Saturday night, Toby Joe and I had dinner at Planet Thailand in Williamsburg. Planet Thailand is an O.K. place to eat. It’s not the best Thai/Japanese food I’ve ever had but it’s certainly not the worst either. We go there on occasion especially when I am craving sushi. You see, all the other Thai places in Williamsburg specialize specifically in Thai. The sushi places specialize in sushi. Planet Thailand specializes in both. So their name is a bit deceiving. It’s not only Thai food they serve at Planet Thailand. It should be called “Planet Japan and Thailand” or simply just “Planet”. On Saturday evening, we decided on Planet Japan and Thailand because I wanted both sushi AND vegetarian duck.
Mistake Number One: Visiting Williamsburg at 9:30 PM on a Saturday night.
I know this next part is going to sound entirely 9th grade of me, but where do all The Khakis come from? My friend, Gerry, uses this term “Khakis”. It makes me laugh. While I know exactly the type of people he’s referring to, I think this breed needs a more detailed description.
The men are usually big up top because they spend a lot of time in the gym trying to impress other non-gay men at the gym with their muscles. They’re usually not very fit—a little pudgy around the beer holding (or rum and coke-holding) mid-section. They tend to have the same hair cut. The hair is cut short, like buzzed short, especially on the sides. On top it might be wee bit longer, but not much. I think they visit their non-gay hairstylist and ask for “The Nead” a cut that marries the head and neck thereby blurring the boundary between what holds up the head and the head itself. And the muscles they gain don’t help their cause, or do help their cause, I guess it depends on who you’re asking. I really like necks, jaw lines and chins. I like knowing where the head begins and the neck ends. Sometimes, boundaries are good. But I imagine that some ladies like a full Nead.
They often wear light colors. I see horizontal stripes up top and usually it’s a button down. Usually the button downs are fitted so they can show of their non-gay man muscles and their lady-luring loins. Their pants are usually khaki or pale. And sometimes, the more attractive individuals wear jeans because they fit into a non-stretchy variety of pants.
What I have mentioned so far would be easily overlooked and ignored should it not be for their voices. Generally speaking, I hate their voices. Given we live near New Jersey and Long Island, The Local Khakis’ voices are even worse. (My New Jersey relatives, I hope you can find it in your hearts and forgive me for saying such a thing.) We are forced to listen to their throaty, loud words touched with that Long Island or New Jersey draw. For example, “Water” is not water. It’s “Wooter.” And “Long” becomes “Lawng”. It’s really just something one must hear firstear. The women don’t sound so bad. In fact, sometimes it can be a little cute. I don’t want anyone thinking that I hate every one who speaks with a Long Island/New Jersey accent, I just don’t like testosterone bags with said accent.
Mistake Number Two: Actually sticking around.
We waited 45 minutes for a table. The place was swarming with Khakis. And not only was it slammed at Planet Thailand, either. EVERY INCH OF WILLIAMSBURG
– home of the hipsters, home of irony and greasy hair, Guns and Roses, bad tattoos – was swarming with Khakis. Which begs the question, where are all of these people coming from? And once that question is asked, one must wonder WHY are they coming?
They’re Here. They’re Queer. Get Used to It.
During our 45-minute wait, the fella behind me who was on a date quickly irked me. It was Saturday night. His date was a charming blond. She dressed to the nines. She left her apartment excited. This could be the night she’d meet the man of her dreams.
The man of her dreams wore his phone earpiece the ENTIRE time. In mid conversation, he’d answer the phone.
– Hold on, baby. I gotta take this. –Yeah, what’s up? Uhuh. Yeah. After dinner. Yeah, man. Cool! Aiight. Later.
Along the right side of the bar, a little further from Toby and I was a group of four. The girls sipped pink cosmos, the boys their rum and Cokes. The men became louder and louder in a desperate attempt to outdo one another with their vast knowledge in the eclectic world of Thai cuisine. The girls giggled between their freshly French manicured fingernails. All four of them together reminded me of the days I spent working in SoHo and walking past the open doors of Sephora. No one should be forced to endure the smell of that many man made, alcohol based perfumes at one time. It should be illegal. And I