FHC’s resurrected blog

FOUND! FHC’s Secret Dairy[1]

Disclaimer. The inappropriate content and perverse opinions expressed by twink in residence (and in this case his obvious disrespect for privacy), LL do not reflect the moderate views of FHC. FHC’s resurrected blog shall not be held liable for the accuracy or correctness of any information in the following entry. We appreciate your patronage. Your buddies at FHC's, Maria and Pedro.

Today is Saturday, so it means I have to guest blog. When I tried to refuse, FHC threw his notepad at me and threatened to kick me out if I didn’t start writing.[2]  As an act of rebellion, I decided not to write anything at all. I’m just going to report exactly what FHC writes in this little pad of his.  Ready?  Here goes:

-         Clean stuff

-         Take your contacts out !

-         Buy black laces online

-         Buy soap

-         Masque[3]

-         Buy some flowers[4]

That’s a little sneak peak inside the fabulous life of FHC. Surprised?  We didn’t think so.

In other news, no one told me that coming to DC for the weekend would mean I would miss seeing Madonna at Roxy (confirmed by our friends at FAGAT’s). FHC told me he’d make it up to me by taking me to see “Julio Vasquez” at Nation tonight.  That would be so totally awesome, except for one tiny (or as they say in France, petit) problem. Who the f*** is Julio Vasquez?[5]

Finally, some people have expressed concern that there isn’t enough culture in FHC’s life these days.  Well, we’re happy to report that a copy of “Franny and Zooey” is on his beds stand. Very cute.  Not only is this CRR’s favorite book (we think), but it also mentions the “Yale Game” in the very first sentence – something that FHC couldn’t be more excited to experience firsthand next month!!!

PS: FHC and LL promise they won't be at the Reel Affirmation Festival either tonight nor at the Miss Adams Morgan Pageant instead they will be free-loading at the Gs.

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[1] We know this is a typo.  FHC is lactose intolerant.

[2] Someone please call the Department of Children and Family Services, pronto.

[3] We found out later that “masque” is a preventative measure against avian asian bird flu influenza

[4] We confess, this one was very nice since the flowers were meant for LL.

[5] Edit:  Several crackheads have called to update me:  1) apparently it’s “Junion” Vasquez  2) and I guess “Junior” is some kind of the most famous DJ in the world. Um, we still don’t know what that means.

From the Desk of LL: FHC isn’t the only unstable one here

Your usual disclaimer about LL’s entry: FHC’s cannot be hold responsible for any adverse consequence of LL’s numerous phobia, however, in case of written complaints the kid will definitely face the customary disciplinary actions and be suspended from same-sex-couple for an undetermined period of time.

Ever since I saw this story about a whackjob who tried to punch out the window of an airplane on a recent flight, I’ve been panicked about being sucked out of an airplane.  Part of this anxiety comes from my childhood.  Only three or four years old, I watched my sister’s balloon fly out our car window and reasonably concluded that I was in danger of being blown out as well.  For the next ten years, whenever my family would travel by far, I would forbid anyone from rolling down the windows.  You might not think that’s a problem, but try driving through Iowa in 90 degree heat in a 1978 Chevy Suburban without air-conditioning and a six year old brat (me) who refuses to let anyone get fresh air.

Flash-forward 20 years and all I can think about is being blown out of a plane if a window breaks or if an emergency exit opens mid-flight and the cabin depressurizes. I can hear you all saying right now:  "FHC, the kid is not well.  you should have dumped him a while ago. You really don't need that right now.  Things like that couldn’t possibly happen." But look here and tell the nine passengers sucked out of their bucolic business class seats that I’m crazy or read this and tell me I have no reason to worry.

The NTSB website uses the phrase “lost at sea” to describe the passengers who lose the Russian Roulette of airline seat selection in incidents like this.  Last time I checked, “lost at sea” didn’t usually mean being hurdled wildly through the air at 500 mph in below-freezing temperatures in the earth’s upper atmosphere and falling 36,000 feet into the Pacific Ocean. Try telling that to Christopher Columbus.

Between avian flu and hurricanes, not to mention all the problems, pain, and suffering in the world right now, one would hope that at least I wouldn’t have to worry about being ejected from a hole that opens accidentally in an airplane.  Well, think again.

Is that your bag ?

Disclaimer. As usual, the self-hatred and over-the-top views expressed in this entry are those of LL exclusively. They do not represent the views or opinions of FHC, Pedro or Maria whom anyway are too busy with uninterrupted prayer assisting FHC’s iother blog in his pious agony.

When I turned on my TV Thursday evening after getting home from classes, Wolf Blitzer on CNN had quite a surprise for me: “NEWS ALERT:  TERROR THREAT on NYC Subway!”

It’s amazing how a little information like that can so drastically change my habits. Moments earlier, I’d been riding the subway without a concern in the world (although I’m convinced I saw a white blond woman buy cocaine on the platform – another Kate Moss trend victim I guess). Afterwards, though, I was a different person. A few hours later, I hopped on a bus (no more subway for me) to meet my friends at Shake Shack. A man with a giant trash bag got on with me. It didn’t take much for me to dream up a million possible items he could be carrying with him in that bag, and I decided to sit as far away from him as possible, just in case. In the morning, I changed my routine (in case any “bomber” had been watching) and rode the bus to school. It was me and a group of noisy black women – no risk there, unless you count fake Gucci as a deadly threat to my sense of common decency.

Of course, announcements like the one on CNN also make us all rabid racial profilers.  On my plane to DC, with the threat to the subway and the alarming midday closing of Penn Station in mind, I took my seat (in the very last row) next to – get this – an Arab man with a mustache, stone-washed jeans right out of a “Wham!” video and a denim jacket.  If that doesn’t fit the 1980s Hollywood definition of a you-know-what (at FHC’s we avoid casual use of words which carry emotional or value judgments like terrorist or …c*nt), then I don’t know what does.  I considered asking to be re-seated, the stewardess were all too preoccupied trying to shove some crazy woman’s, that looked a lot like Paris Hilton, toy poodle underneath the seat in front of her.

But at least now I’m safely here in DC. Anyone reading this from NYC, if you see something, say something, and buckle up in taxis.

The Senate confirmation hearings for FHC’s resurrected blog are starting next week. The staff at FHC’s, mainly Pedro and Maria, is wildly preparing, but we’re not quite sure we’re going to make it through

From LL: An Email Is Forever

Disclaimer. The inappropriate content and perverse opinions expressed by twink in residence LL do not reflect the moderate views of FHC. FHC’s resurrected blog shall not be held liable for the accuracy or correctness of any information in the following entry. We appreciate your patronage. Your buddies at FHC's, Maria and Pedro.

The most dangerous thing about email is that you can never take a message back.  The examples never end:

- At my old job, my co-worker received an strange email from a colleague of ours, and thinking he was forwarding it to me wrote, “She is so weird, isn’t she?”. There was only one problem: he clicked reply instead of forward.  In an ipodnanosecond, the harm was done and it was irreversible.

-

In college, after getting trashed, I sent an overly honest and aggressive email to someone I’d had a crush on.  Click. Nothing I could do the next morning could erase my message.  Sure, we’ve all made fool of ourselves drunk before, but people’s memories fade, phone messages are deleted, and humiliating attempts to sleep with people only last a night.

Emails, though, last forever.  Whoever said something needed to be written in stone to be permanent couldn’t have been more wrong – Outlook Express is starting to compete with the Bible in length.  [For our Muslim readers, please insert “Koran” for “Bible.”  Atheists, please substitute “The Crying of Lot 49” – ed.].

I still have some emails that were sent years ago that I'm holding for future blackmail.

Generations of men have tried and failed to solve the mistaken email problem.  Some pretend like nothing happened, and after accidentally sending an email saying “Ruth B.G. looks like the crypt-keeper” to Ruth B.G. instead of their friend, just invite her out to coffee later in the week as though the email was never sent.  Others try to cover their tracks: “Please delete the unbelievably compromising email I just sent you from your inbox.  Also, please don’t forward it to anyone we know.  Kisses.”

The last option is the one most often taken by FHC.  He just comes clean, and follows up with a second email, this one on purpose: “Dear friend, I hope you weren’t surprised by the email I just sent calling you a whore.  But the thing is, you are a whore, and technically that’s entirely your fault, not mine.  I haven’t even slept with you.”

Let this be a warning to all of you: send me an email by accident, and there’s nothing I can do but send it to Rush & Malloy, post it on this blog, and add it as a comment to your Friendster profile.  Sorry.

Love, Romance and Prejudice

Disclaimer. The racist, sexist, homophobic, anti-semitic, anti-social, inappropriate, Fhcobic views and opinions expressed by this specific outlaw contributor (whom I occasionally sleep with) are not endorsed whatsoever by FHC's resurrected blog, which is all about love and friendship.

FHC has assigned another guest blog entry for me today – he’s had three naps and can’t find the energy to write anything.

Now that I’ve started school, I’ve begun to wonder whether I’m secretly racist like Matt H.. For example, I have four professors, and someone at the school asked me about them. We got to the last one – my legal writing professor – and I told him her name was Jackie J. P. He said he couldn’t put his finger on who she was. I spent the next ten minutes trying to describe her and shake his memory, all the while purposely omitting one thing that could surely identify her: she’s black. Yes, now he remembered her.  He’d actually been her professor when she was a law student.

Am I holding myself to a double standard? When someone asks who Chris R. is, I say “the gay flailing one.” When they ask about FHC, he’s “the midget Spanish one with a ridiculous accent.”  KMZ, “the funny gentile.”  But when it comes to racial distinctions, I’m paralyzed.  Who’s Oprah W.?  “She’s the formerly fat talk show host.”  The Ayatollah K? “He's, you know, that world leader who isn't so nice.”

            This all brings me back to the days when riding on the NYC subway several years ago, EB K. and Josh O. were talking about a white friend of theirs who’d been dating only non-whites. He had an affliction, they explained, called “jungle fever.” Being a little more naïve then than I am now I asked, without appropriately reducing the volume of my voice, “HOW DO YOU CATCH JUNGLE FEVER? WHAT IF I GET IT?!?!?!”

Some people say that when I’m thinking about these types of questions I should consider how I’d like to be described. FHC calls me his “Jewish boyfriend” which probably isn’t anti-Semitism, although is great uncle was “collabo.”  Perhaps it’s just a way for him to differentiate me from his  weekdays “goy-ish boyfriend” and “coke addict boyfriend.”  And considering some of the other things people have called me, I should probably be relieved.

In other news, Kevin D., FHC’s Mexican roommate performed at the National Cathedral for President B. yesterday and didn’t tell anyone. In blogorific: we read Koba's blog, jossip, more on butt-ugly and the fag-hag complaint.

Ok we are off to avoid the Results members'party and Alex W.'s welcome back/go away/whatever party.

lawless and disorderly life of LL in NYC

This is an exciting time for  FHC's resurrected blog: just this past week, it logged more visitors than in any other time in its history.  More people have posted comments here than ever before, and other bloggers are starting to take notice.  But there’s another trend that I can’t help but notice: no one has asked the most pertinent question of all.  How is LL?

Well, let me share with you what my first week in New York has been like.  Law school is everything I’ve expected and more: everyone is either a total freak, anti-social, homosexual, a chronic overeater, or any combination of those.  And nobody wears their collar up. I’m not sure what cross-section of people decides to become lawyers, but I do know one thing for sure: there is very little overlap between these people and those who aspire to be professional athletes, models, or talk show hosts. 

Of course, I knew going in that I had to set the social pecking order as early as possible.  Would I be Elle W. or the snarky, hypercompetitive Vivian K?  You’ve probably all answered the question correctly already.  I’m obviously Vivian.  But I can’t help it if the rest of my class is made up of poorly dressed bores who I have no other choice but to judge (and I don’t mean judge in that Civil Procedure sort of way.)

We’ve had a wonderful weekend here in the gayborhood of Chelsea, though FHC forgot to get his rainbow flag tattoo in advance, so he was tackled and then branded by an angry pack of ‘mos.  Desperate for approval, I begged FHC to tell me what he thought of my new apartment.  He replied Spanishly: “Apartment?  All I see is a small corridor.”

Despite his complaints about its size, we’ve still had enough visitors today to fill the N.O. Civic Center – Chris and Alex R., Costas C., and the ever trendy Lyle M. 

Unbeknownst to us Law & Order SVU was shooting on our block – and “shooting” is not a metaphor.  Three piercingly loud gunshots rang out last night, followed by a shout of “we’ve got a police officer down,” at which point Zed threw herself into the bathroom and locked the door for safety.

Because the events of this weekend really are on all our minds and are a time to pause, reflect, and remember what it means to breathe the sweet air of freedom, we’re celebrating the start of Fashion Week by going to the Lacoste party at the Maritime Hotel tonight.

Finally, a small prediction.  When C.J. William R. died last weekend, I called FHC immediately and told him that President George B. would nominate Judge John R. to replace him.  But that, of course, leaves a replacement for Justice Sandra Day O. still to be announced.  I’d like the record to show that I predict he’ll nominate our good friend Alberto G. to fill that role.  And you all had better hope I’m right, otherwise we’re going to end up with one of those psychotic women everyone’s talking about.

Your buddy LL

From twink in résidence: LL

Dear readers,

Tristan has kindly allowed me to blog in his place for the evening; he’s otherwise preoccupied cleaning up Olliver’s vomit. The first thing I’d like to point out is just how many of you actually read this GD thing – despite your complaints that you’re notified each time it’s updated.  Walking down 17^th street, for instance, every little homo on the street (Fagzilla aka Ryan P. among them) wishes FHC a good vacation to Cancun, or, alternatively, welcomes him back from Tunis. Moreover, 306 of you f****ers (as they say in la Spain) have visited his Friendster page since July 6, 2005.

Today I tried to implement a new policy at the suggestion of Bob S. that Tristan and I speak only his native language for one hour each day so I can be as fluent in Tristan’s language as he is in mine; not only was my request rejected instantly, but I was thoroughly ridiculed as well.

We’ve given up on reading for the evening and instead plan on watching the Pianist. So far the death count in all the movies we’ve watched on Netflix since June 1 is at 26. After this evening, I expect that total to climb astoundingly to approximately 12,000,026. On that note, if anyone has any uplifting movies to recommend – the House of Sand and Fog is just the most recent example of the depressing movies I’ve been forced to watch – please post your suggestions in the  comments section.

Finally, we had some trouble agreeing on a good brand of sunscreen to purchase.  Again, please post suggestions below, keeping in mind that we’re not looking to go any higher than SPF 15 (Tristan already has a good base from the fake tan he got yesterday next to Cobalt), and that we’d like to avoid anything oily.

Your friend, LL