FHC’s resurrected blog

In which FHC loved his WE in Lisbon

Our friend FHC is now on his way back to the US after a few wild and happy days in Lisbon. Sergio’s historical birthday was an amazing and tasteful event, perfectly timed, organized and impeccably attended. Frederico C. was kind enough to spend most of the Week-end with us and to bring us to the key posh points of the city. We even managed to score an invitation to the new mansion of the Marques Alex de A. which is even better than his DC home. Lisbon is a vibrant up-and-coming European city with a traditional twist and the boys are gorgeous (particularly at Lux Fragil, the impressive nightclub, around 6 a.m.). They have olive skin, long hair and are all cut in Fred’s shape which reminded us of our trip to Cascais in the early nineties, a place filled with hot surfers where we are planning to return. They are also constantly smoking and offering to sell drugs to strangers at all time and on all occasions.

We have a confidential clause in our contract with Fagat and Guillermo V. which does not allow us to comment on their behavior but we can say that Fagat was at his Fagatest and looked like a fish in water at the Bairro Alto. We, for once, almost acted our –young - age, were relaxed (or at least as relaxed as an FHC can be when he isn’t wearing pajamas and cannot connect to e-bay) and utterly drunk every night.

Ok kiddos, my plane is definitely boarding. I see you this evening.

In which FHC flies out to Lisbon

FHC is a little on the rushed side today. Dearest Thomas B. reacted pretty nicely to another public attempt to re-out him (well at least he got to read nice compliments on his appearance in the comments section – one has to admit that he is hot particularly when you compare him to Kirk Fordham) by throwing a coming out bash. I wish I could attend his party as I am a big fan of Thomas but I have to take care of another Alex S.’s boy and will take a plane this evening to Lisbon where I will be joined by dearest Fagat as well as many friends coming to celebrate Sergio P.’s birthday. It’s definitely a strange time for gay republicans: even my (ex)roommate is after them. On the other hand I was lucky to attend this week an historical event which showed a very understanding White House. In Lisbon, I will make sure to lunch with our dear friend Frederico C. and check if he has lost even more weight.

In which FHC returns once again...

I had a great time camping this week-end… mostly because Kevin D. had conveniently positioned himself between nature and me to ensure a nicely filtered experience. When Ari S. and I arrived at the camp site on Friday evening, he and Drew had already arranged everything and we only had to slowly get wasted while trading gossips and reviving old memories. The only semi-harsh part of the trip was to use the non-flushing camp restrooms: it allowed us to feel we had deserved the woods. The hike in the forest was fun and led to beautiful scenery. We spent part of Saturday at the Edinburgh old times festival and had a great time mingling with the townies. I just regret we did not get to swim naked because the weather wasn’t favorable.

There is something very re-assuring in experiencing just for two nights a temporary and very relative renunciation to comfort. It gives us the illusion that wandering off like a nomad is still a possibility and that there is actually an exit door besides suicide and murder rampages. For a few moments, it seems plausible that we are only trapped in our fast paced lives because, to some extent, we agree to be and that we have the power to make our lives happy just by investing in some LL bean material and a map. Camping helps you believe that financial and social matters are inconsequent because nature is enough. There is a reason why traditionally the beauty of nature has been exploited by religion impostors.

In which FHC plans on going camping for the WE

Lately, people have been openly chuckling when they were told that I plan on going camping this Week-end in some unknown National Park. I find it quite offensive as I have no problem forsaking my all-too-relative luxury for great outdoor initiatives and am in a perfect shape to cope with nature. Actually I don’t mind at all not showering for extended periods of time. I even have a pocket knife (bought on e-bay) and I used to be a Marine Scout in 1993-1995 and was particularly known for my courage in the French wilderness. I love to camp particularly because in the US there is always a slight chance that you’ll end up squealing like a pig….hmmm… Sitting around a fire in the woods waiting to be raped: that’s my kind of an evening. What will you do with YOUR week end?

In other news, I knew it…I am sure that my $300 i-pod is obsolete now, less than 6 months after I bought it. I hate this period of history so much. Also the “New Fagat” managed to score 12 comment on his first entry.

Since we broke up, LL has been inundating me with thousands of press clippings. It probably is his own peculiar way of trying to make up for the years of abuse I endured in that relationship: so here is an hilarious New Yorker’s article (which could also serve as advice to our friend Fagat) as well as the controversy around the death of Precious. See you at the gym.

In which FHC ends up in Maine

We all know I hate to be pessimistic but tomorrow is going to be yet another happy airport day in FHC’s miserable existence. I am planning to leave for Portland, Maine tomorrow evening from Dulles for a long Week-end with some “friends” who will remain anonymous at the exact time Ernesto had in mind to destroy DC. Additionally, I am planning to do so on an award ticket, on an American airline on the eve of Labor Day Week End to make everything more exciting. But I have never been to Maine and I hear there are whales, trees, homosexuals, Rick H. and that you can eat lobsters and clam chowder and hunt and it all sounds really lovely and worth spending 10 hours in an airport with overexcited college girls while interacting with ugly flight attendants who do not understand my kind of English. I am very excited. Moreover now that the “host” just wrote: “Since the weather is going to be cool, bring a raincoat and a sweater”…which is an expression for “expect serious flooding”. Additionally as I strongly suspect that my “friends” will never actually pick me up from Portland airport and the whole thing is just a big scam, I already booked an hotel next to the airport to spend my Week-end. Perhaps I’ll take this unique opportunity to see the Portland Pirates… I have always been a huge fan. Now I just have to figure out what on one wears in New England.

In other news, Mark H. called me “silly” in an e-mail which I found quite ironic. I noticed that among my 60 friends on myspace, none is a girl. I also discovered that Tony B., the flamboyant Brazilian, is back in town after a year of absence…curlier than ever. Ok I am leaving…it’s late and I have to go to the gym so see y’all !

In which FHC needs a vacation and ...take one

It is going to be very peaceful with some classical music in the morning and light jazz in the evening. There will be a nice view, pure air and silly little birdies. LL will be forced to control his drinking because my parents will be around. I will be forced to control my mannerism and constant whining for the exact same reasons. Yet I will wear V-neck sweaters, moderately-sized sunglasses while reading Pamela’s biography outside and will shave every other day. I will just look like Philip Seymour Hoffman in Capote but darker and without the wit. You won’t be calling me. I won’t have to try to look cute because LL hasn’t given a f**ck since 1955 and my family hasn’t really seen me as a sexual object since I turned 12. For once, I will get to eat something else than sausage and pasta. I will read the French local news (mostly cute little stories on local boat wrecks), which are always light now that France is an inconsequent country and anti-Semitism is déclassé. I won’t take more than two decisions everyday and one of them will be to stay in bed. I will limit my conversation to clichés and Chinese proverbs and start all my sentences by “life is…” while letting LL complete them for me. It will just feel like Christmas but without the blazer and the hair gel. Yes kiddos, this is most probably my last entry until our return from vacations in two weeks. It is a little backward out-there and we won’t have internet access….

You see, life is (see… I already feel in vacation) terrible suffering with very short enjoyable pauses. If asked to draw my existence as a geometrical figure, I would go for an oscillating curb but certainly not for a sharp ascending line like most Americans probably would. At least my life has some rhythm. I am only happy in the cracks of it …probably so that I can endure it a little more. Vacations are exactly my kind of death. As I have felt lately that I was hitting rock bottom: a combination of DC brutal heat (the unbearable slimy shining of your sweaty foreheads has gotten on my fragile nervous system), LL’s rampant alcoholism, my useless crusade to lose back fat, the absence of mystic mysteries, some hastily handled job related matters, a few e-bay disasters, my boat wreck, the constant creeping of my thirties as well as the fact that we do not have a cleaning lady anymore (with little hope to find a new one and the everlasting smell of pee infiltrating my soul), it seems very logical that I am leaving on vacation tomorrow afternoon. The constant succession of tiny little domestic disappointments reminded me of that cute little quote: “It's not true that life is one damn thing after another; it is one damn thing over and over”. I was having such terrible thoughts today such as “Does my old shrink even remember that I exist?”, and “I hate people who stop elevators which are obviously going down when they plan to go up and yet have the guts to tell you “oh is that going down?” well….yes…if you must know, it is f****ing going down…how appalling can you be?” . But you know what? I am going to brew some disgustingly positive thoughts while on vacations and will come back full of energy, hope and illusions which will last me until the next crack. But first I’ll finish myself by watching “Little Miss Sunshine” this evening. See you in ten days.

In which FHC is your average homophobic f*ck

LL, with the complicity of Kevin D., tried to convince me yesterday to spend my Sunday at the water park with the Southern Boys throwing in the possibility to see Matt H. shirtless (not so much an incentive as he is already somewhat buttnaked on the cover of MW this week). I declined using the lame excuse that hair transplants do not support to be wet for an extended period of time. The truth (meaning the other true explanation) is that I am scared shitless by straight people particularly in the summer and particularly when they are close to the water since our trip to Mexico last year (see how I say Mexico even if we all know I really mean Cancùn… I have no pride whatsoever). I am traumatized and now the beach wakens up my internalized homophobia and my fear to be drowned by angry breeders.

Sadly, it’s that time of the year again. LL and I fly out to the Pointe de Kerbihan, in Brittany on Saturday evening…which is about as gay-friendly as Teheran. The time of our yearly interaction with straight families (including my own) is approaching.

You see we are very gay people at the beach: we always look like we are going to engage in anal sex any minute. We have matching polo bears beach towels, I wear oversized vintage Ray Bans, T-shirts sized large boy with “It is a crime against nature to butt fuck” written in bold letters on the front, women seersuckers shorts and unisex suede driving shoes. I read “Elle Décor” and Vogue which I pick up in the Air France lounge or Pamela Harriman’s biography. We play “Teaches of Peaches” on our gayish ipod sound system and while I am typing this, I am cruising e-bay for a very very very gay pink duffle beach bag with green polka dots (maybe I’ll go for the butcher one with the mermaid and the unicorn). But what really f*cks our chances to be confused for a pair of close fraternity friends, is that we call each other by the exact same nickname which of course leads to surrealistically gay conversations. My mother is going to be soooo embarrassed when I’ll introduce my American paypal dressed in a bright polo monogrammed with my initials and a red cap which says “Mount gay”.

At least this year, we will have a car so we can escape if some mob decides to attack us. Still, I really wish someone had written the “acting straight at the beach for dummies” guide: now that we all saw on Friday that our desperate attempt to teach me sport had ended up in a fiasco once again.

In which FHC is definitely on his way back

Back at Heathrow, I have an excruciating headache and feel like vomiting because I only slept a few hours and it took me about two hours to get from Islington to the airport. Additionally the lounge hostess is screaming about flights going to Geneva, Chicago and Houston (which must be the three most boring destinations one can imagine) and I know that BA does not give you aspirin unless you sign and file thousands of release forms with a lawyer at your side. The game was charming as the French crushed the Spaniards. I sipped two Guinnesses in the pub to look manlier which of course did not agree with my sorry digestive system. I am just so f***ing fragile and must be the only passenger in the Concorde Lounge who is drooling on his shirt – but then I am also the only one who practices sodomy on a regular basis. My short stopover in London was overall a great success, albeit tiring, and my main conclusion is that British boys are much cuter than they are known to be and that pounds are little immaterial things.

I noticed that back home the situation is getting tense over a very unclear pee situation and our cleaning lady strike. Thank god I am returning just in time to put some order in this mess and appease Kevin D. with some gin. I have been away for now about three weeks and am astonished that the kids managed to cohabitate peacefully for so long moreover while Israeli are rolling into Gaza.

I wish you all the best and am glad to be on my way home.

In which FHC is just a boring museum rat

The one which says that you must walk a lot to discover a city definitely did not have the pair of shoes I was wearing today. It is 7 p.m. and my feet are killing me literally while the shoes are plain dead, agonizing on the floor. I followed dearest Cub’s advice – nothing like American Euro Trash to guide you in the UK – and visited Sir John Soane’s Museum and the Wallace collection. I unfortunately added the British Museum in the middle and Tate Modern at the end and as a result feel quite exhausted. At the Wallace collection, the painting of Edward V and the Duke of York at the Tower by Paul Delaroche turned me on and I decided that all I want for Christmas this year is a Horace Vernet. At Soane’s, I thought that one can only love a country where people have “breakfast parlours”. I did not notice anything at the Tate’s museum but the gorgeous boys and Eberhard Havekost’s Ghost seating next to something by Marlene Dumas. These days museums are almost as hot as your average porn blog. Loved the museum’s architecture though and the Millenium bridge – there is a rumor that even LL enjoyed during his past visit.

I hated Oxford Street but was amazed by the fact that everybody at Cipriani of London had a female driver. I liked a lot British expressions such as “please mind the steps” and saw advertising for a book titled “we need not to talk about Kevin” with which I completely agreed. I read in the paper that 2% of the entire British population snorts Coke based on a UN report. I also called my mother to tell her that I wished we had been colonized by the Brits instead of the Belgians and enquire why I had been kept unaware of the British civilization during my entire youth.

I won’t follow Carlos’advice to visit Heaven both because I am way too old to sweet talk any bartender and because I am on my way to watch the game France-Spain in some pub before having dinner with some old alumni from school.

In which FHC is a tourist in the UK and enjoys it

My first impression is that London manages so adroitly to be located at the crossword of the historical European refinement as well as the best of the world modernity and pop culture that the roughness of the United States - New York in particular - seems completely overrated and a bit lazzy in comparison. Of course, NYC remains the most impressive city from a “guts feeling” perspective for the traveler when he gets there I believe but London has a much more intellectual and sensual touch. Also I must admit that the boys from the City and even the ones with diamond earrings with their rosy cheek, naturally trimmed bodies and short blond hair are all very sexy.

This being said, my first contact with the city was as awful as one would expect: the war-era security (three checkpoints) to get in the flight to LHO, the rain and gray weather, the sad sad British Airways arrival lounge, the noise at Paddington, all of it was a little too aggressive coming from the gorgeous hills of Africa after only a few hours a sleep. I really hesitated to take the next flight to DC. I was actually amazed by my own determination to visit the f***ing city and getting it done with: after seeing the huge cab line at Paddington, I went ahead and took the overcrowded tube by myself – it must have been my first contact with public transportation since 1987. To get in London in the early morning during the week is just impossible. I welcome any idea on how to catch my plane on Wednesday morning without taking the tube and fast train. By the way I understood why it was just impossible to get a room: Wimbledon and the Queen’s birthday could be the explanation.

I dragged my luggage to the gorgeous apartment of my friend sweating like a pig annihilating the shower I had just had at Heathrow. It took me exactly 24 hours of traveling between my hotel and her place. And then at 11 a.m., I courageously went ahead in the rain and took the tube (with an Oyster card) to Hyde Park Corner, saw the little beefeaters guys marching in front of the Palace and some royal event at Saint James square. I was amused by the fact that everything was said to be in Westminster, and thought a few times that I would have sworn I was in London. But of course, my main stop was on Jermyn st. which for me is the most magical place of all. T.M. Lewin and Charles Tyrwhitt were on sale and I might even have bought a little shirt. In London, it really seems that it must be awfully hard to dress badly - even Kevin D. would become somehow elegant if he lived there. I then went by 10 Downing st. (to check it off my list), the Parliament and Westminster. I also sipped a coffee while reading the Evening Standard hoping to be mistaken for some local. At 3 p.m. I just gave up and bought an 18￡ plastic umbrella at the National Gallery which I also visited. As in most major museums in the world, the most interesting thing are the fresh American teenagers strolling around. I definitely enjoyed more the Portrait gallery and thought that I would have done Charles Dickens if I had had the opportunity. I went back very quickly through Picadilly and took a little power nap.

Honestly, I would tell L to pack our bags immediately if it wasn’t for that awful weather, the Brit’s passion for football as well as what seems to be a pathological fear of terrorism (which is, I admit, justifiable given 7/7, the local version of 9/11). Also next time, I’ll take L with me because I felt a little helpless. Finally, I found it quite strange that people understood my English.

I hope you people in DC enjoy being flooded, tomorrow will be allocated to a few more interesting neighborhoods as well as the Tate Modern.