FHC’s resurrected blog

In which FHC hates furniture with all his little heart

Like most gay people would in my situation I am starting to become slightly obsessive about my move: it’s very disrupting. I spent most of my day looking to buy leather armchairs on Craig’s list and e-bay. I've never owned any furniture in my-short-&-uneventful-existence besides a bed  (and yet I am not even sure it’s mine) and two plastic milk crates so I never really imagined that one has to buy it and that this stuff is so costly. I guess I thought that furniture was something that happens in one’s lifetime a bit like pubic hair, physical decay, law school or bitterness. I thought that one day, human beings wake up and they have the kind of furniture they deserve in their living room (which is why I always believed my roommate to be a very undeserving person). Perhaps I was also working on the assumption that besides the furniture which comes directly from God, I would eventually get some as wedding and break-up gifts. Evidently this grave mistake is unbudgeted and is going to bring me once again on the fringe of extreme poverty. Who wants to spend his money on an ironing board when there is so many other cool Pamela Harriman’s memorabilia to buy on e-bay. Come on, this is just wood! for once I wish I’d have a relationship with some jewish carpenter. The good news is that apparently, I own a vacuum cleaner. As I have never vacuumed anything in my life, I assume I must have won it in one of my divorce settlements. Sometimes an iron board is the only thing you can get out of the rubbles of your relationship. I also wish I was a nomad. Perhaps I go to this flee market up in Georgetown. And then you’ve got to have the stuff delivered…and interact with the delivery people who are always shady…. what a nightmare.

In which FHC indulges in a fair restaurant review

I had a dinner with a friend scheduled yesterday. As usual I suggested “Hamburger Mary” (Dakota Cow Girl for the in crowd) and of course was severely rebuffed so we ended up at Local 16. My terrible experience there once again confirmed my determination to exclusively eat in lower end joints or excellent tables in DC (mostly lower end joints actually). At all cost, one should avoid dining in middle range places such as Local 16. Dining out is already a bother but in these places it is just painful.

Among other insufferable things, there was no space between the tables and quickly both conversations on our left and right had died out because the straight couples surrounding us had realized they couldn’t compete. The setting was basically much worse than most people’s work cafeterias. Additionally the food was simply disgusting, not odd… just plain disgusting. Some butt-ugly complex salad which contained some gross cheese which pretended to be a Saint Marcellin but certainly wasn’t and a cold hamburger. Additionally, it was impossible to know what was in my plate because of the awful lighting. The barmaid was an ugly bitch who gave me an awful drink in a plastic cup. The other clients were overdressed, bored and came in very weird shapes. Maybe the service was bearable but only because it was ethnic, slightly dirty and dull. Basically, Local 16 is an awful eatery on a rooftop.

FHC finds you so damn “artistic”

Earlier today, someone was proudly showing to me a piece of her tacky wooden animals’ collection and felt the need to add “and if you look at the bottom, you will notice that the artist carved in his name”… I felt infuriated and mumbled “What’s his name? Ikea?”. Our generosity in awarding the name “artist” to anybody that claims it, has been contributing to the increasing numbers of pseudo-artists, the overall declining quality of Art, the disfiguration of every real estate agent or dentist’s home interior and the fact that you can only expect awful wines and the usual CVS crowd at Gallery openings nowadays. This is the result of the American Idol’s syndrome mixed with the “nouveau riche” lack of taste and over eagerness to own and recognize Art: everybody that fails to get a real job thinks it has a unique talent and that is therefore entitled to imitate art by creating ugly little things (not unlike every Frenchman on the block believes he is entitled to be a …blogger), expose them and sell it to the ignorant mass.

We clearly have been using the term “artist” very loosely out there and it has terrible consequences. Do you have any idea of the number of artists that live in my courtyard? This city if filled with part-time painters, trust fund baby sculptors, amateur photographers, apprentice mimes, awful musicians, unemployed comedians, (KMZ excluded of course), pastry chefs and casual architects who are claiming the “artist” title. Rule number one: Artists do not own SUVs and do not workout. Even Results and Safeway are improvising themselves Galleries now, can you believe that? The postman is a part time Art dealer. To me the notion of art always encompassed the notions of talent, hard work, originality and a higher purpose. Let’s be honest: dressing hedgy, having a poor academic record coupled with poor personal hygiene, smoking pot and being able to make a collage or draw a little do not make you an Artist but just a lazy bump. I have the feeling that we are constantly confusing artisans, crackheads and artists. Sure, once in a while an Artist might also be an artisan with a drug or an alcohol problem but only a few happy artisans qualify to be artists. We are confusing manual skills, imagination and talent too. Let’s just face it, most of the artifacts that you display on your walls are vulgar merchandises which lack creativity, work and insight and are imitating the style of some now mainstream movement. They merely are unconvincing decorative items and do not deserve more the title “Art” than your couch or your TV for that matter. At best they are shocking, expensive or colorful but never original or intriguing. The maker was often only preoccupied with how easily it will sell and match the 14^th street lofts configuration. I won’t plead guilty but LL will: he bought to ugly sceneries in the street in Italy and has been claiming since then that they are “paintings”.

So what defines an Artist you might ask? Well in our days and times it might very well be…. SUCCESS. Given the number of aspiring artists in any given metropolis, I believe we have no other choice than to use tremendous success or complete lack of success as the only criteria. Until your pieces sell for millions in Auction Houses or you are strictly unknown (and awfully poor), you are not an artist to me, you are just a pretentious tacky unemployed f**ck. And if you haven’t paid an extremely high price for the artifact above your chimney or got it as a gift from some struggling artist, you’d better not call it Art in front of me or I’ll snap….for Chrissake….

THE ASSASSIN OF FHC’S INNOCENCE

As we were having brunch in Alexandria on Sunday discussing job search, I remembered one of the first interviews I went through. I was a gorgeous, innocent and fragile 20 years old and met with an evil woman strangely named Patricia Turck-Paquelier (let’s call her PTP, her name is too ridiculous), at that time Emporio Armani Perfumes International Brand Manager, for one of this underpaid internships we were supposed to aim at. As soon as I got in her office and saw her dressed in an outfit that screamed ‘Imperial Bitch’, I knew she was a tough menopausal killer (not unlike my mother when you think about it). If she had been able to sing or act she clearly would have been a gay icon/gay men abuser. Instead she happened to be an intern's killer… worse than Gary C. or Ted K. Quickly I understood that she was the kind of little girls that spends hours collecting live cockroaches to put them in glass containers and stares at them. I was terrified. Even Margaret Thatcher looked warmer and more welcoming than her. After I introduced my “background” briefly and some awkward silence, I think she said something like “I have nothing more to ask you and better things to do [NDLR: which probably included kidnap 99 Dalmatian puppies] so if you do not have any question you can leave now”. As I insisted in finishing the interview she angrily lashed at me explaining to me that I obviously did not have the caliber nor the maturity to make it at L’Oréal, that I was foolish to have applied and refused to discuss it further. I was young and instead of replying "Have you tried Celexa ?" I just left shaken and traumatized. Little did I know that I just had been robbed of more than my innocence and would never really recovered from it. No doubt I was technically-incompetent, completely lacked personality and creativity and was obviously a corduroy-wearing closeted gay (only in France, can you apply to be a marketing assistant in the cosmetics industry and still be closeted and wearing corduroy). Yet PTP could not have been meaner or less courteous. Later on, in my brief career in the business, I came to understand that all marketing people in the luxury industry are uptight elitist snob f*ers, that L’Oréal is a highly competitive unkind place (even worse than the DMV I believe) and that Marketing Directors are gods to some japanese people but I never really forgave the villainess. PTP, now 50 years old and obviously still a ruthless bitch became President of L’Oréal’s International Prestige and Collections Division through vile plots and evil schemes. She even made it to Time magazine in August 2003 just to annoy me, typical of bitchy Pat. So Pat, wherever you are, I just wanted you to know with this entry that you are still very high up on the shit-list and that I know what you did last summer.

Give me a break Pat !

TALK TO ME !!!

I made it to LL’s chelsea lavish Mansion with my stilettos all ready for Fashion week. The place is indeed charming: it even comes with a KMZ and a miniature Eiffel Tower: toadeaters feel at home there !. On my way there, I had a few thoughts... I had some uncaring thoughts too, of course, but I'll keep them to myself.

-         A trip to NYC is always an opportunity for me to compare DC and NYC cab drivers. Of course that is not flattering to the district, DC drivers are like fresh off the boat rough little foreign kids that have not been spanked enough: despicable, smelly and noisy.  I won’t even talk about the fact that they are all shameless crooks: I think I raised that point in a past entry anyway. I will, however, mention the fact that they bawl on their cell phone in disharmonious  foreign languages. This would be borderline acceptable if they would have picked you hitchhiking but it is just insufferable when it is a paid trip. If you try an engaging “what you say ?” or "I had oral sex with your son last night" as an answer to their pagan mumbling, they offensively point at their hand free headsets. There is nothing you can do to distract yourself from their annoying unintelligible private conversation: no iPod sufficiently loud, no book sufficiently good. Anyway what do they have to say for so long ? they are cab drivers for god’s sake ! if they had anything to say they would be seating behind a desk, writing a novel or speaking on TV like everybody else. To whom do they talk ? their family is back home. Is there a special cell phone plan for cab drivers ? My bet is that they are speaking to other cab drivers that annoy other clients in some other part of the district. In my youth, cab drivers would have discussed with you about the weather and other banalities: their innocence was charming and refreshing. But now, it is over, they mumble a “where yáll going ?” and then start shouting again in their phone. As gratuities have become mandatory, there is no way to pressure them in talking to you with some financial threat inuendos. It is time for the DC cab driver commission to just declare that all cab drivers are expected to stay silent if they are not invited to speak by their customer. Or better what about a mystery cab client with a license to kill or burn the letters C-R-O-O-K on the forehead of bad performers ? …just trying to offer solutions to the district cab problem… I am just saying.

-         At Reagan National, they give you blue little sleepers now so that when you go through Security and you take off your shoes, you do not touch the dirty floor with your delicate barefoot or gay white socks. It is very cute all these suit wearing businessman and hip-hop drug dealers in the same line wearing ridiculous blue tiny sleepers. It looks like we are all waiting for spray tanning or plastic surgery. Good times. Good memories.

-      On the plane, the woman seating next to me was called “Zimmerman” and was eating pretzel: it felt safe I had taken the right flight yet I spent the next 1:30 hours trying to avoid eyes contact in case she wanted to talk to me. I was reading major gay press which usually guarantees that the person next to me participates in avoiding eye contact. On page 50 of Metroweekly this week, I could not believe they misspelled “Jesus Christ”’s name, they wrote “Crhist”, no wonder the US is so afflicted these days, that would piss me off too if I was God’s son and they started misspelling my name.

-         In blogorama today, you get a link to Rich Tafel who is an ex-log cabin republican leader a bit like I am an ex-alcoholic. As well as another music blog I found. And finally Chrisafer open letter to Papa-Joe. That should keep you busy while LL and I go have diner to "Half King".

Un besito de Nueva York

Preying one condo at a time

If real estates agents were animals they would be hyenas. If mortgage brokers were a disease (and they are), they would surely be a malign rampant fungus or a parasite harbored in the intestines of a hyena. Reading the Blade at the public pool today (once young and gorgeous, I used to frequent the Plaza pool: these times are gone…), I could not differentiate ads for escorts from the numerous real estate ads as both would feature homo-erotic artsy pictures of the “service providers” (look as an example at Cory Levy’s or the most ridiculous of all my gay agent….or Joey M.’s). Are we supposed to believe based on their deceiving picture that they can carry out their brainless racket of a job ? Does it require a specific look to collect obscene real estate commissions in exchange of hanging around a showhouse and misleading their clients ?. If I might need to know what my “massage therapist” looks like, I need no picture for my agent: I always assume that they are sleazy tacky rural-America born teeth-whitened uneducated f*ck. You can imagine their toothy bite just looking at their fake smile (no wonder the Blade only contains ads for escorts, agents and dentists). Not only are they hyenas but they are laughing hyenas. Real estate agents, much like laughing hyenas travel long distances to find their spot and mix with normal animals in clubs or bars while constantly on the prowl. Buying a house should be an impersonal exchange like in most markets but real estate intermediation is such an easy way to scavenge upon honest people’s savings that the competition is prehistoric and these criminals need to lure people in their dark little practice by whitening their fangs. Sometimes instead of going to a strip club, when I have an urge for a decadent experience, I just go to an open house and witness the daily feeding of the real estate jackals. Yes people there is a reason why the only people doing coke in the bathroom at Cobalt are real estate brokers and agents and underage prostitutes. As prostitution is increasingly frowned upon in society, lots of them become real estate agents and mortgage brokers and are now slaying innocent people one condo at a time (sometimes they keep both jobs though). The nation's 285000 real-estate agents are felons. American people remember Mr. Greenspan's suggestion that to keep the economy rolling we have to get rid of the beast and organize a national kill-your-real estate agent or broker spree (while you are at it could you include Title and Settlements companies ). A good real estate agent is a bleeding real estate agent (ouch… ouch… LL is going to say I am creepy). This should only be a start as the epidemic is global. As I am not a complete bastard, please find here a link to a real estate blog.

In other relevant news, talented Miss Kitty fed us and fed us well (Thank you Miss Kitty) yesterday at Jason C.’s house. The conversation and entertainment were also amazing: Jason C. snaped as usual and went dancing in the ghetto dressed as a nurse. I overheard Kaï (who is training me to manage my anger - very successfully obviously - by expressing myself through an imaginary puppet) tell Kevin W. that he “looked like a Kennedy”. I personnally think that the only think that is Kennedy like in Kevin W. is his alcoholism I believe ...and his jaw maybe. We finished at Halo late in the night, I managed my well hangover very well based on last week’s lessons and am thinking to go to Taint tomorrow night if LL gives me the authorization. Of course, I have stories but these days every conversation starts with "you cannot put that in your blog"...

Opening the car’s passenger door....

Usual Disclaimer: On an inappropriateness scale of 7, this entry is merely a 5 (because of the very wrong picture)

When I wrote last Thursday that it was the last of my bitter entries, I obviously misled you. Let’s talk about front desk guys and bike messengers. Both categories have not much in common besides the fact that they both look like they used to or could wear an orange jumpsuit at one point in their life and have meaningless, borderline criminal jobs. Front desk guys and messengers are lower than clerks or my mother in the food chain and yet are despicable wicked creatures in their own little twisted way.

I actually have mixed feelings for bike messengers. The majority is composed of fanatical toothless two-wheeled f**ks who threaten everybody’s life with their lawless bike riding for ridiculous packages and minimum wages. But once in a while, I have to admit, there is this really hot tattooed, trimmed, shaved head messenger with rolled up jeans. Of course, his conversation will be the dull conversation of your average pothead illuminated anarchist (let’s hope that Karl does not read this entry) but if you feel you are able to ignore this detail you can pick up one of those at “Lucky Bar” next to 1223 around 6/7 pm on weekdays. Besides being a threat to urban road safety, I suspect that bike messengers are all drug dealers. How do you think they can afford to buy these incredibly expensive bike messengers bags ? The smallest Timbuk2 cost $60 so is the smallest Manhattan Portage. Bike Messengers even have their evil secret societies such as the New York Bike Messengers Association or worse the International Federation of Bike Messenger Associations. One may wonder what happen when they strike ? People have to wait a little to get their urine sample test results ?. In Chicago, people like me intentionally crash bike messengers for breakfast (as well as Mimes strangely enough … LL is going to say I sound creepy again). Let’s hurt the messenger for once.

For DC front desk guys, I have no sympathy whatsoever, those are ruthless redundant alcoholics whose only function is to yelp with a toothpick between their lips “How you doing man ?” to strangers and for the most literate "How are you? And the stomach ?” to the building tenants. They also collect gratuities by implying threats to your household such as "I don't want nobody hurt". What is their mission exactly? they do not even hold the door for you. And why exactly do I have to sign in if they can’t even read. I have been signing Faye Dunaway everywhere in the city and only once did a doorman ask me if I was a parent of the actress. I believe that their real occupation is to resell the drugs that the bike messengers transport. I also trust that most front desk guys are actually retired bike messengers. A doorman is a status symbol that has to go…buy a 50 inch TV like everybody else. I particularly despise my mental health doctors front desk guys who always shout in the lobby “Oh suite 800 you are going to see Dr. S ., THE PSYCHOANALYST then ?”. They always seem to have access to my medical file too and often add “Hey y’all how is that sex offender problem of yours ?”. That is thoughtless. I am thinking to launch my own “replace your doorman with a digital interphone” league.

You get the point. To Jim M. who told me that these days it seems that I am going over the edge I would like to say that L² is back to school and I have withdrawals symptoms. I even rent Man bites dogs (a masterpiece by the way) and Deliverance from Netflix. To Dr. Carl Gustav J., who asked me if I am not ashamed to bash my own mother in my blog, I reply “let’s see the DNA test result” and “guilt is petit-bourgeois crap”. Thank you to Elayne S. for her kind consoling words. Congratulations to Martha S. for making it without being insolent this time.

The Battle of the Clerks

Life is just an endless dispute with a clerk. By the word clerk I mean all type of service people Computer Salesperson, Lap Dancer, Reservation Clerk, Dental Assistant, Housekeeper, Patrol Person, DMV employee (all kind of Government Administration employee actually), Front Desk  Clerk, Sales Attendant, Sales Clerk, Utility Worker, Waiter/Waitress, Flight attendants, Bookstore Assistant, Cab driver, Customer Representative (I hate Customer Representatives) etc…. The clerk can “work” for National Alamo, Dell, Marriott, Delta Airlines or Pronto Networks. He can be selling shorts at J. Crew, groceries at Safeway or waiting tables at Market Bar but it is basically the same clerk. It is YOUR clerk, the dark angel you will have to fight all of your american life. He is waiting behind a desk or a counter lurking in the dark or at the other end of a phone line in a dirty office far far away from your Ghetto, he can even be a sinister online clerk or worse a sickening delocalized clerk living in India or Mexico. Its favorite diet are highly educated, slightly arrogant, well-off egotistic young gay WASPs and his sick appetite for them is just insatiable. If he works in a Chelsea ihop, good for him, he will prey on these people for days until retirement or death. His helpless presence, his constant mistakes and miscalculations, his lies, lack of knowledge, incompetence, ineffectiveness and lack of goodwill will make each of your minutes as a consumer hellish. If he is a luxury store clerk, he will leave you crying most probably. Don’t even think about not tipping your clerk: if you are expected to and don’t he will find a way to BTK your entire family. Clerks do not know the concept of “fear of losing their job”, are often stronger than you are and invariably unaccountable. They have no manager (or at least no manager that can "take your call") or often their manager is himself a clerk disguised with a manager lapel-pin. You cautiously step forward and try to get a room, a pair of shoes, get some help (NEVER ask anybody for help, NEVER), put your tech support warranty to use or get an answer to a service-related issue, and there it is slowly creeping down the aisle or the phone line, determined to make you lose time, money and temper. He kills you by destroying your digestive system and tiring you with regular little blows. I have given up the fight a long time ago when I meet a clerk I either shout “Jen e pas parlo Ingletera” or slam the door or the phone even before interacting with a loud “F**k you [pause] you know what ? [pause] F**ck you”, to which he is awful enough to respond “please don’t use profanities or I will have to hang up Sir”or “I am just doing my job, Sir”. This does not avoid me the wounds of the clerkish interaction. Anyway if you are a foreigner, clerks are impossible to tackle. Thank god, I am lucky enough to have a boyfriend that knows how to wrestle some clerks these days, like this morning (some Americans are trained even when Toddlers to defend themselves from rapacious clerks). But the truth is that you cannot be victorious (today's struggle required us to convince our clerk that, as of 10:30am this morning pacific time, it had not yet been 9:18pm on 8/22/2005 anywhere in the 50 United States)   because YOUR CLERK runs your life, without him you are naked, alone and hungry. Yes this is the war at home. The only way to be victorious from the clerk terrorism is to become filthy rich…let me amend this statement: rich enough to always have an intermediate between you and the clerk like Victoria Gotti or Anna Wintour. That is why highly educated, slightly arrogant, well-off egotistical young gay WASPs have no choice but to work endless hours in order to protect their nest from the repellant attacks of the consumerism vultures. I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: we hold these truths to be self-evident, that the customer is always right and clerks need to shut-the-f***k up. I have a dream that one day all the clerks will be replaced by highly intelligent and responsive automated machines and we will be free from the clerks dictatorship.

That was a long overdue post. Wasn’t it ?. Quickly I’d like to thank Peter R. who told me today “You are the Dominick Dunne of the Gay DC Cosa Nostra”. I always preferred flattery to the truth. I'd like to thank the Pope for reminding us that Religion is a consumer product too. Find also here the list of all blogs in the Metro area – note how most blogs are in Dupont Circle. Bryan’s you are tacky and I hate you is among those.