FHC’s resurrected blog

In Which LL Blogs because Drew W. Ruined* FHC's Life

Whenever someone asks us "Should I go to law school," we have an answer ready: "Do you want to be a lawyer?"  This is not a question we asked ourself before we tried to become the next LL Woods.  Our Miranda Priestly-like boss said, "LL we got you accepted to law school.  Go."  And now we know that slander is a tort and can also help you out if someone steals your kill during a fox hunt. 

Since we didn't consider what we would do other than being a lawyer before starting law school, we thought that the halfway point (we're done with three of six semesters) would be a good time to think about what we would have done if we didn't become a lawyer.  Here are some possibilities:

- Chef:  Pros - love eating; extremely good focus on cutting things into tiny pieces; don't tear when cutting onions.  Cons - general lack of talent; enjoy only salty things with a lot of butter; own only one (blunt) knife.

- Doctor:  Pros - no visceral reaction to blood; watch Nip/Tuck; comfortable around latex (gloves).  Cons - not Jewish enough; cannot choose a restaurant, would probably lack life-or-death decisionmaking ability under pressure

- Prostitute: Pros - tried moonlighting during our period as an assistant at "Runway"; good hours; no requirement to report wages to IRS. Cons - no benefits package; hate asking people for money

- Reality Star: Pros - thrive as the "token" or "only gay in the village"; pitched idea of playing Russell Simmons' white/gay/Jew assistant at Def Jam records; messy drunk.  Cons - rejected by "Survivor: Pearl Islands"; not flamboyant enough

- Travel Guide Contributor: Pros - obvi best job ever.  Cons - cannot travel independently or without adult supervision; lack knowledge of foreign languages; hate sight-seeing

- Writer: Pros - set own hours; attend book parties.  Cons - lack of talent, passion (see also "Chef"); last name not "Foer"

- Master of the Universe: Pros - applied for the position, was declined.  Cons - not Jewish enough (see also "Doctor")

- Philanthropist/Socialite: Trust us, we're working on it (Bettina, call us)

Since we're utterly incapable of doing anything else, we think "lawyer" is a good fit.  Our general lack of passion fits well; instead of having our own views we can easily adopt those of our clients slash the partners who we slave away for.  We always thought having a lack of convictions would be a detriment in our career: now we realize it's a huge asset (particularly when combined with our tendency to produce our best work when terrified by/of our superiors).

*NDLR: By "ruined" we mean shut off his internet, by which we also mean cut off his access to internet porn, le Blog, and, of course, charming emails from his ex.

What Goes Around Comes Around

Obvi we did something terribly wrong to upset our otherwise well-balanced karma. First, we almost drowned in a moment of hilarious terror in Mexico, and now, on our way to Washington, D.C., for the weekend we lost our drivers license and almost missed our plane.

Somehow we and Fagat arrived at the airport mostly on time, and yet from the moment we stepped foot inside the terminal, everything that possibly could go our way - didn't. The boarding passes wouldn't print; no one would tell us how to get them; the line to check-in, even without luggage, was 549420 people deep; security took for ever and, natch, we were selected for extra screening. In a mad dash for the gate, we somehow dropped our ID, which we thought we were clutching tightly in our hand along with our boarding pass. Once we arrived at the actual gate, JetBlue gave us even more problems. "When will the final boarding be?" we asked. "I don't know, maybe 5 minutes, maybe 10, maybe 1," was the reply. "Do we have time to go back to security and see if they found our ID?" I pleaded. "Well, I don't know, but I do know you're wasting time asking me" said the ticket agent. We mean, honestly, couldn't he have just told us.

We make a split second decision: it's either (possibly) retrieve our ID or board the plane. Doing both seems impossible, so we board the plane, sans idee what we'll do in D.C., a heavy carding jurisdiction, to drink heavily, which of course was our entire reason for visiting. We take our seat (actually we first sat in someone else's because we were so flustered). Sweat dripped down our reddened face, and we thought the person beside us was going to ask to be reseated.

As the plane was about to leave the gate, the ticket agent ran onboard. He made an announcement to the plane, and my heart started racing: "Is LL onboard?" This must mean they found our ID. We shook our hands in the air furiously. "We're here, we're here." And then, without explanation, and without any sign that my license had indeed been found, he left, locked the door, and we began our50 minute in-flight deliberation about how, exactly, to get some form of ID from New York to DC to a) Get into Cobalt and b) Get into the Supreme Court Tuesday (the stated legitimate purpose of our trip to DC, a visit to One First Street).

If anyone has any ideas, please call us. We're currently using the real ID of someone we look nothing like except for the dark hair. But using a friend's ID just feels so 1990s, and while some bartenders may let it pass, we think maybe CJ Roberts will be able to see past the ruse.*

That's it.  We have terrible karma, and someone is trying to send us a message that we really effed up this time and are not getting off without a few hiccups in our otherwise well-laid plans.  We're planning on lying low for a while until we recover from these two most recent crises.  Our not so optimistic mother told us that terrible things happen in threes (note to mom: of three children, so far only two have come out of the closet), and after nearly drowning and losing any form of government identification, we're a little nervous about what the Karma Police have in store for us next.

*(ed.: With the amazing help of KMZ and Alice B, we actually expect to have our passport arrive in DC Sunday night. So please, hold your calls).

In Which LL Reenacts that Whole "Drowned Sailor" Thing

We just returned from Le Mexique and barely have a moment to blog, but our payment from FHC is the only way we afford Chelsea rent. 

We haven't read the blog for the past 6 days, but a quick skim leads me to believe that our so-called "ex" is mostly prostituting himself unsuccessfully.  (Note to FH: we're meeting up with Fagat shortly and plan on getting all the details).

Back to the raison d'etre of le Blog: Us.  We almost didn't come back from Cozumel alive.  There are beaches on both sides of the island - to the west, the sea is very call and serene.  On the other, more beautiful, easy side of the island the ocean is incredibly turbulent and has a strong current.  While we were on that messy side of the island, nature called.  Because its essentially a national park, there are no public bathrooms.  So, as they say, when in the sea do as the fish do: we left the beach to urinate in the ocean.  Only every time a wave hit us we would lose focus and nothing would come out of our bladder.  We decided, foolishly it turns out, to swim much further out where the waves were slightly less rough.  We peed.  Success.  We hadn't been keeping an eye on the shore, and when we turned around, it looked to be a good 200 feet away.  Easy, we told ourself; we are a strong swimmer.  So we tried to swim forward.  But after every stroke, the sea managed to pull us backward.  For 30 seconds we continued to struggle and made no progress.  We started to feel our heartbeat a little more ferociously.  The waves crashed down on our head and all around us; we were losing our breath and strength quickly.

In times of crisis, we've always used a single motto to avoid catastrophe: What would Matt Lauer do?  Instantly, we remembered the Today Show segment on rip tides.  Matt instructed us, when swimming forward doesn't work, to swim parallel to the shore until the ocean is calm enough that you can get back to the beach.  We swam forward.  Then we heard a whistle.  We looked to the shore, where a lifeguard had spotted us.  Then we were really scared: if emergency personnel thought we were in trouble, then we must really be drowning.  Quickly, we raised our arms over our head and waved to him.  He and a buddy swam towards me with little floaties and came to my rescue.  (Pictures to come later once Alex R. and Costas C. are no longer stranded at the airport in Atlanta). We swam back to shore, although it took the three of us a while to get back, even with the floatation devices.

Fortunately, the event went from being 90% scary and 10% funny to 90% funny and 10% scary in a matter of moments.  In fact, we think the lifeguards were a little perplexed to see me laughing as we returned to the shore.  All in all, we had a great trip, are less tan than we had hoped to be, and plan to pay a little more attention in the future when urinating.

Kisses, and happy New Year to the kids. 

What's That Red Dot On Your Sweater?

Our yearly Christmas trip to Paris was canceled, so instead we spent one week chez nos parents.  As FHC likes to say, every time we go home we just come back with more cashmere sweaters (this time it is two; both are very FHC-esque.)  Home is pretty much boring and our time here can be summed up best by this NYTimes article: "[We] walk in the front door, say ‘hi’ to [our] mom and dad, stand at the kitchen counter and start eating cheese."  It's not that it is impossible to find excitement.  But we're too lazy: if we had known, for example, FrenchBenj was coming home from Paris this early, we would have tried flirting with him instead of watching 6 hours of Road Rules/Real World Challenge: The Duel and 7 hours of Top Chef.  (We did consider inviting him to our house for dinner and introducing him to our parents as FHC.)  Instead, our one trip into the big city with mom, dad, and sis consisted mostly of trying not to make eye contact with handsome/trashy salesboys.  The only gay thing we did while here was seeing DreamGirls with our straight best friend from childhood.  He asked me who the fat girl was and why she was better than Beyonce.  I mean, really.  (Yes, it was the greatest movie ever and if we were slightly younger and less mature we would watch it over and over and only play its soundtrack constantly.  Since we're older and wiser we've only been doing one of those two.  Guess which.)

Everything at home feels local: this evening I was even interviewed by the local news going into my local borders about the recent Michael Jordan divorce.  If you are not watching the execution of the millenium please try to watch me.  Fortunately we leave tomorrow for NYCville and then Mexico-country, where we won't be reading le blog or wearing sunscreen.  (I'm like a marshmallow: I have to burn a little bit to get perfectly golden.)

Finally, for our observant reader, you'll notice that today is not our day to blog.  However, after receiving an email from FHC that said: "I can’t find the strength to blog LL Jr. can you blog today by any chance or coincidence" we decided that we couldn't leave him hanging.

Feliz Navidad and have a sexually fulfulling New Year's.  See you in 2007 if the blog hasn't shut down by then.   

In Which FHC Visits New York and LL Declines to Write about It

Last night we went out to celebrate the engagement of our college roommate and his (now)  fiancee.  The celebration involved approximalely 50 straight people and me.  Two things were obvious:

1) We actually Cover less when we're with straights than when with gays.

2)  The population of straight men in NYC, excluding the New Jersey/Bridge&Tunnel crowd has become indistinguishable from the population of gay men.

The engagement party was at a bar in the Meatpacking District called Brass Monkey.  It's like the Brass Monkey in DC only with fewer rats and not as close to the Duplex Diner.  For a while we thought it might be a gay bar because all the men were wearing skinny jeans, tight black t-shirts, and trendy Eurosneakers designed by John Varvatos and making eyes at each other.  If you had taken us there with a blindfold and asked us where we were after removing it we definitely would have answered: "Hole" or "Boys Room."  We also noticed that our Covering tendencies decreased around all the straight-os.  We were more flaming and queeny than ever.  We don't know why this is - perhaps we're more comfortable in our gay skin when we think there aren't any judgmental 'mos around critiquing our (admittedly drunk and wasted) behavior.

Sorry for the dullish post (we know you secretly wanted the dish on Maman FHC and the FHC family's trip to NYCville - but, in the words of EB, she was "delightful and certainly not the hideous beast Frenchie had made her out to be.")  We're trying to learn about German Corporate Law in preparation for our exam on Wednesday, and let's just say that we're a little bit on the screwed side.

In Which Mommy (not mine) Visits and LL (me) Returns

Mme. FHC is visiting from les banlieues, so once again FHC assigned me blogging duty.  The entire FHC family is making a short visit to NYC and I've taken the liberty of making some plans for them.  It's actually quite a bit of faith for FHC to put in me; not only am I a terrible travel planner (see, for example, every trip I've ever taken, most especially Paris in which I was completely dependent on FHC's binder of activities) but I also have awful taste.  So, I've selected a hotel for them as well as restaurants for dinner.  I'm not clever enough to sabotage the whole event - and I've picked what I expect to be a genuinely charming hotel (read: tiny rooms) as well as a trendy, cutish place for dinner (slash not Taco Bell).  I've also arranged (thanks to EKK) for them a tour of City Hall, where if they're lucky they might even spot Mayor Mike in his trading floor-like cube.  Some people might consider me an extra-generous ex-boyfriend to do so much for my ex-mother-in-law.  Me, on the other hand, I just consider myself an angel.

In other news, my super trendy (and expensive) premium denim ripped the other day while I was studying in the library.  After a huge tearing sound, Fishwatch didn't pause a beat before reminding me: "You're screwed."  But I used my feminine wiles to my advantage and actually convinced the Barney's Co-Op Denim Specialist to exchange them for a completely different pair.  The lesson: what I lack in courage, I make up for in whining.

Introducing the Skinny Black Pant

As any of our good friends will share with readers, when Moses came down from Sinai to distribute gay genes around, there are some he forgot to give us: a sense of style, good taste, interior decoration.  The ones he did give us are precisely the ones that people like James Dobson love to hate: alcoholism, fetish for preppy racquet sports, prostitution. 

But worst of all, we have -- shopping addiction.  Don't confuse this with trendiness (we know, the readers who know us best never would.)  We're decidely untrendy.  Even so, put us in a bad mood and all it takes is a handle of Smirnoff shopping spree to cheer us up.  Yesterday we hoodwinked Fishwatch and Carl D. into enabling us on a trip for (skinny) jeans at Barney's Co-op.  Keep in mind we're a poor student; the last thing we can afford is to spend our summer associate salary on jeans that cost more than an iPod.  (Note to law firm recruiters: less popcorn, more denim.) We thought we were just going to browse, trying on different styles so that instead of purchasing jeans full price, we could be well-informed in our bargain eBay purchases.  Slash we almost purchased two pairs then and there and went home with one pair which we love.  (PS - We heart shopping with Fishwatch because he has the perfect gay body and makes skinny jeans that we could never hope to fit into look fabulously normal.)

We first noticed we had the shopping gene when we learned in middle school that if we duped our mom into buying us clothes from Abercrombie & Fitch we would: a) Get to gawk at stunning frat boys on the walls of the store and b) Get a complimentary copy of the A&F Quarterly.  Had we known how destructive all these images of male perfection would be to our developing psyche and body image, perhaps we would have been smarter and only shopped at the Gap started working out in high school so we could look good today.

As puberty progressed, so did the force of the gay shopping gene.  It all came to a head when we were forced to write a note to Santa indicating that even though we were a growing boy we  preferred polos size "XXS" instead of "L" for Christmas.  But the real problem with the shopping gene/addiction is that, like binge drinking, the day after you don't feel as good.  This morning, we keep walking back and forth in the library with our new jeans on, pretending we have to get coffee or use hte men's room, fishing for compliments and yet no one has looked up from their Fed Courts reading.  Hello people, we just bought new jeans tell us how much you like them. 

We Just Can't Quit You Jack Twist

Please pardon me for blogging a day early.  I'm impatient and let's face it, from *another* gay evangelical scandal to the United States posting nuclear secrets on a federal government website to the imminent verdict in Saddam's trial on Sunday, there's a lot to talk about.  JK, we only care about gay prostitutes and meth additiction.

As of 5pm today, the Reverend Ted Haggard was accused of paying for drugs and sex from a prostitute in Colorado or some other free-wheeling state.  We've never heard of him before since we only get our news from US Weekly and only learn about celebs from Gawker Stalker.  But apparently he's some kind of really important leader who's BFF with Karl Rove and leads something like 30 million crazies churchgoers.  After looking at his photo (above), we only have one thing to say: Obvi.

What's funny about the allegations is that Haggard has confessed -- to buying meth.  In other words, he's quite comfortable admitting that he purchased illegal drugs but so scared of being cast as homosexual that he refuses to concede there was any sexual activity.  Because gay male escorts frequently give closeted evangelical men massages without actually screwing.  Oh, and he purchased the drugs but threw them out before he used them. 

Haggard, not surprisingly, had a wife and five children.  I guess the gay life-style really is a threat to families, at least so long as men like Haggard are so fearful of their own sexual identities that they build fake lives that fall to pieces later.

Our first reaction to news like this is a pinch of sadness: we spent a lot of time in the closet, and it's hard to forget the terror I felt when I was hiding my sexual identity.  To that extent, we empathize -- slightly -- with Haggard's struggle to come to terms with being gay.  We can even understand -- without condoning -- why he used hate-filled rhetoric against gays to bury his sexual identity even deeper. 

At the same time, the news naturally leads to second, more pure, reaction: PLEASE SEND US A LIST OF ALL THE HIGH-PROFILE CLOSETED MEN BECAUSE WE CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF THESE STORIES ABOUT HIDDEN SEX SECRETS AND HYPOCRITICAL FALLS FROM GRACE.  What are we going to do when the election cycle ends and there's no longer anything to gain from outing fire-breathing conservatives? 

At least we finally have a gay sex scandal that doesn't brand the rest of us as man-child-sex lovers.

Yes, We Once Dressed Up as a Teabag

Well, it's that time of year again when we're forced to ask the quintessential question in the 'mo fight for equal rights: What, to the American slave gay, is the Fourth of July Halloween?

You can feel the excitement build as the day grows closer.  For the past week, I haven't had a single conversation with a fellow OUTLaw in which the topic "OMG what are you dressing as for Halloween" hasn't come up.  Even our friends on the New Jersey Supreme Court got involved, dressing up our cute friend "marriage" in a hilariously slutty "legally-cognizable-relationships-that-will-probably-get-called-civil-unions" costume.  (We're not witty enough come up with that one on our own).

And, to be sure, the straights get excited about dressing up, too.  But nothing compares to the fervor of the gays.  Yesterday we were talking with one of our 3L friends, who is going as Trailor Trash (apparently to commemorate our midwestern, trailor park roots).  "I'm buying a mullet wig and carrying a six pack of Natty Light, but I don't think that will cut it," he told me.  I suggested adding a moustache.  "Are you kidding?  Halloween isn't about getting ir right; it's about looking fabulous."  And let's face it, Trailor Trash is pretty tame in comparison to most gay halloween costumes that really show our inner sluts.  Another friend is going as Wonder Woman, and he's desperate to find someone to join him as Bat Girl.  Whether it's Nina Garcia, fashion director of Elle Magazine, Princess Di, Blanche Deveraux or Maria Sharapova, give us a stunning (or middle-aged) woman and we'll give you a Halloween costume. 

Fishwatch said it best in his post titled: "When Our Mom Helped Us Move She Found Our Wigs from Past Halloweens and Immediately Started to Cry..."  When we came out, clearly all our mothers had the same fear Mrs. Fishwatch had when she found Fishwatch's wigs: that to be gay meant to abandon - instead of to find - our sexual identities as men (or women, in the case of lesbians, who I'm pretty sure don't read this blog). 

So, what does Halloween mean to us gays?  Why do we use the opportunity to dress up as -- fabulous divas?  Are we just masquerading as the dolls we were laughed at for playing with in kindergarden middle school as a high school senior?  Why do we love putting on trashy eyeliner (ok maybe some of our friends wear this out regularly anyway), pumps, and cheap jewelry?  Do our costumes represent who we'd like to be, or who the world sees us as?  And for those of us not going in drag, is it because we're too heteronormative or because our idea for a costume is better than yours?  Since we spent so much of our adolescence "Covering" who we were, do the gays use Halloween, when most people hide behind a costume, as a chance to reveal a little more? 

Don't get us wrong: We like drag.  We like drag queens.  But we also like men.  A lot.  Even so, for  some reason I have the feeling that my campaign to get my friends to dress up as He-Man or Ian Somerhalder just isn't going to take off.

Hola, Me Llamo "Amigo"

It is Saturday, and you all know what Saturday means: in an effort to retain their "friendship," FHC asks LL to blog and, LL agrees even though it takes time away from his moo court brief and even though Alex R. thinks it's unhealthy even to acknowledge Le Blog's existence.  Let me say, however, that as happy as I am to blog, today is the first day when I've been relieved to be relieved of my significant other/husband/LouDuty.  FHC is finally packing up ship and moving back to Paris to Adams Morgan.  That means between today and tomorrow he has to put all the world possessions he's acquired since moving to the US and everything he's purchased from eBay into boxes, load them onto a pickup truck, and carry them to his new home.  Is there any doubt - any at all - that if we hadn't divored I would have had to hop on USAir Shuttle and scurry over to Dupont Circle East to help FHC?  Is there any question that we would have had a gigantic fight ending in a violent encounter with some Waldorf-Astoria flatwear? 

So here I am, alone in the basement of the law school library writing about federal court jurisdiction something pretentious that doesn't actually matter at all while FHC sweats and worries about his imminent move.  It's hard to say, but at least for this afternoon and tomorrow, I think I'm better off.

FHC, my advice: Take the stools while you can.