FHC’s resurrected blog

In which FHC decides to be cheerful

As if it was not enough that the crocodile guy died in a terribly ironic accident, my trip to the unnamed destination, I was looking forward to, has been cancelled today. I therefore have the choice between blogging once again on how miserable my life is both professionally and personally or on speculations on local gay murders. Don’t count on me. As Kevin D.’s grandma would say when it rains it pours and I just have to be patient for a little while. Maybe I’ll just go to Spain with Fagat and wait a little there.

Still I hummed all day “I dreamed a dream” [FHC is left alone, unemployed and destitute]. How refreshing to see that I manage to keep time for cheerful musicals in the midst of such a gloomy personal reality.

Oh and please let’s wish a happy birthday to Kevin D.

In which FHC is depressed in an airport once again

As I feel a little under the weather at Portland, ME airport where my “friends” dumped me on their way back to NYC, I decided to buy the whole album of “Les Misérables” even if I never saw the show. Airports are such an awful place to deny the emptiness of one’s existence, the dramatic yet sooo predictable end of one’s relationship and the fact that one’s computer memory is running dangerously low. I don’t even have the strength to go get drunk at the bar. A cheerful TSA employee is reminding us that we are on an “Orange Homeland Security Level” and I really look Woody Allenish in my oversized tweed jacket. Actually, I also feel a little sick to my stomach which is the main drawback of hanging out with bright young minds who sustain themselves exclusively on lobster, weed, fried eggs, crossword puzzles and hard candy. I really don’t think that I can postpone being a lonely middle age gay man much longer.

Maine is such a charming place with gorgeous lakes, friendly mosses, little English cottages and outlets. Everybody looks so f****ing healthy in that Airport too… I think I am gonna puke. I have difficulties to imagine that such an environment could have inspired so many twisted Stephen King’s books.

In other sad news, it is now official that our friend Fagat is leaving for Spain before the end of the week and seems to be decided to sublet his blog for a little while. Additionally, vividblurry collapsed. If we are not careful, one day we will wake up and the blogosphere will look like this. He also plans to sublet Cub which might be pretty convenient.

F**ck my plane is leaving…so long amigos. Hasta la vista. Dors avec les anges.

In which FHC returns...

I drove dearest LL and his four overweight suitcases to Reagan National airport earlier today after three days of intensive packing, terrifying judicial battle over the custody of our joint wardrobe, many games of Tennis and some dramatic and tearful adieux. This marked the end of our great vacation as well as more discreetly, the subtle end of what I – and most of my friends - consider my best role so far. Symbolically it was the first time I drove a car alone (besides maybe the time I drove from Dupont to Adam’s Morgan to pick up Drew but LL was giving me advice on the phone). Back home, the emptiness and the silence are only disturbed by my solitude creeping in and conscientiously unpacking after a long absence. The end of August is always a sad time. Suddenly it seems that Olliver is nothing more than a bored cat and crab legs are just awful fakes. I just discovered that I am out of Xanax (my motto is no emotions without medication), I have a bad cold and to make it even sadder, I am intentionally playing the soundtrack of The Hours of my ipod, skipping lunch and weeping over John J.’s departure to some ridiculous destination. The empty closet feels unreal and my lack of purpose just plain fantastic. I feel knocked out. Exciting time for the blog and my most resilient readers indeed: I forecast for the near future not only a lot of overspending on e-bay but also FHC looking awful naked, sad mornings, poor decisions being made, getting advice from unreliable counselors, minimal social activity, a lot of Netflix and clearly some prescription pills. Maybe if we are lucky, there will be a 12 steps program, some questions on tactical online profile management and one night stands which are always great entry material. It will be depressing, raw and uneventful. Anyway I am afraid that FHC’s resurrected blog statistics cannot get worse at this point. Happily for you, viviblurry is back, and against all my vile prophecies, cheerful.

All that to tell you not to count on me to blog about our little trip to France. Just know that a) it was charming, eventful and yet went very well; b) I was constrained to drive a shift and fly economy; c) I finished Pamela; and d) sailing on the Potomac is out …sailing in the Atlantic ocean is in. Gosh…do I hate change...

In which FHC leaves on a cheerful note

Some alcoholic friend of mine wrote to me today “your conversation [yesterday] made me want to throw myself through the window” while my coffee date told me "you're good at that.. Ruining nice moments…you world hater" and I had not even briefed him on my new research paper on Chris Hubbock and her well-known method to cure depression. F***ck you too. I am not depressed: I even tried to play Tennis yesterday evening. I sometimes wonder if it’s really not ok to be a selfish depressed f**ck in the big scheme of things: am I getting some bad karma?. On one hand being miserable insures lucidity and a little edge (which might explain why, you, so very perky people are always so damn wrong and dull), on the other hand it makes your company quite insufferable for people around. Deep awareness of your personal utter failure, the one of your peers and political leaders as well as the complete futility of homosexual lives has a tendency to demolish upbeat conversation, I have to agree. As a consequence of all these negative comments on my negativity, I did not find the strength, in my depressed apathy, to write an overdue insulting letter to zipcar about the fact that they completely ignored my complaint about the empty tank of the car I rent last week and bid on the vintage Silver Plated Cutlery from the Ritz, express my anger over the disgusting habit that people have to bring their kids to work (either they go or I’ll go) and I told Kevin D. that he looked slimmer yesterday evening. I have been mopping around and drinking coffee for years now. If it’s ok with you I am going to lie down, play some Elliot Smith mixed tapes (courtesy of David D.) and die now. (Sorry, looks like I got a tiny bit carried away right there….zoloft anybody?)

DC has its own blog aggregator. How did I qualify to receive spam on jew camp?

In which FHC gets a Tattoo on his forehead

As I woke up once again depressed this morning - why do my insensitive cousins have to send me over and over these fat pictures from Cyprus? why? I hope the island gets invaded by Israel too -, I was trying to figure out all morning what would make me feel better besides buying what’s left of the Waldorf Astoria silverware on e-bay. I figured out that a tattoo would make me feel much better. A little scorpion tattoo on my lower back or maybe some web design on my shoulder, a blood-dripping dagger on my upper-arm, my initials or the sentence “George Bush is my hero” inked on my calves in some awful gallic/satanic-style writing, Tintin or the apple logo carved my forehead…something to express the fact that I am still young, edgy and getting a lot of action. Something slutty, I want people at the Francis public pool to say: “FHC is some crazy motherf*cker”. I want it to hurt a lot too. But I fear that I’ll regret the whole thing in less than two years and refuse to live with the very gay consequences of my very temporary edginess. I don’t want to be another old poor single gay tattooed motherf*cker eating by myself overcooked burgers served by overweight bubbly waiters at Annie’s at 6 p.m. on a Saturday night unconsciously hoping that a Tsunami is going to destroy 17^th street. And anyway I have enough ridiculous vestiges of my youth lingering around the apartment and strolling around DuPont Circle: just today at llunchtime someone was telling me that Jim S. is slim now. I think I might settle for a nostril ring or a Cartier trinity ring if you think the Tattoo is not a good idea and also I’ll have LL’s head shaven so that he looks smaller. Let’s face it I can’t carry the trashy look; I am just way too elegant for that. I never really thought that my thirties crisis would start that early. And f**ck, it ended up being another gloomy entry.

Once again, I request you to kindly vote for Fagat as the hottest gay journalist in the US: LL and I will vote for Linda Greenhouse just to show we are independent.

In which FHC feels like your neighborhood troll with huge sunglasses

I have been pretty busy making final arrangements for my upcoming trip to the unnamed destination as well as being in an awful mood. Well the mood part is mostly due to the fact that I saw another picture of myself in shorts (this time along the Potomac River – courtesy of my awful roommate and his shitty camera) and I looked even fatter than on the first one: two months later I still haven’t managed to secure a stomach. This time I cannot blame it on my (costly) trunks: we have a serious problem and I truly need to be livelier at the gym starting tonight. Additionally Caroline V. told me today at lunchtime that my sunglasses were too big for my head. HOW DOES IT MAKE ME FEEL ? Most of my preparatory work for that trip is to gather all the needed prescription drugs bits by bits – I have a pill in mind for all the emotional situations that could arise during that trip. The primary goal is to avoid feeling at all cost as this fattiness episode has left me terribly fragile. I even contacted Kevin W. (known to swap prescription pills for sexual favors….or cash) with an engaging “I need at least one Ambien for my upcoming trip. Can you hook me up?”. I now have to leave written instructions about the disposition of my (fat) body and handling of my estate.

I have bought for $18.94 of Lost episodes so far and I can’t believe it. Additionally Lost consultant LL pretends that some of the survivors who eventually died (less than 8% of survivors fortunately and mostly in freak accidents) will resuscitate later in the season which only undermine in my opinion the credibility of the whole thing. This all sounds silly to me and yet I’ll watch more episodes tonight.

In other news an interesting article on Internet dating that LL forward to me without any explanation (is he accusing me of something?). Also DONATE to help the efforts to free the remaining Law school prisoners of Fishwatch.

In which FHC gets cranky but does not throw any stapler

I had an awful day or at least it really seemed like it. Three beers with my dinner last night and a cocktail as a nightcap disturbed my sleep to the point that I had to pop an Excedrin PM at 5 a.m., managed to have an early morning nightmare and as a consequence I woke up very cranky and half comatose. If I drink three beers and a cocktail, I am sick …that’s just pathetic. I had to concentrate really hard all day to avoid going on another stapler throwing extravaganza (throwing my brand new stapler might have relieved my tension and as a rule I usually miss my target by a mile but then of course you have to apologize and that really sucks).

Perhaps the real problem is that I have not been sober since the unfamous Saturday night. And that’s not going to end soon, because I am expected in some salvadorian restaurant up in Petworth for the mandatory Wednesday dinner. Thai and Salvadorian are great favorites of mine. The last time I went in a Salvadorian restaurant, it was to get some coke in Adam’s Morgan from a woman called Milagros (which means miracle in Spanish) maybe at the corner of 18^th and Columbia or something who I believe might also be in a Federal jail by now or maybe she works at Results. I’ll really need to get drunk to go through these painful memories *sigh*.

The only charming part of the day is the way LL officially complained about my non attendance to his 25^th birthday (I was busy in a toga). He sent the enclosed picture (which I suspect to be a photo-montage) with the following caption “PS – Here’s a picture of me and Tom Cruise.  It’s from my 24th birthday.  It was really nice for him to come, even though he was in the middle of shooting MI3”.

FHC still hates mondays

On this sordid Monday morning I was awoken extremely early by LL who had to catch his self-inflicted 6 a.m. flight back to school: what wouldn’t we do for a glimpse at the whole Oscar-sponsored West Coast shallowness as well as for the privilege of seeing Fagat’s expectations crushed[1]?

Our WE was charming: we revisited the Alexandria masonic temple (nothing like some US- Masonic mixed tackiness on a Sunday afternoon), bought some Babar’s vintage books (well at least they looked f***ed up), avoided frequenting any one-sexual orientation place (even if Kevin D. felt he needed to mention that “Twinks were half off at halo on saturday”) and LL cooked an IBS-unfriendly chili which I’ll need at least 2 weeks to recover from. It would have been all too perfect if I had not read the word “Couture” twice in the Washington Post. In one sad occurrence, some real estate survivor was describing the usual granite counter stainless steel bullshit condo as “Couture living””: my idea of couture living is an illegal sweat shop not another high rise gay condo ! the word “couture” is a rampant epidemic we must pay close attention to.

In other news, I was thinking today that it is indeed amazing how often I am able to predict future events on this very-blog. I am not only referring to mundane things such as Kevin W. and Ben T.’s fall off and their subsequent down-spiraling into alcoholism, I predicted that Real-estate agents would suffer a slow death (they were accurately described in the NYT this WE as a parasitic endangered specie) and that my RAZRV3 would become obsolete a few months after its purchase (Motorola came up with a cheaper RAZRV3i while everybody is manufacturing extra slick cells). My only forecasting mistakes where about my mother and T-mobile roaming charges (delightful and $120 this month respectively). My advice to you: stay tuned. Oh…and who is Malcom Gladwell ?

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[1] Fagat as many bisexual male sheepherders was hoping for social recognition at the Oscars.

The first blow on FHC

As I was trying to fall asleep a few days ago, I just remembered out of the blue the name of the first guy I ever made a move on. I came to calculate that it must have been in 1994, believe it or not.

This guy was a Marine Scout with me in a Scout Group cutely named after a famous Antarctic explorer. I had been a useless yet very cute Scout for about 2 years and that kid and I had become increasingly friends. I had also become increasingly horny as Easter camp implied sleeping at five in one single boat cabin every night and I had the feeling he was very much into me. We spent quite some time together. He was tall, pretty strong with a somewhat strange mouth as it had been hit by a horse’s hoof in his childhood (reconstructive surgery was probably not as advanced as today). He also happened to be the son of a Préfet, which is roughly the equivalent of a U.S. governor, and after our summer camps, invited me to spend a few days in the fine old official mansion of his father outside of Paris.

I went there around the time of my 16^th birthday. I am not sure what I really expected at that time: sex or a romantic relationship. Anyway, from the outset, things did not exactly fit my plan. First he had a German pen friend with him and is there anything less romantic than having a German pen friend around ?. I managed anyway to share the Presidential room with him and have the German exiled to another aisle of the mansion. Then we did not get on well as much as expected: he was some kind of a spoilt brat, slightly violent and deeply boring (I had this habit most of my youth to recruit my friends based on physical criteria and ended up befriending exclusively assholes). We were drunk almost every night as the Government was kind enough to fill the billiard’s room minibar with beers and I finally asked him one night after our lights were off if I could blow him. He declined after hesitating (at least that’s what I prefer to believe). The end of my stay might have been slightly awkward: it is difficult to remember.

Quickly after that, back at my parent’s house, I started sleeping much more than usual, have difficulties concentrating and constantly complaining about feeling tired. My parents brought me to the family doctor who ordered many blood work and X-Rays and finally came to conclude that I was going through a depression and sent me to a therapist. The therapist was some kind of a bastard and I constantly complained about my parents. After a few sessions he apparently figured out the problem (not that he needed a PhD for that) and asked “And girls ? you never mention any girls”. I decided the prudent thing was to never go back to his practice again. I told my parents, whom anyway cared very little about my depression as they were very busy with their own, that I was feeling better and avoided to tell them that what had lifted my anxiety was the certainty of knowing what the problem was.

I quit the Marine Scouts just before that summer and nurtured the dream that I could probably still find a girl to marry.

Years later, I heard that Cyrille D. was completely straight and dating gorgeous models.

I wonder if things would have been much different if he had let me blow him.

Is there a long-term chemical solution to being a f*ck up ?

My Yom Kippur holidays did not end up that well. As I was already late for work this morning (the day my boss returned to work…well done FHC !) and in an awful mood, I could not find my keys. Usually that wouldn’t be such a problem but Kevin D. has just left on Tour and I am taking the 7 pm shuttle for LLville tonight directly after work so I really needed the f**ing set of keys. I found them in a shoe box in a closet fifty minutes later (at 9:45 am) after torning my house apart and slicing the cat open to check he had not swallowed them. I do remember opening at one point that box (I keep my passport and my drug money in there…just in case you plan to break into my empty house over the Week-end), but I have no idea why I placed the keys in there. WHY ? It seems such an odd gesture. I did not cry but I reached a low serotonin point.

Clearly all that mess has to be attributed to dropping on 09/16 my recently acquired chemical balance and giving all my decorative mood enhancing pills stock to some homeless dude at the corner of Penn and 18^th. I confess that as a consequence lately, I cannot concentrate, sleep at night or remember anything (LL had to whisper to me my first name at a cocktail party last week) and that I often secretly wish Olliver D.’s death (at least that was taken care of this morning). Yes I forgot my ATM card PIN number which is embarrassing for everybody involved and today I could not log into my account short of my online banking security number. I was not very smart before (I am a non-observant goyim unfortunately) but now it is just painful to even pretend. Yet I believe that prolonged stability in tablet form is not a solution and apparently I am not the only one in the blogosphere. Faggotty-ass-faggott himself quit not-well-at-all-butrin too on 09/06 (nobody is keeping tabs here) and he is still alive. He might be a bit down….not sure. I tried to get him back on it through a mean comment on 10/11 but I did not succeed.

Everybody has his say on this, LL, who witnesses high volatility in my sleep and instability in my mood, suggested I get back on Buspar yesterday night, even the Gs, who would force-feed me ecstasy and push me over the edge if they could, have been campaigning for a mood enhanced FHC through Kevin D. for weeks now, Alex A. told me “you are not the jovial FHC I knew anymore” on Wednesday night (if people start telling the truth around here, I'm going to bed as Jacky O. would say) and the bagel lady told me this morning “God works in your life in very specific ways”. And my estranged “parents”…never knew I was on drugs anyway. Clearly being a miserable god-fearing psycho is frowned upon in my miniature society and everybody prefers pharmaceuticals-abusing FHC to the real lunatic paranoid dark yet slim-FHCy. Well guess what ? I don’t believe in your petit-Bourgeois pursuit of happiness crap so just hide the kitchen knives like everybody else. And if you insist, I’ll drink my way to happiness this Week end and watch Harold and Maude.

In blogorama. Not much because this is just rude to blog the Friday after Yom Kippur obviously. Are we really supposed to get excited about the panda cub name revelation on Monday (note to self...post I hate Panda I f***ing hate them entry) ?  Can someone read tuckova for me ? Vividblurry is dying…let’s hope it’s not the blog avian flu this time. A short visit to bratboy school  and Gil G. asked me to type the word failure under google and then hit the "I'm feeling lucky" button.  Oh also I'd like to call a stop to the bloggers Tom Cruise bashing...because if you American should have understood something from your recent history is that fanatics enjoy martyrdom.