FHC’s resurrected blog

Election Day Special: That French Woman versus the Guy Whose Name Sounds Like that Cancer versus Le "Stylo"

Today is French election day.  It brings back fond memories for me because the first fight I ever had with FHC was during the last election while we were walking to the French Embassy to cast his ballot.  Like a Geisha, he asked me to follow 30 paces behind him, and only after we bumped into a co-worker of his did he become embarrassed enough to talk to me again.

This time around, FHC refused to reveal who he was voting for, indicating that in France it's impolite even to ask the question.  So much for my feigned interest in French politics.

I now have to return to studying federal courts because next weekend we're having a French convention at my apartment and I won't have time to work.  Also, FHC, EKK, and I will "faire a quatre miles" that morning.  Please come out and cheer us on.

In Which LL Realizes 'Mos Should Be Nicer to Each Other

Apologies.  When I first heard about Imus' outrageous comments, i didn't realize they were also racist.  I thought "hos" was the offensive term, but it turns out "nappy headed" is a tad on the offensive side, too. 

Imus' comments and overt racism obviously are indefensible.  But now some people are also going after hip hop lyrics, which also tend to degrade black women.  (NDLR: "Even when I'm with my boo, I only wanna be with you" seems tame to me, but whatevs).  Since I couldn't care less about racism or trendy music, I'm not going to write about that; instead, this all got me thinking about whether we as gays perpetuate the same sort of hateful stereotypes in the same way mysogynistic rappers do.

Last year, for example, Nick D. dated someone a little on the effeminate side who also had a high squeaky voice.  We called him "FemBot."  Another friend coined a term - "Marcia" - for really hot guys who turn out to be, well, FemBots.  And don't even get me started on Fagzilla.

To be sure, I understand that emphazing more masculine qualities at times is just the same sort of sexual posturing that animals like mountain goats to in the wild; posting quasi-athletic photos of ourselves on friendster is the equivalent of the rut. 

Still, I think it's hypocritical of us to expect acceptance - to be taken simply as normal - when we're equally guilty of separating ourselves into Queens and Varsity.  Just remember, next time you're at Vlada or Apex and someone says, "That guy is so cute you should hit on him," your response "Yeah, but he's soooo faggy" is no different from saying, "Niggas ain't shit, but hoes and tricks".  (NDLR:  And if you're at Apex, you're probably on your last gasps anyway, so you're really one to talk.)

So go home with him.  I bet he'll end up being a top.

In Which FHC's Unnamed Destination is a US Territory For Once

I received a text message from everyone's good friend FHC today that said "We hope you did not take advantage of our absence for not blogging.  Kisses from the islands."  I think what FHC really meant with this message was "LL, who did you sleep with this weekend, please tell us in blog format."  See, FHC gets to hop off to the Caribbean and, me, I'm stuck studying.  In any event, there's very little to say because I had a very well-behaved weekend, involving mostly karaoke with heterosexuals and a vist to Flushing (that's in Queens) for dinner last night.  Fagat's mother was in town (imagine Fagat only prettier) and even she asked how FHC was doing; I had to tell her that unfortunately there was a divorce in the family.  So FHC - who if you remember claims to always be suffering - gets to go away and tan for five days whereas I am sitting here in the library writing a stupid paper and losing melalin at drastic rates.  For future, when FHC tells you how hard life is, or asks you for a favor, just remember how charmed the lives of the French really are.

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 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.

MTV Spring Break 2007: DC Edition

While FHC toils away in the Heart of Darkness, some of us are on Spring Break.  (By "on spring break" we clearly mean "Fishwatch could still smell alcohol on our breath even though it's 3pm").  We're not supposed to be working, but we received a call this morning from our "ex" reproaching our failure to blog the entire time he's been away.  So we're using this post as an update to all you curious 'mos.  As you may have seen earlier, we and Nick D. decided to take our vacay (or at least the first few days) in Washington, DC, because, let's be honest, the thought of getting drunk in NYC just seemed too depressing.

We've written this before, but this trip to DC made it all the more clear: there are only 25 gays in that town, and we, our friends, and FHC have slept with all of them.  Twice over.  Nevertheless, we had a fabulous time as usual and Ben T. was a terrific host, even if he forced us to drink 594302 redbulls.  Unforch, we had to take some GD ethics exam Saturday morning, so we didn't make it to DC in time to see the Apex throwdown Friday night, though we heard reports that Peter S. was spotted at Heath Bar the next morning sporting sunglasses worthy of Anna Wintour to hide his bruises.  Saturday night was a "birthday" party at Tom A's (and yes, some gays were spotted consuming carbs, see photo above), followed by Infamy, hosted by queen bee Carl J.  (NDLR:  We usually refuse to go to events like Taint, mostly because we're convinced the floor is going to collapse any day now, but Infamy at the 930 Club totes lived up to the hype and more than a few people were spotted making out at the bar and trying to sleep with other peoples' boyfriends.)

In some ways, DC is no different than NYC.  Instead of the Hot Boys Posse, DC has the self-proclaimed Axis of Fun (*snicker*).    Instead of Fabiola Beracasa, DC has FHC.  Instead of Mr. Black, DC has the Black Cat, and instead of Vlada and Therapy, DC has . . . ok, the comparison ends there.  But still, DC has a sort of small-town charm that NYC, for reasons that should be obvs, never will.  Maybe DC appeals to the suburbanite in us; the thought of knowing all our neighbors is actually kind of nice, especially considering we've been living in the same Chelsea aparment for 18 months and have yet to meet the people across the hall.  We know NY'ers will never really take DC seriously and will always consider it the retarded nephew of "real cities."  After all, there can be only one center of the universe.  Yet we think DC deserves a real chance: if NYC is that pretty Prada-wearing gay who's the constant focus of everyone's attention, DC is the sweet, reliable gay in the polo shirt who might not be the coolest kid in school, but is always there when you need him. 

Dear LLewdie: Bad Advice on Manners & Morals

Taking a cue from (i.e., copying) Gawker's column "The Unethicist," which answers letters submitted to the New York Times' "Ethicist" column, we decided today to do the same (i.e., plagiarize) from Slate's Dear Prudence column.  Here's this week's:

Dear LLewdie,
I am 16, and my parents think that it's "cute" and "fun" to have sex in other places in the house besides their bedroom. I'm never home when this occurs, and am mature enough to realize that every couple needs to spice up their life a little now and then. Recently, I found out that my parents had sex on my bed. This was mortifying and horrific for me. Of all the places to do it, they thought it would be interesting to try it on my bed. I haven't even had sex on my bed! They don't see anything wrong with what they've done, but I find it completely disgusting and unnecessary. How can I explain to them that this has scarred me, possibly for the rest of my life?

Dear SlutMunchkin,

Remember the old writing tip "Show; Don't Tell"?  Well, it works in real life just as in fiction.  To teach your parents a lesson, they need to find the condom your boyfriend uses when he effs you on top of their 1000 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.  Then post the video on youtube and email them the link.  It'll be even better if you tell them that you were a virgin (obvs a lie) when you did it.  That'll teach them to keep their junk in their own bed.  Sickos.

[NDLR:  Dear "actual" Prudie, this letter couldn't be any more obviously a joke testing to see if you would reply.  You should ask the prankster (we've got our money on Dahlia Lithwick) who just won $100 in an office pool to split the cash with you, because we don't think you could be so dense as to write an honest reply to such an unserious - but hilarious - question.]

Dear LLewdie,
I have a dilemma. A guy I knew (but not well) asked me for my résumé, got me hired at the company he works for, and now is basically my supervisor. Along the way, we got to know one another, became close friends, and there is attraction on both sides. We spend every day at work together, and almost every evening. He has told others that he likes and wants to date me but that he's very worried about the work situation. What do I do?

Dear AttentionWhore,

What. A. Fucking. Prude.  You use your looks to get a job and then don't put out?  Let's be clear:  You are probably not qualified for this job and your boss only hired you to slip it in.  And seriously, this is 2007, do you really still believe that when someone says he wants to "date" he's not only saying that to sleep with you twice - maybe three times if you're lucky - before going back home to his wife?  If you want to stay his secretary and keep your job, sleep with him pronto and don't cry about it when he decides the office "romance" is over.

A+,

LL

In Which LL and FHC are Busted. Again.

Originally this post was going to be about how LL and FHC were spotted speeding by some secret Soviet-era spy camera in far Northwest DC on our way back from the Billy Goat Trail.  But then we realized there wasn't really enough to say except that FHC was driving and will probably be deported.  Instead, after another night of binge drinking (congratulations Shira T!) we decided we should take this alcoholism quiz and post the results as a public service.  Apparently answering three or more with "yes" means we are definitely an alcoholic.  We're concerned with what happens if we answer "yes" to all 20.

Do you lose time from work due to your drinking?

No.  We don't even have a job.

Is drinking making your home life unhappy?

Nor do we have a "home life."

Do you drink because you are shy with other people?

Is there another reason?

Is drinking affecting your reputation?

We're usually too blacked out to notice.  Please keep us posted on this one.

Have you ever felt remorse after drinking?

Only because we're fairly certain we did something embarrassing but can't remember.  See also, "Is drinking affecting your reputation?"

Have you gotten into financial dificulties as a result of your drinking?

Law school costs a fortune so we haven't noticed.

Do you turn to lower companions and an inferior environment when drinking?

We only have three friends.  And yes.

Does your drinking make you careless of your family's welfare?

We tend not to notice slash care about other people, and especially not their "welfare."

Has your ambition decreased since drinking?

No.  Alcohol actually magnifies our delusions of grandeur.  Why do you think we prefer to be drunk?

Do you crave a drink at a definite time daily?

Does "constantly" count as a definite time?

Do you want a drink the next morning?

We would die for a bloody mary right now.

Does drinking cause you to have difficulty in sleeping?

This one's a joke, right?  Because we sleep like a baby.

Has your efficiency decreased since drinking?

Since we plan to charge by the hour as a lawyer, we certainly hope so.

Is drinking jeopardizing your job or business?

We will let you know after this summer.  We will try not to jump into the Potomac after a night out boozing.  See also, "Loul a la mer."

Do you drink to escape from worries or troubles?

Obvi.

Do you drink alone?

We don't feel alone.

Have you ever had a complete loss of memory as a result of your drinking?

See answers to all of the above.  See also, our phone call to EKK this morning to see if we had made plans for tomorrow since we couldn't remember our conversation from last night.

Has your physician ever treated you for drinking?

During our last check up we filled out a form that said we drink 4-5 drinks 5 nights a week.  Our doctor looked at the sheet and said, "That seems about right."

Do you drink to build up your self-confidence?

Haven't we answered this one already?  Yes.

Have you ever been in a hospital or institution on account of drinking?

We have pretty crappy insurance so we hope not. 

Why We Like Bad Movies

This morning we read an article titled "Why Smart Women Love Dumb Diane Keaton Films."  (This was next to an article called "Is Jasper Johns Overrated"; perhaps we need to start frequenting less pretentious media outlets.) 

The article started with a "confession," so we'll start with one of our own: we only read the headline and the first paragraph, and then we saw we had a friendster message and got distracted.  But we're pretty sure we would have felt that the review of the movie described us -- there is nothing more we enjoy than terrible, trashy movies.  We just returned to Netflix 6 episodes of Nip/Tuck and the Devil Wears Prada.  Coming next in our queue are The Slums of Beverly Hills and the Rules of Attraction.  About a Boy and Love Actually are also on our queue.  If Sack Lunch were a real movie, we'd add that one, too.

Movies that aren't on our queue include any academy award winners (though we have some nominees like Transamerica), and especially not The English Patient, Lawrence of Arabia, or anything with Ben Kingsley.  Too serious.  Too depressing.  Too looooong.  We like to think of ourselves as well-educated, and yet we found even Little Miss Sunshine a tad too sophisticated for our taste.  Give us House of Yes or Zoolander any day; but please keep Howards End and The Wings of the Dove for yourself.

FHC says we like bad movies because we're disconnected from our emotions and lack depth.  That's probably true in part.  But that can't be entirely true because we also like serious movies that are also garbarge, like Titanic, which we saw 4 times in the theatre with our childhood friend Joey.  This also suggests that our attention span is not the problem, since 4 viewings of Titanic roughly equals 593942 hours. 

Dating FHC changed our habits only slightly; we were forced to watch movies staring Catherine Deneuve and all of his other grim favorites like The House of Sand and Fog.  And another confession: our Netflix queue is newly starting to reflect some of this so-called maturity - we have one foreign film (L'Avventura), an Oscar winner (Mystic River), Shakespeare (Laurence Olivier's Hamlet, also Best Picture in 1948), and a few cultural commentaries (Citizen Ruth, Idiocracy).  Perhaps we'll never understand why we like dumb movies better than serious, "legitimate" ones.  And we recognize that part of growing older is giving up Are We There Yet and Step Up.  But Even if we're forced to watch "intelligent" movies, it doesn't mean we have to like them. 

In Which LL Visits FHC in Rehab

We've received a lot of concerned email recently about FHC's Rehab Entries.  Ok actually no one wrote to us about FHC this week.  Apparently many of you thought these posts were jokes; those of you that did obviously don't know FHC or his desperate need in the past few months for medical placement.  Our visit was brief - the doctors let us sit with him for about 15 minutes.  FHC muttered "4 8 15 16 23 42" over and over, but otherwise seemed to be in good shape (for someone nearly 30).  Many of you have had questions, and we wanted to take this chance to answer them.  (NDLR: All answers have been approved by FHC's publicist and style manager.)

What was FHC permitted to bring with him?  Can we have the polo shirts and antique sports gear he left behind?

FHC was only permitted to pack a few limited items - he wears a uniform daily.  We brought him some of the things he forgot: a tweed jacket, iPod speakers (they don't let him listen to music but since it was a birthday gift we gave him, he wanted it for the memories), Kiehl's abyssine eye cream, Zirh astringent, and his plastic vilebrequin pouch.  FHC smiled wide when he saw us; yet his eyes told us all we needed to know about his current anguish and years of suffering. 

What is FHC being treated for?  When will he be released?

Unfortunately, the answer to the first question is confidential and the latter too uncertain to speculate.  His public statement is that he's undergoing treatment for a "social conditioning disorder," but faithful readers will know that that's only one of many problems. 

Are any celebrities in the treatment program with him?

Obviously we're not allowed to answer that, but let's just say one of the patient's nicknames in the facility is Fire Crotch, and we're not talking about Carrot Top.

Can we visit FHC?  Does he have a mailing address?

No, you can't.  Especially Kevin W., and particularly not at 5am.  He can receive mail, but unfortunately the facility opens it all first to make sure its content isn't too upsetting, so we recommend against reaching out to him in any way. Please hesitate before contacting FHC.

What will the New & Improved FHC be like once treatment is complete?

Again, difficult to speculate.  But we have a few guesses.  First, the new FHC will enjoy listening to people discuss real estate, and he will be genuinely happy for his genuinely happy friends.  He will have learned to marinate chicken before grilling it.    He will take public transportation.  Finally, he will make frequent charitable contributions and fewer uncharitable jokes.

Will FHC continue to blog?

Only time will tell.  FHC is in discussions to sell his bio-pic (working title: "La Candeur Infernale de Ma Jeunesse"), and it is unclear whether the production schedule will leave time for blogging.