FHC’s resurrected blog

In which FHC courageously unveils the great gay puppy conspiracy

Gay men have a long history of exploiting their dogs in order to get laid. It is well known in the gay community that when one reaches thirty, one just adopts a puppy and instrumentalize its cuteness in order to engage in conversation with gay men which eventually lead to anonymous sex. We all see that on 17 everyday, and I myself was lured by a guy with two gorgeous Dalmatian puppies two or three years ago. In DC thousands of puppies have to spend their week-end being cuddled by gays with staph infections and other terrible skin condition instead of playing so that their owner can get off.

You know me: I am pretty tolerant and anyway I hate pets even more than the gays so I did not care about this whole “look at my puppy and f**ck me” trap business. However, recently I have gotten hints that something much more monstrous than puppy molestation is going on around here, and I believe that it is my duty to alert the Humane Society: I am talking of a full scale dog genocide.

I noticed very recently that a prominent neighbor of mine (which will remain anonymous until my investigation is complete… if the gay mafia does not shut down my blog before that) has showed up with as many as four different new puppies in the last two year. And god knows that he seems to be even less a dog person than my mother. One could legitimately wonder what happened to the ones who grew up. Did they mysteriously disappear one day because they weren’t fulfilling their purpose anymore? The guy has probably been drowning grown up dogs in his oversized bathtub for years making fur coats with their skin or perhaps abandoning them on Ikea parking lots or giving the away for dogsleds in Alaska. But of course law enforcement turns a blind eye probably because the guy bribes them with something a discount on their condo fee or free drink tickets at BeBar. Additionally the pet store on U st provides the puppies knowing perfectly what their fate is.

You should join me in the STOP PUPPIES EXPLOITATION BY THE GAYS by calling 1-800-FHC-PUPS to help pups victims of exploitation finding and a new home and a safe haven from the gays preferably in the suburbs. And if you are suspicious of any grown up dogs mass grave in or around DC, please contact us immediately.

In which FHC does not mention Bebar

When Christ suddenly lost both his legs and arms on Friday evening, I started to suspect that this week-end was going to be a tough one. I had planned to drown my sorrow in alcohol on Friday night and score some pity sex but instead I inadvertently sank everything at once: my soul, dignity and hopes…at Apex of all places. I was a little apprehensive while waiting in line with people I had written awful things about in my blog, already drunk from Kevin D.’s brilliant concerto and a halt at JRs, but I felt that the place had not changed and I must have managed to rebuild some social contacts as I remember dancing shirtless with some crackheads at one point. Kevin W., my nemesis whom I thought was barred to step in Apex, asked me to have a “look at [myself] right now” to which I replied by spitting my drink at him. I also remember Mark H. smelling like cigarette and Ben T. being all bentaylorish. Deep down, I am such a vapid f*ck because I really believe in the underlying promise of gay clubs that you can achieve happiness overnight if you are sufficiently lubricated. Eventually, instead of leading to some healthy rebound anonymous sex, the evening ended with FHC passing out (very grateful to the gentleman who brought me back and left a glass of water on my nightstand) and waking up in a puddle of vomit on Saturday morning. I have had better times and I experienced what I would describe as a pretty lonely moment as Drew W. kindly acted as if he believed I had caught some stomach bug. The only positive aspect is that I partly threw up in the H&H bucket LL had given to me as a break-up gift which is an improvement to my puking pattern. I spent my Saturday cleaning up and sending text messages of apology.

On Saturday night, Carlos U.’s farewell party was the social event of the season. It really felt like gay pride… There even was some trashy faghags and a Pinata full of kinky stuff (I brought back a fantasy cock ring). Mark H. was showing his extra-large Magnum condoms to the crowd which had invaded his house conveniently located in the ghetto (as if nobody had been savagely murdered in DC lately). Gerald had some nice words about DC when he told me “I have never met that many nest-building real estate gay men” to which dearest Neil B. added “and if you look at their faces, it looks like they haven’t lived”. Russ and Sam K. were both charming and Russ let me quote my father on British queers. Bruce was shitfaced. David D. was yummy. I was a little careful as I had just recovered from the previous night and drank very reasonably as a logical consequence, once again, I did not get laid even if I was wearing my new undies.

In which FHC barely blogs

Returning from vacation is always a painful process moreover in our difficult circumstances. I tried to take it easy: got an allergy shot, had lunch with my old friend Arturo who gave me the opportunity to place in the conversation an “I don’t regret the drugs as much as the promiscuity” and ran into the unbearable Kevin W. Yet I ended up with a terrible headache at 4:30 p.m. drooling on my best new tie after going through thousands of personal e-mails (mostly from e-bay and Carlos U.) and checking out some random guy vacation’s pictures. All of that to justify the fact that once again I barely blogged…thank god Universal Gear has its own blog. Those who love me, will forgive me. See you at Results tonight !

In which FHC talks briefly about hell

While trying to lose my soul in the world wide web and forget about the pain of being alive, I stumbled across the American Restroom association cry for help for “passengers bound for Reagan Airport in Washington D.C [who] must remain seated for 30 minutes before landing” and thereafter suffer from an “agonizing sense of urgency” shortly after Kevin M. suggested to me to “take up an important social cause like your friend FAGAT with his worthy campaign to eradicate the over-rated and unseemly "69" position?. It cannot be a coincidence, I am bound to be to the American Restroom Association’s what Edward Murrow was to the persecuted American Communists: a voice in the mainstream media against the all too powerful Transportation Security Administration. It has to be the cruelest thing ever, ask people to seat still for 30 minutes by ugly underpaid United Airlines stewardess while they want to pee badly. I actually already manifested my opposition through a very dramatic and daring gesture over the week-end (incidentally I now vaguely remember someone from the Marina calling me a “swamp scum” and I plan to sue) and will continue the fight for all our fellow incontinent high-flyers bound to Washington, DC. We shall never surrender.

In other unrelated news, LL and I have now watched both “Before the fall” and “Aurevoir les enfants” in less than a week, yet he seems to be oblivious to the underlying warnings for his trip to France. Also a (my) famous friend sent me confidential informations about "a guard dog [who apparently went bersek] ripped apart [the Wookey Hole Caves] collection of rare teddy bears, including one once owned by Elvis Presley, during a rampage at the Wookey children's museum". or a change, tonight we are having Ben T. for dinner at Health Bar which leads me to ask you to meditate on this thought of Aldous Huxley: “Maybe this world is another planet's hell”. See you at the gym.

In which FHC thinks of doing some pro-israel blogging

I went on a little blog visit binge today. I just wanted to check once again that there are other human beings out there who still consider that despite the psychological and physical risks linked to obscure-blogging, it is really worth having a little shrine to your mediocre life, overrated thoughts and decaying body. Blogging is to writing what cooking for your mentally impaired, genetically challenged, emotionally unavailable, ignorant and consumerist family as a depressed single mother is to owning a high-end restaurant. Both take a long time, the result is unsavory and your audience only acknowledges your efforts to tell you how awful the outcome tastes. Even worse you always end up washing the dirty dishes by yourself, your ex-husbands does not give a damn about his restraining order and god forbids someone discovers you have been stuffing the food with arsenic because you will end up in jail. Behind every blogger there is an unloving and hungry child who is afraid, feels guilty and has a troubled and contemptuous relationship with his readership. The blogosphere is such as cold cold place. On a related topic Vividblurry asked a very relevant question: “If your friends, your boyfriend and your employer all read your blog, what would you write about?” and someone launched a seminar on “How to use weblogs as an effective local leadership tool? A guide to propaganda and mass manipulation” . But despite all of the above, one could easily argue that I cannot just spend the rest of my life buying stuff on e-bay….or can I? that's a tweed jacket I am wearing on this picture in the middle of summer.

Anyway, I ran into this blog by some straight tactless medical student, this one by an internet rat gay banker, Kia’s thoughts on how to avoid the danger of small talk, finally and now just to underline my point that foolish bloggers and readers are created for each other: bratboy turns 26…I am not the only one who cares about sport.

I read recently that Churchill once said “My wife and I tried to breakfast together, but we had to stop or our marriage would have been wrecked.” I think Condi is going to go pretty soon.

In which FHC ends up censoring his own thoughts

One of the many responsibilities of the modern man is to manage his google reflection. For today’s professionals, self-googling is a weekly step to avoid potential cybertrashing of his name and manage his“personal internet brand”. You really don’t want other people to google your name and obtain raunchy results on your postings to licentious listservs, your bids on vintage Falcon videos or the mentioning in your own friendster profile of Entourage. 

I was planning to go for a jog today (95 degree F. at 3:42 p.m.) as I felt a little guilty over the bread pudding LL stuffed me with all week end (I love this little reward/punish cycle) but I was told that this was, I quote, a “crazy idea”. I disagree: I think it is time we courageously get used to global warming unlike the insensitive person in the corridor who just said “it feels like Bangladesh”. I personally shredded all unnecessary body hair a while ago. Although maybe the comment was not so much about the heat wave, than the fact that insecurity in the district is so high. L even forced me to walk in my tuxedo in the middle of the road on our way back from Jim M. on Saturday night claiming that it was the best way to avoid murder (overlooking the fact that it also is the best way to encounter accidental dismemberment).

In other news, LL and I finished “Lost” season II and therefore have started watching “Pearl Harbor”: were amazed on how long it lasted: Japanese and their obsession with quality.

In which FHC evokes the DC gay apparatchiks

About ten years older than the MNDC’s members, the DC gay apparatchiks (DCGA) owe their comfortable lives to a much more strict management of their libido, an amazing drive for success as well as their capacity to collaborate with the straight world in an opportunistic manner. They are the first generation of confident and optimistic openly gay successful men in the US who have managed to subtly exploit the gay networks and manipulate the favorable straight elite burgeoning feeling of guilt over the historical oppression of the gay population to climb the social ladder, expand their economic ties with the straight world while creating an apologetic way of life that is not offensive to the American families. Strictly monogamous since their college years when they settled for another bright and ambitious chap their age, they never talk about the way they manage their “open relationships” and mimic as much as possible the straight couple way of life. Later in life, they did not adopt a kid to preserve the sensitivity of their straight friends and colleagues, keep their gay poster boys status and avoid falling in the trap of the gay cliché. This tactic often paid off immensely and fulfilled their strong appetite for luxury, power and above-all social recognition. They take pride in not having been in a gay bar since September 11^th, 2001, purchased a town house anywhere in DC but Dupont Circle and avoid like the plague all gay gatherings. They only attend discreet black tie events for gay foundations to which they contribute heavily in order to control the community political activity, manage the so-called “gay revolution” as well as appease their conscience. Physicians, lobbyists, lawyers, business owners, high level republicans, they are strictly invisible to the rest of the gay population (even if their business often caters to the vulgarus homosexualus) and somewhat look down on the community hedonistic and promiscuous approach to life as well as its complete lack of ambition. They particularly despise porn, the gay pride, sleeveless T-shirts, friendster, metroweekly, T-shirts, drag queens, rim jobs, strip clubs, single gays, Nation, sneakers outside of the gym, loud voices, biceps, techno and the drugs. Often coming from a very middle class background, they became extremely snobbish on their way up and refined their amazing taste to perfection: only travel business class, have front row tickets at the Kennedy Center (they have a passion for everything classical and dismiss anything modern – in modern societies a seat at the Opera is synonym of society’s acceptance), are always aware of the current exhibitions in Europe, know at least two tailors in Milano and the manager of the Beverly Hills J.M. Weston shop, spend amazing amounts of money on meals (and are  indirectly at the origin of the high restaurant turnover in DC), sneer at all type of “gay novels” and have taken classes to learn how to make impressice comments on wines. They always make sure that their dinner party’s guests include at least 50% of straight acquaintances and that the conversation never ever touches to the taboo topic of sexuality as for them socializing is always about business. However their heart resides with the legendary gay mafia and they organize more intimate dinners with other gay apparatchiks couples. Extremely slim and healthy, they avoid the gay fatteness by never drinking cocktails and stating very clearly to their Sports Club L.A. personal trainers that they want to keep their muscle mass to its minimum (we all know that deep down gay muscles are intended to scare straight people while the DCGA want to re-assure them). They dress extremely conservatively and avoid wearing jeans more than once a week. Financially successful and extremely well connected, they live the highlife and have numerous apartments and dachas in France, Italy, West Virginia and exotic destinations in South America. Short of a dynasty, the DC gay apparatchiks seek financial success often not to ensure the future of their tribe or their own comfort but to take a complex personal revenge on society and escape their teenage year’s residual self-hatred. Yet they indirectly contribute to mainstreaming homosexuality in the American society.

In which FHC wonders what happens after 30

I really enjoyed Septime W.’s ballet yesterday and the dancers did not even threaten to strike. I noticed Mrs. Rodolphe B. in the crowd which must mean that it was a good show. It was actually a cheerful choreography which, as its name hinted, was navigating between ballet and modern dance with more than a little gay twist. It would have been perfect if it wasn’t for the harpsichord, an insufferable instrument which I believe has no reason to still exist now that they have created the Piano. I found the Beatles part to be fascinating even if the very dramatic movement on “A day in life” made Alex A. sneer a little. More importantly, there was among the dancers a really handsome fellow, Jonathan Jordan, (which every move was copiously applauded by the audience which goes again to underline my grandfather famous quote that “in life looks are the only thing that counts”) that my companions pretend to have met backstage while I had already left.

My next stop was “le Pigalle” on 17^th street which I regretted to have badmouthed in a past entry as I ended up raiding their opening party buffet as this trip to the Kennedy Center had strangely left me drunk and hungry. The owners of Bistrot du Coin must have some stake in the deal as the entire crowd seemed to have moved from connecticut avenue to 17th street. As some sad queen standing by the buffet told me while piling his plate for the twentieth time with slices of meat "17^th street is not gay anymore”. After 30 years old, for gay people who do not frequent the gym, there is nothing left but free food I believe. We spend 30 years coming to term with our sexuality one neurosis at a time and very slowly entering adulthood and the rest of our existence is spent, childless, by a treadmill or an all you can-eat-buffet wondering what we will do with the remaining hours. I left drunk by 11:30 p.m. and had another restless night on Excedrin PM.

In other news, apparently there is one witty gaysian in Washington, DC, LL celebrated his finals by nibbling on cheese fries all night long (disclaimer: I did not give the eating disorder, he came with it and if Fagat calls me fat once again, I snap).

In which FHC gets almost stabbed by a lesbian but survives and grows even stronger

After the Salvadorian dinner which included the sharing of many gossips about MegaDCfag (also Alex A. and Isaias acted as if they were leaving separately and we acted as if we believed them – the great gay conspiracy), I went with my friend Karine to Club Chaos for Liquid Ladies or whatever that party is called. It was pretty courageous of me as it is pretty well known that some lesbian got stabbed there not so long ago. That’s what these hardasses do on Wednesday night: stab each other. Mean little b*tches. I am always amazed to see how lesbians are so different from the ones portrayed on the “L Word” one of the only american series I have enjoyed and thoroughly followed. I feel very connected to gorgeous promiscuous women who live in Laurel Canyon I guess. I tried very hard to understand what causes popularity in the lesbian word while at Chaos – I have an inner sociologist in me: what do they do? How do they feed themselves - and couldn’t get a clue (looking like Eminem maybe ? that turns me on). It became clear very quickly that this outing wasn’t going to lead to anything (lesbians are really cliquey) and I was in bed quite early after a few awkward moments with a drag king dressed as a Teletubby and without even a slightly punctured lung ....

Someone wrote to me following my entry yesterday implying that I should explore nice alternatives to friendster like Introvertster (“the new way to get rid of people”), Scenester, Enemyster and Hatester. That will be my homework for the week end.

In other news, socialist Frenchbenj who was flirting earlier this week with LL and also updated his friendster profile (wh*re) is dragging Villepin’s name in the mud (Nicolas V. promised me a picture of Arthur, is it coming ?). Vividblurry won’t be at the Kentucky Derby afterall (too trashy?). And…Fagat and LL are ending their friendship to the benefit of Fishwatch whose coffee story is just amazing. Law school is where young nerds go to die.

In which FHC asks who’s viewed him ?

The real question of the day is: on friendster does it work if you turn on the “View Profiles Anonymously” for a specific operation and turn it back on right after? As I read somewhere recently, in snooping operations this feature is pretty similar to wearing bells around your neck. On the other hand, it’s might be important to be able to keep track of the hidden message people intentionally send you when visiting your profile as well as be able to send such signals: “I visit your profile because I think you’re hot”, “I visit your profile because I really enjoyed your conversation/handjob on Thursday night”, “I am ready to see you again even if I remember our bitter divorce”, “you are still a big loser” or “I visit your profile because I want you to know that I know what you did last summer”. To view anonymously or not that is the question. Actually that was the question because either everybody has opted out or nobody ever visits my profile anymore. Of course this does not count for cowards and other wicked people like LL who don’t even have their own profile and use other people’s profile to do their dirty online business. ok forget it. There is no need to insolent. Who volunteers to update my Myspace profile?

I spent $18.85 on itunes on Sunday morning including $10.89 just for “It’s hard for a Pimp…” and $0.99 for my all time favorite “Boy (Peter Rauhofer Remix)”.

Ok I am late for dinner at Bar Pilar even if deep inside I wished it would take place at Dakota Cowgirl but my diner pal argued that “X used to work there and he said he would never in good conscience eat there after what he saw in the kitchen”. Let me have a good look at Bar Pilar’s kitchen !