FHC’s resurrected blog

In which FHC tries the whole sailing on a hangover thing...and fails

Last night I got wasted beyond belief. I should have gone home directly after a charming evening of cocktails and gossips at Frif T.’s house but Mark H., the new bad influence in my life (someone had to replace the late Kevin W.), tricked me into joining him at Cobalt by guaranteeing that he would get me laid. He proved himself to have no talent whatsoever for matchmaking but to be a very efficient pusher. I did the usual Cobalt stuff: making out with random people, drunk text messaging people, begging for sex, making slutty small talk with underage congressional pages and offensive comments to my last acquaintances in the city etc…I got home by 3:30 in a terrible condition. But what was new, is that when I woke up, still unbelievably drunk, I was too ashamed to call in sick and therefore had to jump on a sailboat first thing in the morning with LL who once again is visiting DC or something. I am used to run on a hangover, I thought I could pull the sailing thing. About 30 seconds after we left the dock, I started puking and did not stop until 2 hours later. Everybody on the other boats around us must have thought it was strange to get that seasick on the Potomac. It was one of the most painful experiences of my life: the sun was painful, the wind was painful and even the mineral water would make me nauseous. After that I never really recuperated, I am still ridiculously hungover and very angry at life and Mark H. I wish I could say that at least it taught me a good lesson but it didn’t and we all know that my alcohol problem is only going to get worse. Posting this entry took the little life I had left….

In which FHC dresses [poorly] for the part

As the premise of yesterday’s evening was that we would get to “hang out with the band”, I was expected to dress for the occasion with something like a groupie outfit. Specifically, I was told to wear “something charming and cute that is casual and fun”. Sadly, I have reached the point where one’s wardrobe only leave me him the choice between moving to an estate in the North of Sussex, stay home and watch TV or die. In the past two years, I have slowly classicized my outfits to the point that I only have stuff to wear for poetry readings, Yale alumni meetings and walks in the country. I must have thought I would remain married to a lawyer for the rest of my life at one point.. For an instant I really wanted to step in my closet and lit myself in fire to make a stronger statement than an entry in my silly  blog.

As I was running late and more depressed than usual, I finally digged out some tank-top with the inscription “Surf-fight” on the front which I covered with a ridiculously small vintage leather bomber. I put on my coolest pair of jeans and these ugly $10 sneakers on which I must have puked at least ten times. I found myself spending the evening with charmingly overdressed Portland people (and very talented ones… I loved their show) in that very uncomfortable costume feeling slightly foolish and listening to stories about weird and astonishing local customs.

In case, I had any doubt on the effect I managed to produce, Kevin D. welcomed me later that evening by telling me that “from far [I] look like a twink until one sees the saggy wrinkles on [my] face”. Great ! Because that’s the look I was going for.

In which FHC advocates for the opening of a real bathhouse in the district

Week-ends: those little moments of life drowned in an ocean of labor…that we, gay men, spend looking in all the wrong places for sex and intimacy (in my particular case: extra-marital sex, the rarest, yet noblest kind). I always feel that here is something esthetic, feathery and sadly adorable about the Saturday night mating dance of the faggot. For this is a dance for survival because faggots know that if they go back home alone, their loneliness will feel like death and they might disappear forever victims of the big vacuum of gay self-hatred.

Carlos U.’s farewell party was delightful, very well attended (by which I mean Jim M. was there, chaperoning the very vulnerable Kevin W. who attempted to kill me a few times in the course of the evening) and LL got terribly drunk as usual. Trying to hide the fact that I am a dull small talker particularly awkward around straight people (if the word sodomy is excluded from a conversation I feel powerless), had exhausted me at Prom earlier that evening. Therefore, I just sat there silently at Carlos and contemplated the last minute negotiations of who gets back home with whom. The males with the most obvious gene superiority were of course being disputed through often desperate tactical moves by inferior males (the alpha-male-dominated group: about 90% of the gay population) and it was very amusing albeit a little scary. One might wonder why the gay specie with does not reproduce is so obsessed with the gene pool/capital of its sexual partners: the offspring of gay relationships are nothing but tears, hideously decorated houses and spoilt doggies. Yet instead of just picking the closest sexual partner for their flings, gays are always targeting first the dominant males. There was so much pheromone in the air around 2 a.m. that it almost became difficult to breathe. I really wonder when DC will get a serious bathhouse like this one: this would decongestion our social life so much.

In other news, I learnt from dearest David D. there that young people listen to Sufjan Stevens these days (which I unfortunately had originally written “Sophia and Steven” on my notepad).

In which FHC takes a stroll down memory lane

The theme of the evening must have been “a random Thursday night of 2002”. Rodolphe B. and I first met at “Le Pigalle” a new out-of-place pretentious yet French lounge on 17^th which replaced Pepper’s (it mustn’t but that bad as I noticed Alex A. and Paul B. have a romantic dinner there) and then had a quick dinner at Hank’s Oyster Bar which only shined by the lack of style of its waitress. Later on at the Diner was packed with a heteroclite mix of almost entirely Caucasian middle class gay men (I even heard the name “cub” being shouted even if I couldn’t spot him). The owner clearly tapped in something….either inner solitude, promiscuity or boredom. What Fagat would probably describe as the great gay DC vacuum? We flirted as much as we could with Thomas B., managed to avoid another glass pouring by Alex S., saw David D. flanked by LL’s dearest “friend” Ben T. and his equally unbearable sidekick John J., we also ran into Drew W., half a TT, Campbell M., Marshall S., Clint M. – who kindly provided Rodolphe’s Mexican super which he must have consumed later on at Apex (probably a cinco de Mayo special), and a new guy called Carlos that Kevin D. had hidden from us zealously.

The grand finaleof the trip was Apex’s video room, a trashier but fresher alternative to the Diner, where the good looking twinks never show up before 12:30 a.m. There were of course Ashton G. and a cute smallish guy I remembered from the Toga party as well as some euro called Romain. We also ran into that trashy belligerent retail queen who looks a bit like LL. I dirty danced with a GW undergrad which seemed pretty horny and called it a night around 1:30 a.m.

I may have had acid reflux all night long, my clothes smell like cigarette and poverty and staying up late is known to f*ck me for an entire week but it was almost worth it. Back in the days, I would even have gone to work the day after and probably managed to get a cell phone number out of it.

I am now on my way to New York City on the 2 p.m. USAir to see that f***er in a fishbowl as well as fix my relationship.

In which FHC acknowledges he is going through yet another midlife crisis

You know your life is off balance when it all starts with an elegant picnic by the Potomac River and then you end up butt naked spaced out at a Toga party at 2.m. to finally wake up at 12:25 the following day in a total fog with inexplicable bruises on your forearm. We could clearly blame it on Kevin W’s terrible influence and most probably we will if necessary. But I also have to admit that having drowned in alcohol two valiums (3 for Kevin I believe) and a xanax earlier in the evening might have played a role as well as triggered some kind of a minor manic episode.

One could legitimately wonder what a toga party is besides a lame excuse for an orgy (Btw I dug out some tips to plan a successful orgy). I can’t believe that this seems to be a pillar of the American college life. Boy did I miss out wasting my youth between dance and bridge classes! I don’t even want to talk about it. The host, a youthful Ashton G. had managed to gather a handful of 19 years old in Togas and I might have drooled a little. A nice girl had kindly lent me her toga probably understanding that she would not get laid in such an environment (note to self: buy my own toga or ask LL for it at Christmas time) and I did not feel my 28 years old and 148.5 pounds for at least 15 minutes. As a consequence my behavior might have been a bit too Roman-like, and I have clearly already f**ed upmy reputation with the younger generation forever but I had a lot of fun.

Of course as usual, the problem is the morning after: memories and a hangover. I am actually on my way to a power nap and am going to cut the anxiety medicine for a while.

Killing myself one birthday party at a time

I guess that’s what happens when people start throwing birthday dinners at 6 pm (I always thought afternoon parties were for underprivileged pre-schoolers). You end up leaving trashed and ridiculed at 1 a.m. (instead of slightly tipsy and charmed at 4 a.m.) and wake up in an advanced stage of decomposition. Ah the lonely Sunday mornings of the alcoholics.

From the little I can recall, Fagat’s birthday party was all the rage yesterday. The glamorous décor reminded me of an Austrian brothel I once frequented and the guests list included a mix of human beings, Ivy League graduates (the kind that cannot help but tell you about the time they backpacked across East Africa even if it does not fit into the conversation), heavy hitters in NYC sodomites’ community, at least one Afghan warlord and a myriad of anonymous girls. I am asked to believe that I unsuccessfully pushed LL to commit adultery with some fellow Jew who apparently spent both time and energy picking his friendster pictures. Everybody was badmouthing Alex S. and commenting on Cub’s friendliness. Nobody was wearing a stripped shirt besides perhaps Chirag. I was so wasted by 11 p.m. that I ended touching a pair of breasts (incidentally the generous one of Alex R.) and smoking from some cigarette – two bad habits I had quit for a long time - as a consequence I turned completely green and we had to leave just before they brought large crystal fruit cocktail bowl filled with cocaine and Jimmy was getting in. That's the last thing I remember of that evening… and the fact that I concentrated really hard not to puke in the cab.

As a consequence today was really painful: I woke up with an intense headache which did not get better and dragged myself around LL’s apartment crying about the fact that this binge drinking was totally uncalled for. I am sure we missed the best part of the evening (usually when the male models take off their clothes) and that we made comments to people we will regret…once again. As LL put it so well at 3:21 p.m. today "Do you think our lives are really depressing FHC?"

One last piece of information: I was told that Emile, the shitzu, did not have a cold but a good old rhynitis. He'll survive.

FHC’s hopes for the week get shattered LIVE

Kevin and I just overpaid $46 a damp and stinky stack of wood to this charming toothless Cul Pepper native. The guy was unbelievably enthusiastic and he even guessed my nationality adding that “he had never met a French guy before”. I was about to offer him and his divine attendant some tea and biscuits, hoping that they would improvise a version of "Dueling Oboes" with Kevin (who also happens to be an homosexual rapist inbred hillbilly) and that we could discuss the role of the US within the UN system, until I started to fear to end up “squealing like a pig”.

Anyway I am glad to be back home, it is so nice to see poorly dressed people again … particularly fleeces (I really missed fleeces), waiters who call you “buddy” and still expect 20% tips, LL’s eyes lightening up for Bagel Dogs. LL and I had lunch with courageous Alex and Ari at Pepper’s just so I could prove to LL that you could f*ck up your stomach in the US too.

Ok I just puked… I love how my blog gets so f***ing real sometimes. So we have three options a. Glamorous option: I just caught the bird flu and I’ll make it to national TV; b. Least disturbing option: Pepper’s Petite Filet Mignon poisoned me and I’ll be fine tomorrow as I smartly vomited it; c. Really annoying option: LL gave me his stomach flu (we have been sharing some saliva lately) just before leaving. Let’s just hope no medical controversy will erupt from this unfortunate event.

I really hope you guys stick around but personally I am going to pop a sleeping pill and see on Monday morning which option was correct.

Chanukah pity party

First I believe we had all agreed that I wasn’t expected to blog on Saturdays. The situation is that LL, who has never been that busted since 1980, is at mummy’s house in Chicago and completely forgot his guest blogging duty or the fact that he had a boyfriend for that matter.

Second it’s Christmas Eva and I am all alone. Every American I know is in a mall somewhere, trying to find the perfect gift for his parents to make up for a what a disappointment he is but me. Well not completely alone. Ari and Michael apparently accepted to rescue me and we are going to eat Chinese, be as Jewish as we can and watch a movie tonight (Ari refused to accompany me see Narnia…go wonder). When I told that to mother she seemed to be quite unsettled and said “Why Chinese? what a strange idea ! Is this a Hanukah tradition ?” (I had briefed her). It could be worse Mum, I could spend Christmas with KEVIN D.’S FAMILY. If you thought Kevin was not sophisticated enough, please meet the family.

Why doesn’t anybody cook goddamm cookies for me?

OK enough. I am off to Safeway or something.

FHC pretends he has an atheist cute readership !

      ilovesushi209: hello

FHC: Don't take this personally, but why do you feel the need to be so aggressive?

      ilovesushi209: i read your blog, and noticed you were online

FHC: Sorry I thought you were a manhunt contact. Thank you for your patronage!

      ilovesushi209: you're welcome

FHC: I insist. Thank you for your patronage (bis). Visit us again.

      ilovesushi209: bis?

FHC: How far did you go in high school? That would be Latin for repeat

      ilovesushi209: i see where has this day gone? i woke up about an hour and a half ago

FHC: You sound like a winner!

      ilovesushi209: no, i was just extremely hangover

FHC: and unemployed.. problem drinking is found to increase unemployment you know

      ilovesushi209: no, i'm employed

FHC: at night I bet, you wh*re ! Buuuuusted !

FHC: Sorry I apologize I did not mean that. I am a bit tired and I just snapped !

      ilovesushi209: but my office was closed for a "holiday party" which i didn't want to attend

FHC: So we now know for sure that you are some kind of a High school drop outs who sound like a winner, are anti-social but employed and yet read my blog.

      ilovesushi209: i was very social last night. i got four business cards for internships next fall

FHC: So you are at the young end of the twenty-year age spectrum, interesting: I am looking to replace my current boyfriend who is on the dead end of the spectrum.

      ilovesushi209: yes, i'm still an undergrad

FHC: Networking is for the obsequious and desperate. I read somewhere !

FHC: I am sorry. I did not mean that.

      ilovesushi209: i prefer nepotism, but daddy doesn't know many in this town

FHC: Where do you go to school my young disciple.?

      ilovesushi209: GDubb

FHC: Good for you.

      ilovesushi209: though, i've found my most important education takes place on the street corner

FHC: you sound a bit worish indeed !

      ilovesushi209: you really like your exclamatory phrases

FHC: Don’t be insolent youngster. You make me very exclamatory !!!

      ilovesushi209: it rhymes with inflammatory, which is what my leg is doing right now

FHC: You are not a bargain...what is it ? gangrena ? blue veins on your inner thighs ?

FHC: gangrena = muerte tisular …I translate because obviously you don’t know much.

      ilovesushi209: no, just blunt trama

FHC: Is your boyfriend being rough lately ? (I assume you are a woman or a fag, they are my only readers besides Kevin W. who is both a woman and a fag)

      ilovesushi209: no

FHC: Good for you.

      ilovesushi209: Lacoste shoes arn't meant for the snow

      ilovesushi209: i slid into a pole

FHC: So we know for sure that you are some kind of a High school drop outs who sounds like a winner, is anti-social but employed, read my blog and is a lacoste shoes wearing fag with ugly legs marbled with blue veins.

FHC: Is your name Clint F. ?

      ilovesushi209: god no

FHC: Personal joke.

FHC: Listen my sushi friend, I am going to have to leave you as I am finishing a paper before getting the hell out of here but I wanted you to know that I am the biggest fan ! I love the whole sushi thing.

      ilovesushi209: thanks, it means a lot

      ilovesushi209: after all, i'm anti-social and have no friends.

Our own little sleep deprived FHC

Here we are 3:25 a.m. and FHC, the vile insomniac gala dinner whore is wide awake on a weekday: 10/12 is going to be another fun day. An overly negative interpretation of this situation would be that I need to get back on Buspar badly or I’ll snap at work one of these days. A more realistic analysis of it is that I could be insomniac in a homeless shelter and that drinking myself back to sleep is still an option. Let’s go downstairs to find some cheap wine and I'll try to sleep for two or three hours before heading to work.