Grindr Chronicles

I'm always surprised by how many people don't know what Grindr is. To put it euphemistically, it's a gay “social application” for you to locate gay men that are close to you. It says how far someone is away and then you can put up a profile of what you are looking for. The best possible description is a billboard that use to hang in Boystown. In it, two hunky men are about to kiss and it says, “He's less than a foot away...”

The ellipses means a lot more than a kiss and dinner... If you know what I mean.

But I have actually found really great guys to date through the app. I actually do use it for the “social” purpose instead of the “bang it and slang it” direction others take it in. But there has definitely been some interesting interactions.

I. Synechdoche

I thought this one interaction basically encapsulates everything awkward about me dating online.

A guy messaged me and said, “Hi.” This is pretty standard for Grindr. You can get good convos going from there, but it's generally pretty tough. I only respond to simple, “Hi”s if the guy is really attractive... because I'm classy. So this guy says, “Hi” and because I'm a normal human being, I looked into his profile and found that he likes video games. So my response was:

“Nice! A gamer. What are you into?”

So I sent it.

And then thought about it.

It is common in the gay community for people looking for a sleeping partner (there will be lots of euphemisms in this entry) will simply put “Lookin?” in a message. This means: “Want to come over and engage in sexual activity?” “Lookin?” is by far the most popular, but there are derivatives of this that mean similar things, like “What are you looking for?” or “Why are you on this?”

My response of “What are you into?” definitely fell into the gray category of possibly meaning “Want to come over and do more than make out?” Even though I was talking about video games, it could easily be misconstrued to mean, “Nice! I'm randomly calling out an interest! Now would you mind if I tied you up and smelled your dirty socks?”

The guy, as previously mentioned, was cute, so I didn't want to seem like I just wanted to... you know... so, being awkward, I send another message:

“Hey! That last message wasn't supposed to be about video games, like what games are you into? Haha.”

Smooth, right? So I sent it.

Then thought about it.

And I think that maybe he thinks that I don't think he's attractive and am ONLY interested in video games and not an EVENTUAL...you know... But at this point I thought a third message of:

“Hey! I am interested in video games, but also like, you know.... so, like, I just think you're cute and am also interested in getting to know about your interests... :)”

Something like that may make me look NUTS. So I didn't send it.

For some reason this guy and I didn't work out.

II. You're Not a Trucker

A few weekends ago I got a message from a guy. In his picture he is in a flannel shirt wearing a John Deere hat. He was super nice, and he said he was spending his New Year's in a cabin going snowshoeing. It was nice to get a picture on Grindr that wasn't someone shirtless or a picture of some other unmentionables, but just an outdoor scene with the caption, “It's really nice up here!”

Right?

So, I thought regardless of anything this guy was nice and we had good conversation. He was older than me and there was none of the ambiguous crap that comes with talking to guys online. (See next section). He was like, “I'll be back in the city next week. We should get together!”

So we did.

I happened to be working from home all that week. It had been pretty laid back, but as we came out of the New Year, we started to get SLAMMED (caps are a thing in this entry...evidently...). I had expected a Friday of playing Mario 3D World and occasionally checking email. I got 6 new applications, new set ups, merchant questions, and a bunch of pings from my boss about outstanding files.

Fun.

I had set up a coffee date with John Deere guy and it was approaching time. I was swamped and barely had time to stuff a sandwich in my face, shower and throw on a hoodie and some dirty jeans before heading out the door.

I'm not super vain, but I like to at least look like I care. Usually I do my hair, an activity that takes roughly 3 minutes – rubbing some pomade in it, then a rapid hairspray job.

Because it was cold and I had to wear a hat, I didn't bother doing my hair. Usually going on a first date/meeting, I would definitely do this. A large part of my judgment in this particular case was the fact that the guy looked really dressed down. He's wearing a John Deere hat. He went snowshoeing. I was picturing a kind of burly guy in a Carhart jacket and a stubble beard.

I was like, “He's laid back; he won't mind that I'm dressed down for this.”

SIDEBAR:

I had told this guy to meet me at a coffee shop in Wrigleyville. It's this kind of cute place that has nicer coffee options and a cozy atmosphere.

So I thought.

I get in there to meet the guy and it turns out to be some sort of hipster library on Friday afternoons. It was DEAD SILENT. The only sound was people tapping on keyboards and the occasional clink of silverware on plates.

They served me a coffee and I sat down and just stared at everyone. I couldn't imagine having a first date in there. Can you imagine. EVERYONE would hear everything that we said. Every awkward thing we discussed: family, jobs, the kind of truck this guy drives, etc. would all be public record.

Luckily the guy texted me, “Hey running a little late!”

My response:

“Omg. You saved us. I'm going to chug this coffee and we can go somewhere else. It's so awkward in here.”

So I pounded an Americano in about three minutes, burned my tongue and sprinted out of that place.

Ain't no hipsters going to here my awkward first date conversations.

RETURN:

I get out of the coffee shop and am standing on the sidewalk waiting for this guy. About two minutes later I see a cab pull out and a guy gets out.

I just kind of stared.

He was not a trucker.

This guy was dressed to the nines in a long trench coat, scarf, designer shoes and had well-quaffed salt-n-pepper hair.

My thought process was something like:

1. Wow. This is some kind of Grindr miracle. He's actually better looking than his picture.
2. He looks like he walked out of a fashion magazine, and I look like I walked out of a trailer park.

So he gets up to the curb and we shake hands. We go get coffee.

It turns out that he has a ballin' job and hob nobs with New Yorkers.

That's right! Hob nobs!

So we get to the end of the meeting and part ways. It only lasted like 30 minutes because I had to get back to work and he had been running a little late.

I got on the train and was thinking, “What a disaster. I'm not even going to text him. Why bother? He's probably going to a cocktail party to tell everyone about the blond schlub that he met for coffee.”

To my surprise he texted me:

“Had fun! I can understand if you're not interested, but if you want to meet up again, that would be great!”

We did meet up again. We were getting drinks and he says, “You know I was shocked you wanted to get together again. When I got out of the cab I thought you shit your pants. You had this awful expression on your face. I thought it was my gray hair.”

This taught me two things (bullet numbers are also a thing in this entry):

1. We never know what someone else is thinking. We both thought we were train wrecks.
2. My “you're attractive” face is also my “I shit my pants” face. This may explain why no one ever hits on me at bars.

“I was going to talk to that blond guy, but I think he's actually having a bowel movement at the bar.”

So, if you see me at a bar and instead of a “come hither” look you see something more like a “my bowels are going thither” look, just know that's all I got. I'll try to incorporate a wink so it's a bit more obvious.

III. Synechode Part Two: I Don't Make Plans on Sundays

Another great feature of online dating is that it allows people to be as flaky and weird as they want! One more great interaction I had that serves as a reference point for all online gay interactions was a recent conversation string I had with a dude.

He sent me some pictures and we started chatting. It's worth noting that I don't really pull punches online. If you engage me in conversation you're going to get bad jokes and (what I believe are) witticisms. I don't filter. I R Who I R.

Well this guy and I had a great back and forth. He responded to my weird jokes like:

Him: It says you're 3 miles away. That's farther than usual.

Me: I'm in a hot air balloon. I'm actually directly overhead.

I actually tried to meet up with him twice. Once I said, “It'd be nice to meet up. What are you doing Sunday?”

Him: “I don't make plans on Sundays.”

I figured this was a blow off, but then he sent me some messages a bit later. We had more good back and forth and then he happened to mention that he had some friends who play volleyball. If you'll remember from previous postings, I play volleyball and am terrible. It turns out that if I had gone out after our volleyball game on Sunday, we probably would have run into each other.

More conversations.

Then this week I, again, was like, “You crack me up. It'd be fun to meet up sometime.”

Him: “Yeah. Maybe if you wouldn't avoid me on Sundays.”

Me: “Haha. It wasn't on purpose. But it'd be fun to grab a drink. You're fun to chat with.”

Him: “As are you, Mr. Hawks.”

Wait... What? I never tell people my last name on Grindr. If we meet up, then yes. But I don't even have my first name or any part of it in my profile. This isn't for any reason other than I was too lazy to create a profile, but it was still odd that he knew my last name somehow.

Remembering that he knew some volleyball people, I just assumed that he had figured it out from them. Although, why he was talking to them about me is weird also...

So, I just write back: “Haha. How do you know my last name?”

His response: ;)

A day later his profile was completely deleted. Gone.

What?! Like... Whuuutttt?!

I actually hadn't been creeped out when he knew my last name. Boystown is small. People know each other, but... why would he delete everything? Was that because of me? I hope not.

But now I have a fear that I'm going to be murdered and a hot air balloon is going to be carved into my chest.

People are weird. Grindr allows these freak flags to fly at full mast.

#ahneeahnuapp

Suburban Kathy Bates

Suburban Kathy Bates

If you follow me on Twitter (If you don’t already, please don’t start. It’s really not worth the attention.), I recently live tweeted a train encounter with an older lady, who was on the train with a younger lady who looked old. Both of them were kind of overweight and they were sitting in the train compartment between cars. If you don’t ride the CTA in Chicago (…lucky bastards…) then you don’t know that this is a tiny compartment off the main one. It has two seats and basically room for one person to stand. I like standing in it in the morning because it minimizes other people touching me on public transportation because other people are disgusting.

So I was sitting there and the older lady is talking. Loudly. Like, not in an obnoxious, twentysomething, I-think-I’m-funny-and-want-other-people-to-hear-me-talking-about-my-ex-boyfriend kind of way, but in an I’m-an-ebullient-middle-aged-woman-and-I-would-work-at-a-bank-if-I-lived-in-a-rural-area sort of way.

So she’s talking really loudly and I can tell her friend is kind of uncomfortable, because she keeps looking around to see if other people are staring. I’m intently looking down at my phone and, of course, listening to every word that is being said.

Like:

“Do ya know, Sandy? God, she’s the funniest woman on earth. You’ll piss your pants if you hang around her too long!”

That was at the point that I keyed in to the conversation and became interested. Prior to this phrase, she had been talking about presents and wrapping and it hadn’t been that great.

I also realized that this woman is basically every woman that Kathy Bates has been playing in movies for the past twenty years. Not every part Kathy Bates has played, but if you need a charming, funny, loud, southern woman, you cast Kathy Bates in Titanic or About Schmidt. I also didn’t know where this woman spawned from because she obviously doesn’t ride public transit a lot, if she is belting out the words “piss” and other things… like she’s singing an aria. Generally when you encounter such people, they are from the suburbs. It’s just how it is. On Cubs game days, there are inevitable five 50-something year olds from Naperville yelling about the weather and public transportation and how fun it is to be on a train.

So, the conversation starts to escalate.

“I taped the Brown’s game.”

“Oh…,” young lady says shyly.

“Yeah, but they lost! I’m not going to watch a game they lose! I guess I could watch it for those cute boys in hot pants. You know what I’m sayin’!”

“Uhhh…” her companion says.

At this point it becomes important for me to stifle laughter. I didn’t want them to think I was laughing at them, because Suburban Kathy Bates is HILARIOUS. If she had a talk show I would watch it. I also want to know who Sandy is, because if she makes SKB laugh until she pisses her pants, I WANT HER IN MY LIFE.

“Yeah, I love football,” SKB continues.

“I like soccer better,” friend says.

“Oh!” SKB bats her eyelids. “Those cute boys running around in short shorts, getting all sweaty! You know!”

“Hehe.”

“I’ll watch that. You gotta take what you can get, big girl. You know what I’m sayin’!”

At this point SKB breaks down into hysterical laughter and I can no longer stifle my giggling. Luckily we are pulling into my station, so I have my hand over my mouth and am trying to push my way out because my laugh has drawn attention from the companion, who I think thought I was laughing at their expense.

When I finally get out of the car, I am still laughing on the train platform and everyone is throwing me the side eye because they think I’m crazy.  I immediately get on my phone and update every status I can think of with wisdom from SKB. I only wished I’d gotten her train schedule so I could ride with her every day. I’d have to push out her traveling companion Mean Girls style so that I could ascend to the top of the SKB friend ranks.

“Colin Kapernick! I’d watch that 24-7!” SKB would say. “You know what I’m sayin’, big gay!”

And we laugh all the way to Naperville.

I Guess My Life is Awful

It’s a weird experience going from a big city to a small town, especially if you were raised small and have spent several years in a big city. Like in Chicago, you just kind of assume that everyone thinks the way the media spins stuff, so gays are loved, Obama is God, and country music sucks.

It’s weird then to go back to the small town life and realize that a large number of Americans still rent videos from a brick and mortar video store and think that if you aren’t pregnant, getting someone pregnant, or actually carrying a child at that moment, then your life is a failure.

I recently went to one of my best friend’s Christmas parties over the holiday. The first half of the night was pretty great. We met a bunch of old friends, met some of my buddy’s new coworkers, and played board games. The coworkers we met all had kids, but it was normal. They talked about the kids, we talked about other stuff, it was a casual conversation and a lot of fun.

Then about ¾ into the night this one girl showed up from our high school. Despite being almost 30 and a pretty mature adult, I basically break into hives when I see popular people from high school. I’m still terrified of what they’ll ask or if they’ll make fun of me; I literally become 15 again and can’t talk or really assert myself in any way.

Well, Tina entered and sat on the couch. She married a guy from our high school, has kids, etc.

Even though I was at one of my best friend’s house and had another couple of my really good friends present, they don’t fully understand what it’s like to be socially aberrant in some way. They have girlfriends and wives, live in rural places, and aren’t really ostracized due to any factors. They can nimbly slip into any social stream and be absolutely fine.

Luckily, another friend from our high school, Penny, was there. Penny also lives in Chicago, is an artist, and is on the road less traveled. She didn’t get married and have kids, and I didn’t like vagina, so our existences clearly drew a stark boundary between us and everyone else at the party.

Well, Tina sits right next to Penny and is like:

“Oh my god, hey!” (They were both cheerleaders, so you can only imagine the girly double-speak happening.) “How are you! What are you up to?”

Penny pulled out her phone and showed a picture of a painting she had just sold. “I’m an artist. This is a piece I recently did.”

Tina looks at the picture, then turns away and takes a sip of her drink, “Oh, that’s nice. So like, artist…? That’s your job?”

Penny sort of pulled the conversation together and the night continued. I don’t mean to cast Penny or myself as some sort of saints at the mercy of rural rednecks, because it wasn’t like that at all. Penny definitely gave back what she got, i.e.:

Tina: “How’s your sister? She was always so pretty.”

Penny: “She’s well. You guys kind of look alike.”

Tina: “She was so pretty… Wait, what is that supposed to mean?”

Penny: “You look the same. You have the same features.”

*Cheerleader stare down*

At another point Tina is like, “We went to the party and then stopped to get a video on the way home.”

Penny says, “Video? Like… You got a movie? Don’t you have Netflix or AppleTV?”

Tina answered this question with a tremendous eye roll and a look around at the rest of like, “Who is this bitch?”

The rest of the game time was uneventful; luckily I had nestled between two couches and was trying to be unnoticed by the rising tide of high school people that started to crash through the door.

Eventually, however, it was unavoidable to talk to them and a big group showed up, ending the game and raising the average BAC of the party from .05 to 2.2.

I was shuffling about the room between groups and took a seat next to Penny. We knew some of the same people in Chicago, so we were chatting and catching up… oh yeah, and obvi throwing major shade at Tina for hating Penny so much.

This was until Linda came into the party and threw herself down between us. I can honestly say I don’t think that Linda remembers any of this party. She was BOMBED. So she’s like:

“Well, who would have thought…this…right? Us? Right?”

“Yeah,” I said.

Penny was like, “Let’s document this.”

So a picture was taken and put somewhere online with the tag: “This happened.”

Then Linda is like, “Yeah, I hated you in high school. If I would have met you then, I would have clawed your eyes out.”

I think it would be a safe estimate to say Linda and I spoke 5 times during our 4 years of high school. I don’t know if she was drunk hating, exaggerating, or really didn’t like Penny and just lumped me in with her since we were sitting next to each other, but there was really no reason for us to have any feelings, one way or the other, about each other in high school.

This segued into life advice from Linda: “Having kids sucks. No one calls you to party anymore.”

At this point I was so uncomfortable, I started glancing around the room to find an exit. All my friends were a room away or otherwise engaged, and I just couldn’t handle it.

Eventually, I got up and went to the kitchen where I poured some punch and took some deep breaths. I had a short reprieve before Bonnie rolled up to me and is like, “Hey, Tedd!”

Bonnie and I had maybe spoken in high school 6 times.

“So what’s up? What are you doing?”

I explained my life, which, while unimpressive, is self-sufficient and pretty good.

Bonnie didn’t think so.

“So you, like, work for PayPal? Wow. You were smart in high school. I’m glad I got high all the time. It would have been a waste to study. PayPal. Wow.”

I don’t know where Bonnie’s rancor for PayPal comes from, although, I feel I could have said, “I cured cancer” and she would have been like, “Oh, wow. Cancer? AIDs is a bigger problem, why didn’t you cure that? What a waste.”

So she scoots off and left me feeling awkward and rethinking all of my life decisions. I then realize that none of her questions had been, or ever would be, “Are you happy?” so any judgments would always be based on her set perceptions of what I should be doing… Astronaut? Doctor? President? And not what actually matters.

It was all right, though, because she came up and apologized later:

“Tedd, I just, I wanted to apologize. It’s just you were smart and talented in high school and everyone expected you to do something with your life, but wow, like you’re just… You know it’s kind of a disappointment for everyone who thought you’d, you know…”

This rambling continued for a bit before Neil, a kid who is several years younger than me, thoughtfully interjected:

“Hey, Tedd, it’s good to see you.”

We then proceeded to talk about his career and his moving away from Springfield. For a brief moment I thought that I should have attended our high school reunion the previous summer if my conversations would have been like those with Neil.

This was swiftly countered by Bonnie’s:

“Oh yeah! The reunion! We all know you think you were too good for us.”

So… I guess everyone from high school thinks I’m an uppity homo who works at PayPal in a go-nowhere position?

I guess it was a relief that no one made fun of me for being gay, but I can’t help but think it was tacit in all their judgments: You’re not like us. You left us and now you’re just.. doing that?

It was all worth it though, for this gem of advice from one of the girls at the party.

“You know, I read on Google that if you smoke two packs of cigarettes the day after sex, it works like Plan B. It doesn’t, so don’t believe it.”

Advice we can all live by, and really, an important reminder of the season, because, what if Mary had smoked 2 packs of cigarettes when she was pregnant with Baby Jesus?!

Something we should all think about.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

I Went to Thailand Part II: Text!

John: The Tour Guide That Just Don’t Give a F#$k

I’ve been on a lot of tours in my day. This includes trips in Asia, Europe, Australia, and the U.S. That’s four continents of tours, and let me say, I have never had a tour guide quite like our tour guide, John.

John, to use a colloquial phrase, just don’t give a f#$k. At one point, Loren and I were thinking of climbing up some rocks near a waterfall. The climb was pretty steep and slippery and John came over to us. “You can climb. You fall – you fall.” He then took a drag of his cigarette and walked away.

John aside from being ambivalent to his passengers general health and well-being, also didn’t really put much time into planning his discussions while on the tour bus. He may have had a diagnosable case of Tourguide Autism, because he would get stuck on one piece of information and repeat it and repeat it and repeat it. For example,

“You should all go to the night market. If you go out of the hotel and take a left, you will be close to the night market. It’s just a left out of the hotel. If you walk out, turn left, you’ll walk a ways and get to the night market. It’s just a quick left out of the hotel. You can buy things and see some of the sights. It’s the night market. You can find it by going out of the hotel and turning left.”

I wish this were an exaggeration, but… It’s not. Also important to note is the fact that he never once explained what one could purchase at the night market or really where it was (aside from left…) and what the actual name of the market was. Another important bit of information he left out was the fact that the Night Market is housed in the same building as the Ping Pong shows and sex bars. The next morning was interesting when all of the middle-aged women whispered about seeing Thai ladies in thongs and bras dancing through beaded doorways all along the strip.

Tapioca was also a favorite topic. This John Classic began with the following exchange:

“Do any of you know where we get the tapioca from in the tree?”

Bus Silence.

John Silence.

Doesn’t one ask a question so as to get an answer or open a discussion with the answer? What kind of alternative, new-agey tour is this John?

The Tapioca Trend continued through all of day four. Never once did he describe what tapioca was used for, why it was so popular to grow, or really anything aside from his loop of:

“Tapioca is made from root. (Yes, he finally told us where it came from) If you eat it from root, you die. It’s filled with cyanide, you have to expose it to the sun so the cyanide is broken down. You get the tapioca from the root and its full of cyanide. The cyanide only goes away by exposing it to sunlight. When you get the tapioca from the root you have to be careful! It’s full of cyanide!” ad nauseum.

Tapioca day ended with John leaping from the bus, asking a tapioca farmer for permission, then wildly ripping up an entire tapioca tree so he could show us the root.

While I can’t really tell you anything about tapioca, at least John made sure that I knew it was full of cyanide, and now I know what it looks like being ripped from the ground by a 55-year old Asian man.

John’s final favorite topic was square footage of property he owned… Yes, that was also something he referred to at least four times in two days. He was using it as a jump off point to talk about Thai real estate, but the conversation never really got there. It got stuck at:

“You know Thai real estate has gotten more expensive. When I buy my house it was… It was about 10,000 – no 12,000 Baht. I buy the house and it have three bathrooms, two bedrooms, a nice kitchen. My son’s room about 8 by 7 – maybe 6 by 9? It have a nice porch with a patio. The patio is not that big, maybe 3 by 2.”

This conversation dragged on for thirty minutes as he discussed the exact layout of his house and his apartment that he bought to make extra money. Don’t worry, this conversation hadn’t bored any other tourists previously, I know this because he had no idea what his facts and figures were.

“My house maybe 500,000 Baht or maybe…more…. That equivalent to, maybe 500 million dollar – no… - haha! That maybe, like 18,000 dollar. I think, maybe it about…. No, it about 21,000 dollar.” This lively self-debate continued on for some minutes.

Another favorite episode of John Didn’t Plan It! was when he was talking about the King of Thailand.

“King of Thailand actual really good jazz musician. He write two very famous jazz songs. You know them. He write… (silence) I don’t remember.”

Not only did he disappoint with bus conversation, but he also had a knack for not preparing us for the events of the week, including dress for temples. When we showed up at one temple and 8 people had to scrounge up scarves, pants, and shawls to cover up their shoulders and legs to get in, the group was less than happy.

A concise feeling of the group came from one older white lady, who was…what I would call disgruntled in general.

“Sometimes John doesn’t really plan things out. He doesn’t realize his actions affect others. You know… He’s kind of an idiot.”

I feel it would be remiss of me to not mention that John did do some cool stuff, like takes us to tiny markets, a school, and some sights that are well off the beaten trail. He also told Loren and I to pull down a sign that said “Do Not Enter” and take pictures in an off-limits part of a temple. While some of these things may have gotten us all thrown in a Thai prison, it also made for some fun experiences.

That being said, I wouldn’t really recommend John for any tour other than one of his house. ‘Cuz girl knows every detail about that.

Revengeance of the Oppressed, Middle-Class, Middle-Aged White Woman

I know I’ve mentioned before that my time at Banana Republic taught me that the worst people on earth can be middle—class, middle-aged white women. For some reason this sect of human has a knack for being grumpy, mean, and condescending to a degree that other age, races, and genders can only ever strive to attain parity with.

This tour was no different. The amount of Lady-Rage present during certain parts of the tour was off the charts. I already mentioned the lady who flat out called John an “idiot,” along with her there was a general battle cry after we had had six days of Thai Food.

“What’s for dinner,” says White Lady 1. “You can take a good guess it will be THAI food!”

For some reason the older people on the trip didn’t really realize that WE WERE IN THAILAND. Yes, we are eating a lot of Thai food. And yes, you’re an idiot if you think this is somehow an affront to your enjoyment of the tour.

I mean, can you imagine going to a cereal factory and be given a bowl of cereal, only to say, “Oh brother! Cereal!” What?

Along with forgetting the whole I’M IN THAILAND thing, these ladies also failed to remember that WE ARE IN A TROPICAL CLIMATE. Thankfully, during most of the tour we had cloud cover, which kept a thick blanket over the seething rage that erupts from White Ladies who begin to break a sweat on a vacation.

Poor John wasn’t so lucky on Day 5 when we took a tour of a summer palace. It happened to be 90 degrees and there was almost a mutiny.

As John was standing with all of us in the shade, describing the architecture of the palace, one of the White Ladies tottered passed and just yelled, “Let’s keep it moving! It’s hot!”

Lady! If you hate the heat and Thai food, why didn’t you stay home?! Go to McDonald’s and get a cappuccino because that’s the kind of cultural exposure you deserve with this attitude of yours.

That being said, it’s also worth mentioning that along with breeding some of the most vile sort of person, White Ladies can also be of the most compassionate and caring variety.

When Loren sprained her ankle slipping on the bus stairs, a line of the old matriarchs was lined up with health advice, ice, and ibuprofen.

*Warning this next bit is probably offensive to everyone

Our tour group split into two groups after about 6 days in. Half of us were shipped back to Bangkok and the other half were continuing on with John to see some more temples to the north. This led us to getting a new tour guide, an androgynous-looking female named Ronnie. Because her name is Ronnie and I have seen the following:

She will hereby further be referred to as Shy Ronnie. So Shy Ronnie turns out to be an immense improvement over the WTF tour leadership stylings of John. She said helpful things and explained history and avoided the topics of tapioca and square footage of rooms in her house.

But Shy Ronnie also decided that she should address the issue of transgendered peoples in Thailand. I feel it necessary to reflect her tone and grammar (see above note about being offensive) because it was like a Michael Scott from The Office leading a gender discussion in broken French.

“You may heah in Thailand we have many of da Lady-Man. In Thailand we no afraid of Lady-Man like in America. The Lady-Man have feelings. The Lady-Man have dreams. I work for long time for Lady-Man.”

I don’t know what kind of PR nightmare the US has on its hands in terms of transgendered peoples, but evidently Thai people think that we still debate whether they belong to the human species. We ask ourselves questions like: Does the Lady-Man breathe Oxygen? Does the Lady-Man really eat locusts in order to complete their transformation from Male to Female? Because of their more muscular thighs and calves, do Lady-Men have an easier time in heels?

I mean… what? “The Lady-Man have dreams.” Is that something that we didn’t know? Also, if Thailand is so open why is their no politically correct term for “The Lady-Man”? These questions and more ran through my head as I put my head between my legs and tried not to laugh out loud on the bus thinking of Martin Luther Lady-Man giving her famous “I a Lady-Man and I have a Dream” Speech.

I Went to Thailand Part I: Pictures of Nothing of Historical or Cultural Importance!

My friend Loren and I recently went on a one-week tour of Thailand. It was awesome. It also created some scenarios that are worthy of attention. To begin with, because it’s more fun, here are some quick pictures and descriptions of events.

This is Dom. For 120 minutes of our lives, Dom and I were best friends, as can be told by this sequence of Best Friendsies Pictures taken over the course of previously mentioned 120-minute period.

Thanks, Thai Mom who supervises bathroom signage at the airport.

I sometimes misspell things like Bus Assistant. I hope he got his tip.

Thai cigarettes tell us that smoking diseases your foot? Maybe if you drop a lit cigarette on your gasoline-covered shoe?

These bottles were sold at restaurants. On the menu they are described as “whiskey” on the bottle they are ambiguously classified as “Blended Spirits.”

Because I’m a millennial, selfies are a required picture at every stop. Because it’s about ME being wherever and YOU seeing it on social media. Because I matter.

Thai Urban Haberdashery

Lens flares allow me to believe I’m good at photography. And as cool as JJ Abrams.

Speaks for itself. 

In Thailand Vampires find work as spokesmodels for cars.

Our tour guide love talking about tapioca, so a senior picture in front of the plant was required.

In a museum of the future this will be called Millenial with Oversized Ticket.

Selfies on elephants are harder than regular selfies.

We finished our tour at a temple in a town, all thinking that our hotel was in the same town as the temple. Tourguide John got on the speaker and says, “Okay, we drive 1.5 hours, then hop on the boat to take to our hotel. This is cool, but also annoying when all of your plans require being close to the city center. #whitetouristproblems

This cow is so happy.

Thai boxing was so awesome it deserves three pictures, followed by self-indulgent shot of me wearing a tank top that matches my beer can.

This guy has luxurious hair and also somehow kept getting beers bigger than ours. Hair is important in Thailand. Nate Berkus would be a god.

Nate Berkus.

This Buddha Child is terrifying.

The world's first openly gay Buddha. You can almost hear it say, "GURL!"

Thai guardians have big booties. This probably serves some defensive purpose. The tails probably do as well.

This is the picture one (who is a Millennial) takes when one walks 3 miles in the rain to see Thai Boxing and find out it has been canceled due to political protests.

In Thailand water bottles wear coats.

To conclude: Selfies.

That One Time(s)? I Got a Haircut and a Bunch of Weird Things Happened

(I don't know why this blog reads like an article... Oh well... That's what happens when you write on planes.)

When I was 11, my stepdad and I both needed our haircut, so we went to Bo Ric's. Usually we were met with a few overweight, mousy haired women from the country outside of Springfield, but that particular evening I got to encounter my first homosexual and a...something else. I can remember my 6th grade self looking at the two people behind the counter and being terrified of both. Obviously sixth grade Tedd thought homosexuals were evil and express-bound for hell (see previous entries regarding emotional baggage and therapy) and then the other…person?… was about 6 feet tall, wearing heels and a power skirt-suit, with “her” (I guess…?) Frankensteinian visage topped off with a coif of spiked platinum blond hair.

I think my stepdad and I both were assessing the homosexual and Frankencutter with the same big question mark hovering over our heads. To be honest, I was hoping for the gay, because I didn’t know what to expect from Frankencutter and I think my stepdad was hoping for the Frankencutter, because he assumed the gay would hit on him.

We both got our wishes, so I was sashayed over to the gay, whilst my stepdad was sat down by Frankencutter. I was obviously rigid and uncomfortable because my gay started cutting my hair and asking me questions like, “What’s your name?” to which I would respond in my high-pitched child whisper voice, “mhjmkteddhmhi.”

“He’s shy!” The gay said meticulously cutting. “This is a shy boy!”

My mother had come with us and tried to keep her eyes on the magazine that she was reading to avoid homosexually-tainted discourse. My stepdad was nervously sitting as Frankencutter clacked around him in her heels and assessed his hair.

I remember leaving the haircut wondering if anyone was going to mention the fact that we had entered (in Springfieldian terms) a freak show. I was actually really shocked when no mention was made of what had happened. Leaning forward from the backseat, I kind of brought it up, “That was…the guy who cut my hair?”

My mother just fiddled with the radio.

“Let’s hear some Oldies,” my stepdad said.

Fastforward 15 years and I’m living in homocentral and wondering if I should go in for one of those super gay haircuts with the sides of my head buzzed and the top partable and floppy. Another part of me was sick of my hair in general and wanted to just get a buzz.

That’s when I was called up to the Haircuttery seat by Daniel.

There is no question about the orientation of any of the men at this Hair Cuttery. Far from the conservative bowels of Springfield, there is no question what private parts a man cutting your hair in Edgewater prefers.

The last time I had been to this same Cuttery, a portly gentleman had cut my hair and asked, “You want your eyebrows waxed?”

“No thanks,” I said.

“Okay. I just didn’t want you leaving here looking like a mess.”

Wait, what?

So Daniel sits me down and throws the plastic bib around me. It happened to be Halloween, so I had dressed up for work. The place I work now is hip and trendy and so I believed that people would dress up and be super-crazy-fun! Sadly, I wore overalls and a flannel shirt, claiming to be a farmer. By 9 o’clock after I had been at work for forty-five minutes, I realized that NO ONE had dressed up. Out of our 200-person company, our “Halloween” picture comprised of six of us wearing lackluster costumes.

I will never participate in anything again.

But I was wearing my flannel and overalls and Daniel was like, “You Farmer Joe? Cute.”

I didn’t know if Farmer Joe was…like something? But I said, “Thanks.”

Then Daniel put his thick hands around my neck and says, “Really cute.” I looked up in the mirror to catch a coy smile. He then got prepped his buzzer and went to work. He’s about a third away around my head when he goes, “So, girlfriend? Wife?”

“Oh, I’m gay,” I said.

“Oh, really? I would have never pegged you.”

“Must be the flannel,” I said.

So Daniel and I start chit chatting and he asks about my family. I tell him I have five brothers and he is duly impressed.

“I once dated a guy with a gay brother.” Then, without being prompted in any way, he answered the question on the tip of all the homo tongues gathered getting haircuts. “He wasn’t cute.”

We all laugh and then the guy cutting hair behind me goes, “I once knew gay triplets! None of them were cute, either.” Another chortle moved around the room and then guy says, “Like triplets. Would you believe they looked alike. Like exactly alike! Hair – same! Smile – same! Same height! Same weight!”

“Now, that’s genetics!” Daniel piped in.

This whole exchange struck me as the weirdest ever. Triplets? Yeah, they look alike… And…. Yes, it’s because of genetics. It would be equivalent to me coming in and being like “Notebook paper! Can you believe it? It’s lined and white!”

“That’s for writing!”

Any number of inanimate objects or items of genetic variance could have been the subject of discourse in that Hair Cuttery.

“Sandwiches! Meat between two slice of bread – do you believe it?!”

“That’s for eating!”

I was trying to fathom how the discussion took the sharp left turn into inanity-ville, while the lady getting her hair dyed chimed in with, “Yeah triplets that look alike – that’s rare!”

Meanwhile, Daniel had lost interest in the call and response and began probing me further.

“How old are you?”, “Where are you from?”, “Are you interested in older, bearded men?” (Ok, that last one was made up, but heavily implied in the tone and aggression of the occurring haircut.)

At this point a group of Trick or Treaters piled into the shop. It was raining and the floor was covered in water. This, of course, led to a bunch of the children collapsing on the floor and skittering around like water bugs.

So the scene was unfolding like this with circular conversation occurring as children fell on the floor like bowling pins and Daniel was probably about to ask me to join him in the alley after the haircut for…something of a blow dry, if you catch my drift.

I was relieved when the tarp was pulled of and I paid. I actually gave Daniel a big tip, because he was nice, and despite his almost police detective-level of questioning, I think he was just having some fun with a guy in a terrible Halloween costume.

As I left the place, I couldn’t help but think it may have been one of the weirdest haircuts I’ve ever had. So much was happening, and so many children were almost injured, it kind of resembled the Children’s Crusade of Hair Cuttery experiences.

At some point in the future I may have enough money to go to some place that serves crushed juniper flowers in orange juice, as patrons enjoy a scalp massage from a stylist/masseur trained in Nepal, but I’ll probably stick with the Hair Cuttery, especially when I have children.

“Kids, we’re going to Hair Cuttery. It was while getting my hair cut that I encountered the Frankencutter and discussed the importance of heavy objects.”

Tedd’s child: “They’re heavy!”

“Very good, son. Now put on these cleats. We don’t want to lose traction on the tile. Remember, the Hair Cuttery builds character.”