besides a bed (which mattress has seen more than it should at its age), a few forks from the Waldorf Astoria, a Botero, some African masks and a wooden wine rack I bought from Alex A. a few years ago. My roommate owns everything else including the TV, the plates, the porn and the vacuum cleaner and apparently he's getting married. If I don’t react very quickly I’ll soon have nothing to sit on and will have to cook my soups in a travel tea kettle. I have a dream that one day this will be my dirty dishes that I’ll get to leave in the sink. What I really need first is a comfortably beat-up armchair – a leather one - a really good one to read the paper, have witty conversations with myself (as I plan to unleash my schizophrenia once and for all) and watch the fireplace. As Rodolphe B. hinted yesterday evening, I am probably going to turn even more in a couch potato now that I’ll live by myself. On the other hand, I might also sober up because Kevin was clearly an enabler with all that alcohol flowing in the household. And maybe I’ll get a drum set too…and also an emperor scorpion (and also a fish tank) or a ferret to fill the emotional gap left by Olliver-D-Le-Chat.

In other news, last night I dreamt that my brother had his hand cut while doing catamaran but could not find any explanation for it on the web. If I hear another fag saying “Project Runway” or “oxymoron” I’ll explode. And finally, I have a question for you, what does “did if foul out” means?. See you at Results.

NDLR: Seat is the object ...on the other hand to sit is the verb.

In which FHC adds a footnote to his Saturday evening

After spending two days as a complete hermit, I started to crave human contact on Saturday night and had no other choice than to go out. LL incidentally suggested that I should get a puppy to satisfy my socialization needs (which we could envision now that Olliver is moving to the suburbs). To be really honest, it was not only motivated by a strong inclination to bond with other fellow human beings but mostly by my wish not to inspire too much pity from the ones who know how many Netflixes I watched last week. It was all very charming and I was doing really well until some faghag dancing frenetically in the overcrowded and smoky upstairs bar at Cobalt slammed her heavy arm in my face. As I walked back to my cave with my lower lip bleeding, I really thought that I am way too old for clubbing.

It reminded me of that response from a friend of mine (who is now - almost – domesticated and whom, I am told, is moving to a more happening city) to that quote which I had kindly sent to him as a smuggish advice “Those who live on vanity must, not unreasonably, expect to die of mortification”: “I have come to realize though that, in a town like Washington, aging is difficult. If you are in Paris or London, maybe New York (to a lesser extent), as you get older you find "épanouissement" through the intellectual, cultural etc. circles of your life. Here, those circles tend to be so thin and vain that the only option -which I would find abject- is domestication”. But then I could also be single in Plymouth, PA and then what would I have to rejoice about in my old age?