FHC’s resurrected blog

In which FHC is doing well...thanks for asking

I have reached that tipping point where I typically have to draft half a dozen apologetic e-mails on Monday morning. I barged in; uninvited, drunk at the Gs on Friday and verbally assaulted Kevin D in front of the appalled guests, ruining what must have been a wonderful dinner party before stumbling to Apex (TM from the Gs on Saturday morning: “we worry about you”). I cannot remember anything about Saturday besides maybe listening repeatedly to the remake of “Forever Young” by Youth Group while watching half of the “Cider House rules” on mute. I mauled Mark H. so badly at Logan Tavern (leaving a still-noticeable scar on his forehead) on Sunday that Julius/Julian threatened to call the Humane Society. I hanged up on LL after he called my attention to all the Palm Sunday brunch/ trendy parties I was not invited to over the Weekend and the new minor local celebrities I have not met (if at least I could be ignored by models). Note to self: claw and severely disfigure LL when he returns to DC to bring to an end this unhealthy competition (I think the “who’s viewed me” feature on my friendster has been broken for a month). I also snapped at Erica G. for sending me too many Passover e-mails (a. no, I do not want a free box of matzah; b. I cannot make it to Seder Dinner, c. I am gay). Her silly response: “FHC dear, what’s wrong?”.

As I did not want to take any risk with the professional thingy today, I half-klonopined myself early on. I also told Mark that we’d go out on Tuesday but I am afraid I might go berserk once gain. It’s really a good thing, that I am being sent away for the WE.

In Which LL's Identity Makes Like His Personality and Vanishes

Remember how in Back to the Future, Marty McFly (played by Parkinson's sufferer Katherine Hepburn Michael J. Fox) slowly starts to disappear from a family photo because he's gone back in time and F'ed everything up so badly that he no longer exists in the future?

Well, welcome to my life.  You may remember that when I came to DC in January with Fagat, he Jetblue I lost my driver's license.  Almost too perfectly, Maria and Pedro arranged for my passport to be transported by sailboat from NYC to DC so I could get into Cobalt without having to use Ben T.'s ID.

I never found my license, so I've been using my passport as identification for binge drinking.  Until Friday.  When I lost that, too.  I spent Friday afternoon hurriedly running around NYC looking for my passport, but obviously it's now in the hands of Muqtada al-Sadr, who could be my twin.  All day yesterday I wandered aimlessly, with no proof of identity, and no ability to verify to anyone that I'm actually LL (not that anyone was interested). 

I thought it couldn't get worse, but then at dinner last night I reached into my pocket and realized that I was missing -- my cellphone.  No identity.  No ability to contact the outside world or FHC.  It's like someone had gone back in time and erased the events that led to my conception and I was slowly vanishing.

This morning, the right earbud of my ipod headphones came off, as if only my left ear had any hearing.  Little by little, I'm fading away.  So please, whoever went back in time and stole my identity, may I please have it back soon?  Or at least can you also reinvent the past so that I have an enormous trust fund or get to marry a prince?

(NDLR:  I found my cellphone this morning - I'd foolishly left it at my sister's.  That doesn't change my vague sense of obsolescence.)

In which FHC gets a surprise visit and klonopins it away

It all started really well with “Good morning Baby”: by Dan Wilson & Bic Runga playing in the background. At least I felt I could make it through the day (even if I now officially weight 142.5 pounds) without puking. But by 1:00 p.m. I had to take a Klonopin because some distant ultra conservative and very snobbish cousin of my mother and her husband (which are very good friends of my parents and unbearable) called to say they were driving from New York to have dinner with me (of all people). I had to cancel an amazing dinner party at the Gs and brace myself to look like a normal (straight(ish)) human being. I ran home at lunchtime to collect all my Têtu magazines and the pictures of my exe lingering everywhere, I also put away half of the beauty products in my bathroom.

I tried to book a table for there at Cashion’s eating place and was offered 6 p.m. or 10 p.m. What the f**ck ? we are not in NYC yet? are we ? Impossible to get the New Bourbon on the line. I am just planning a walk-in at Saint Ex which might turn into a walk-in to Local 16. It has been such an hectic day that I might have to pop yet another Klonopin to go through dinner.

In which FHC is a little bitter about Spring

As I was watching X. in madras shorts and some sort of sandals passing me by yesterday, I felt I was not ready for spring at all. If it was not for the fact that I am still in a wintry mood, I anyway never understood why grown-up men feel that they can wear culottes, polos and all kind of wild colors as soon as the weather get a little warmer. This is particularly unbearable after 9 p.m. I barely tolerate shorts in footballers, Indian cricket players and teenagers with nice legs but let alone middle-aged gay men in shorts on their way to spread their tyranny a little further in the gay world. Soon summer will come in and they will wear tank tops exposing both their soul and their flesh bare. I will be repulsed but then hopefully they will all have moved to Rehoboth and us pants wearing people will breathe more easily. I should work on my spare time on a list of the best-dressed gays in town, I think Andy L. would figure on it, Kevin W.’s 2003 (pre-poverty) wardrobe and then…nobody.

Overall, I just feel that spring is not a good time for Clonozepam, wood-paneling, crying in your custom-made closet (courtesy of Mark H. who monitors Craig’s list for all of us), tweed jackets, canes, l’UOMO magazines and that song “Bohemian Like You” by the Dandy Warhols. Also spring kind of creeped on me: the trees blossomed while I was dying on valium in my cave and yesterday, while I was drinking a cosmopolitan at Regent with perfect company, I felt it could have waited a few days for me.

In which FHC has some mid-afternoon revelation

Kevin W. who always knows how to cheer me up lent me his copy of “Long Day’s Journey into night”. Of course it reminded me of my youth as much as “Ordinary People” did when I watched it last month. It was sordid. Dean Stockwell, then 26, looked gorgeous though. Aging is such a terrible thing (particularly for us short people).

The soundtrack for my recovery Monday was “Crazy Baby” by Joan Osborne and Crazy by Gnarls Barkley. I don’t have any Genesis in my music collection and there is a good reason: I hate their work. On the other end, I have about 50 different songs by the Cure which all have between three and five stars. The entire Cure is good besides perhaps “The last Day of Summer”, “One hundred years” and “Torture” maybe.

In the afternoon, I ran into Mike W., who was telling me of that Thursday afternoon he decided to quit the "whole thing". He looked as handsome as the day I saw him for the first time emerging naked from a pool at a crack party four years ago. A few minutes later, I briefly exchanged with Andy L. who too is some hardbody. And then it really all made sense and I thought that the solution is to quit the professional thingy and just be rich and slightly idle.

In which FHC denies the rumor that he got bird flu

I don’t have gonorrhea either, damn it (it’s so plausible, that it would almost seem true, doesn’t it?). I treated my illness, whatever it is, with my usual combination of Valium and Xanax for three days, and then as I had completely ran out I just started swallowing unlabeled random pills that I found in my “little drug house” and a vague resemblance with my valium pills. Now I am down to taking sleepgels maximum strength (some over the counter bullshit I bought before my prescription drugs period). I just refuse to experience even the slightest pain (mostly due to some odd sore throat which is more fluesque than malariaesque one has to admit) or awaken moment. The boredom of being sick is enough. As a result I am acutely confused (much more than usual). The jogging doctor prescribed yet another cycle of antibiotics and some flu stuff that I take out of politeness on an ad-hoc basis. I watched two awful movies Vanity Fair and Heads in the Clouds and read my favorite book about a serial killer for the 17^th time. Then I moved to the guest bedroom so I feel like I am in some (oddly Tintin-themed) upscale clinic and also because the stench in my bedroom had become unbearable (I haven’t showered since Thursday morning but sweated profusely over the same period). My temperature, which I obsessively monitor, had reached 103.5 at my worst is now at a disappointing 100 and only shows up at night in order to make sure I don’t sleep more than twenty consecutive minutes.

A few friends called me today only to relate how much fun they had the previous night at Fagat’s fabulous NYC birthday party (must have been pretty good, he spent his day adding friends on facebook between 8:12 a.m. (!) and 1:18 p.m.). Others to tell me how they got wasted on Thursday night and they plan to get laid at Russ’s birthday bash. Some hunk delivered me flowers and a nice card. The unnamed destination ended heavy street fights a few hours ago and I was told that the Saturday plane was hit by a truck last week.

In Which We Wonder Why the Post about FHC's Malady Received the Most Comments Ever

Nous venons d'accompagner Rodolphe FHC a l'hopital.  Les medicins nous ont dit que les circonstances sont graves.

Before everyone starts trying to cash in, just remember *who* is first in line for the Kalorama mansion.

Wishing FHC the best, always and lovingly,

- LL Jr.

In which FHC is off for a few days anyway

There are two schools: the malaria school and the flu school. If it is malaria then you will not see me for quite a while. If it is the flu, then my life is just really trite.

In which FHC returns to his usual domesticated despair

My American existence is mostly about polishing shoes, picking up dry cleaning, ordering groceries, replying to Mark/Ryan H. that “no, we really cannot hang out tonight” (let alone play kickball together) and fighting the natural aging process. It is also about managing multiple online profiles, writing short witty e-mails to people I previously met through my online profiles, and going through the lyrics of thousands of new indie songs that Tim K. forwards my way. Of course, there is the professional thingy that is filling some time too, and the endless time-wasting to-do lists (to neutralize the Klonopin side-effects) and the binge drinking on Friday and Saturday night. I am painfully clueless about the meaning of it all. I am not saying it has anything to do with the US, I am blaming it on being gay, self-centered and uncaring. Maybe I’ll get a puppy in April.

Happy birthday to Russ W. (who already got LL as a present). OH… and Mark H. -- the rich, successful lawyer (and a responsible adult too) who is rumored to have very large, thick feet -- wowed the crowd again last week-end with his charming personality and witty banter.  I really see good things in store for him! See you at the gym.

In which FHC did not get laid in France...

Not that it was the purpose of his trip or anything...

Now in CDG, I am just a vegetable. I just popped half a Klonopin because I was feeling a little edgy without any reason. It made me really sleepy and I am not sure if I’ll have the strength to crawl to the boarding gate. I am reading Agatha’s blog which is so genuine. Actually, I suspect that my plane has already taken off but cannot see any screen around. My luggages are full of vintage Tintin albums, new shirts, a biography of Nicolas S. and soft porn gay magazines. I also have a wooden cane that has been searched a thousands time on my way here because I could not fake polio well enough.

Yesterday Nicolas C. and I, after we discussed my theory that Rodolphe actually died, ended up at Raidd Bar. Maybe we also stopped by Cud. I felt invisible which was unpleasant. I stared blankly to a gorgeous go-go boy with stars tattoed on his shoulder who must have showered a dozen times in an elevated Plexiglas cubicle the time we stayed there. He was so polished I could see my reflection on his ass. Then I tried to flirt with a gorgeous semi-deaf kid but only managed to lure his ugly boyfriend. Outside, drunk at 2 a.m., I could not find a cab to drive me back to my hotel and had to walk up rue Etienne Marcel sobering up and meditating on the fact that I haven’t had sex in Paris for a very long time and maybe I should have gone to Le Dépôt. I am such a pussy when it comes to anonymous sex. You guys could teach me so much.