Thursday, October 26, 2006



Why isn't anyone in the media making the easy joke here?!?!?!

If anyone knows what it looks like when you haven't taken your drugs, it's Rush Limbaugh!


I'll be here all week.


Hizzoners everywhere

Last I checked, I do not work in the Capitol.

And yet, and YET, I swear some of these phony hotshots think they're goddamned senators. Well, I, for one, refuse to indulge their self-important delusions. My GOD, today an associate who started the same week as me actually called to see if I could grab a book from the library for him because he was on a deadline. Did I miss the bell ringing? Is it time to vote on the damn gay marriage amendment or something? No, I will not get you a goddamn book from the effing library!

OK, it's not that big a deal. But I've found the best way to keep things entertaining at work is to pretend that every tiny transgression has the potential to trigger nuclear war. I like to play the role of Khrushchev, because fake Russian accents are funny. "I weel note get yoor boooook, Meester!"

. . .

I've been considering coming out to my octogenarian grandparents; I figure the conversation will go pretty much like this:

Me: I wanted to let you know that I'm gay. That means I'm sexually attracted to other men.

Grandma: Oh, that's nice, honey. Do you have a girlfriend?

Grandpa: What? Huh? What'd he say?

Not sure if the way I imagine things going is encouraging or not.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006


It's late, and I'm TIRED.

While waiting for the Metro to arrive tonight, a young man and his girlfriend strolled up, each holding the other's ass by the palm. He was wearing white sneakers, light khakis, a white t-shirt, a tan jacket, and an all-white Von Dutch hat. She was wearing . . . well, quite obviously she was a whore.

And I'm a lawyer who just left work and wanted to shoot them. That makes me an awful person, right?

I've been here not much more than a month, and though I might not dress the part, I feel just like that girl, holding douchebag partners' asses for what might seem like a lot of money, but really, when you think about it, just isn't enough for what it entails. And then wham bam, it's over, and I head home with disheveled hair and my shirt not quite fully tucked in and all I want is a beer and some sleep and, more than anything, not to have to do it again the next day.

Stupid comparison, I know, but it really feels right at the moment.

It hasn't been that bad all the time. I mean, I still have my own office and there's free coffee and my secretary's a sweetheart, and there are those paralegals and their hot hot asses, but really? At the end of the day? Isn't there something better out there? Preferably that pays the same?

Because when it comes down to it, god damn it, I want a whore right now. =[

Any takers?

Wednesday, October 18, 2006


Lawyers never hit.

"I was at Another Firm before I came to The Firm."

Interviewee nods head knowingly.

Of all the perverse things The Firm wires into our systems, the strangest is the implicit understanding that we are never, ever to mention our former employers by name. Collectively, all other firms are Another Firm, and our reasons for leaving have nothing, absolutely nothing to do with Another Firm treating us badly. Rather, we all experienced epiphanic moments where we realized that The Firm was the ideal place to work. Because there's nothing wrong with Another Firm. Nothing, you understand? They did not yell at us and take away our vacations and skimp on bonuses and lock us in toilet stalls while savagely beating us. Beating us with mean words, that is. Because lawyers never hit.


. . .

A law school classmate emailed me yesterday, trying to sort out his feelings about four firms where he had offers. I had difficulty responding, not because I didn't want to help, but because there's such a limited range of adjectives I typically use to describe firms, and I had all but exhausted them after sharing my impressions of the first three. My description of the fourth firm was thus an amalgamation of the descriptions of firms one, two, and three: "It's a civilized place to work, where the partners are respectful of the associates' personal lives. It's not a lifestyle firm, although the billable hours requirement is reasonable. It has a good reputation in the local community, both for its work product and for the way it treats its lawyers."

When it comes down to it, I chose The Firm because the paralegals here have the best asses. I swear to GOD, there's this one fresh-out-of-college kid, lordy, I just want to bill his hours every time I see him. I want to bill his hours and draft his briefs and xerox his expert reports and prep his witnesses and . . . . Basically, I would like to have sex with him.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006


Recruit THIS.

Not two weeks into life at The Firm, I was asked by the Chair of The Diversity Committee to attend a getting-to-know-and-hire-you dinner at a swank DC hotspot. And by that I mean, one of the two restaurants still in business that was a swank DC hotspot back when the folks running the place were shimmying to Donna Summer. Which, come to think of it, is what I was doing Saturday night at exactly this time . . . .

In order to fulfill the obligation to bring a gay presence to the dinner, I wore a white shirt and bright blue tie under gray pinstripes, accented by wire-rimmed glasses and a pair of spit-polished Allen Edmonds. Because conservative is the new flamboyant.

My implicit objective that evening was to pick out the gays among the fresh blood, convince them that Yes, The Firm welcomes diversity, then, over the course of the evening, get sufficiently drunk to make all the offerees uncomfortable, like so many pages in Mark Foley's brownstone.


That last paragraph included an instance of something I like to call "foreshadowing," in that it foreshadowed what I'm about to relate. The evening can be summarized in exactly twelve facts: (1) I drank before dinner; (2) I drank at dinner; (3) I drank after dinner; (4) a Senior Partner suggested to me at one point that I might like to drink some water; (5) I politely refused; (6) I picked out one of the gay offerees; (7) I was wrong about him; (8) I picked out another one; (9) I was right about him; (10) he was far less attractive the next morning; (11) so was I; (12) he's decided to go to a different firm.

Listen, they're the ones who wanted diversity, not me. I just wanted a job. And if they expect me to go out and cheerlead for The Firm, well, they shouldn't be surprised if I try to take home the star football player after the big game.


Oh yeah, and I billed 56 hours last week.

Monday, October 09, 2006


Day One

"No ring, huh? When's some lucky woman gonna make an honest man out of you?"

With those words, and a playful punch on the shoulder, the managing partner welcomed me to The Firm. Exactly three things occurred to me in the brief moment when I considered how to respond:

1. Doesn't this paisley tie scream "queer" loudly enough?

2. Should I make this conversation uncomfortable for us both and out myself?

3. Does he have a son between the ages of 18 and 22?

Half a grin and a shrug later, the conversation was over, and it was back to orientation. Sitting through six hours of "getting to know you" activities and talks about tolerance, I couldn't shake this awful deja vu feeling. Why was this all so familiar?

Oh, that's right. Summer camp.

You'd think that a group of twenty-somethings with Ivy League degrees bleeding out of their anuses would know that "Hi" and "How are you?" were appropriate greetings, whereas "Where the hell is that brief?!?!?!" and "I want to fuck your daughter" are not. You'd think that, you really really would, but you'd be wrong. You'd also be wrong if you thought it was acceptable not to check your Blackberry at night. In fact, you would be so wrong about that, that if you didn't, you'd be made an example of during orientation for incoming associates. That is how wrong you would be.

. . .

I've not quite mastered the art of mustering enthusiasm when people ask me where I work. It's not that it's not a good firm; it's just that . . . What the fuck am I doing here? My friends marvel at the pay and the benefits and the oh-so-nice suits I strut around town in, but every time I talk about my job, I can't shake the feeling that I'm pissing my life away for no particularly good reason. And not that good kind of golden shower pissing, either; I'm talking about the coffee and asparagus kind. The more we get paid, the more that's demanded of us, until there's nothing left to demand. So come along for the ride, as I try to survive The Firm without sacrificing what's left of my soul.

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