Tim Anderson's Blog, page 3

All the Best Cats Love Sweet Tooth

I'm pretty sure Stella is giving it two paws up.  

The 21 Stages of an Insulin Attack: A Diabetic Adventure in GIFs

Do you know a type-1 diabetic? The kind that has to jab themselves all day, every day, forever, with needles? Then you need to be able to recognize when this person--be it your dealer, your mother-in-law, your office crush, or your Craigslist hookup--is having an insulin reaction. Because things can get real, and you need to be armed with the facts. One moment you might be chatting about wanting to get your hands on a Michael Sam sex tape (there's gotta be one!), the other you're wondering why the person you're speaking to is having trouble forming words or is laughing maniacally and sweating like a honey baked ham for no reason. 
Your friend (dealer, mother-in-law, etc.) is in trouble, you see. Because, though he's an insulin-dependent diabetic, sometimes he may have taken too much insulin, or not eaten enough to cover the insulin he took, or exercised too much, or has been really stressed out lately. Maybe you're hanging out playing Scrabble, maybe you're in your office's supply closet, maybe he's asleep and you're there for some reason--the point is, at these times of what is called "hypoglycemia," his blood sugar will plummet to depths no human should be prepared to accept, and his body will do its best to let you know that you need to FEED HIM SUGAR NOW OMG. He won't go through all of these stages, but that all depends on you and how fast your reflexes are. (Also, how many Snickers bars you have on you.) 
So, herewith, are the various stages of an insulin attack:

The part when he starts twitching

The part when he starts sweating

The part when he seems like he's a million miles away

The part when he becomes kind of confused


The part when he sweats some more

The part when you realize he's probably having an "episode" so you try to feed him some Nutella

The part when you try to get him to just open his mouth for one freaking second so you can squeeze some cake icing up in there

The part when you get him to his feet and assume he can still walk to the kitchen by himself

The part when you realize, oh shit, this is getting real

The part when he starts to lose control of his motor skills


The part when you sit him back down and he gets weirdly emotional

The part when the sweating is kind of becoming a problem

The part when you try to feed him a Little Debbie snack cake and he rebels

The part when he falls on the floor and does some weird kind of land-based doggie paddle

The part when he reminds you of an old horror movie you once saw

The part when he starts laughing like he's seen the other side and it's hilarious

The part when the sweating is getting kind of ridiculous

The part when you manage to get some dulce de leche down his throat

The part when he realizes that delicious sweet things taste good and make things better

The part when he's really sorry for being so much trouble

The part when the amount of adrenaline in his system is way too much for him to remain upright

The 21 Stages of an Insulin Attack

Do you know a type-1 diabetic? The kind that has to jab themselves all day, every day, forever, with needles? Then you need to be able to recognize when this person--be it your dealer, your mother-in-law, your office crush, or your Craigslist hookup--is having an insulin reaction. Because things can get real, and you need to be armed with the facts. One moment you might be chatting about wanting to get your hands on a Michael Sam sex tape (there's gotta be one!), the other you're wondering why the person you're speaking to is having trouble forming words or is laughing maniacally and sweating like a honey baked ham for no reason. 
Your friend (dealer, mother-in-law, etc.) is in trouble, you see. Because, though he's an insulin-dependent diabetic, sometimes he may may have taken too much insulin, or not eaten enough to cover the insulin he took, or exercised too much, or has been really stressed out lately. Maybe you're hanging out playing Scrabble, maybe you're in your office's supply closet, maybe he's asleep and you're there for some reason--the point is, at these times of what is called "hypoglycemia," his blood sugar will plummet to depths no human should be prepared to accept, and his body will do its best to let you know that you need to FEED HIM SUGAR NOW OMG. He won't go through all of these stages, but that all depends on you and how fast your reflexes are. (Also, how many Snickers bars you have on you.) 
So, herewith, are the various stages of an insulin attack:
The part when he starts twitching


The part when he starts sweating


The part when he seems like he's a million miles away


The part when he becomes kind of confused
 

The part when he sweats some more


The part when you realize he's probably having an "episode" so you try to feed him some Nutella


The part when you try to get him to just open his mouth for one freaking second so you can squeeze some cake icing up in there


The part when you get him to his feet and assume he can still walk to the kitchen by himself



The part when you realize, oh shit, this is getting real


The part when he starts to lose control of his motor skills



The part when you sit him back down and he gets weirdly emotional



The part when the sweating is kind of becoming a problem


The part when you try to feed him a Little Debbie snack cake and he rebels


The part when he falls on the floor and does some weird kind of land-based doggie paddle


The part when he reminds you of an old horror movie you once saw


The part when he starts laughing like he's seen the other side and its hilarious


The part when the sweating is getting kind of ridiculous


The part when you manage to get some dulce de leche down his throat


The part when he realizes that delicious sweet things taste good and make things better



The part when he's really sorry for being so much trouble


The part when the amount of adrenaline in his system is way too much for him to remain upright

My Copies of Sweet Tooth Have Arrived and Stella's Bogarting All of Them

Guys, I got my copies of my new book Sweet Tooth , which chronicles my adolescence as a poor gay boy who loves sweets, and my cat Stella has already staked her claim on all of them. Jimmy said she's spent all day stacking them in different formulations. The one below is particularly poignant, as it really gets to the heart of the experience of a diabetic who loves Nutella and sometimes has low-blood-sugar episodes. 
That there is a vat of God's own chocolate hazelnut spread, plus some chalky glucose tablets in case your blood sugar is low and you have absolutely nothing else around to combat it, plus a glucagon injection kit, which is as delightful as it sounds--if a poor diabetic has passed out or is unresponsive to whatever sugar you're shoving in his face, you may need to take out the glucagon and jab him with it, for freedom (and so he doesn't slip into a coma).
After doing her art project, Stella whipped out a copy and turned directly to the part about her, because she's narcissistic, like most cats.

Here's Something Fun: The Book Jacket for the Thai Version of Tune in Tokyo

You guys, I know you're tired of me talking about myself incessantly, but seriously, this is fun stuff. For some reason, the island nation of Japan, in which I lived for two years (a long time ago, but still) has exhibited no interest whatsoever in translating my book about Japan, Tune in Tokyo, into Japanese, which is just rude and dismissive, no? You know who hasn't been rude and dismissive? Thailand, that's who. Yep, Thailand, that wondrous nation formerly known as Siam, snatched the rights to this book up like a Thai kid in an American candy store or something I don't know whatever.

The bottom line is, I'm thrilled that anyone wants me, and I'm double thrilled that it's Thailand, because I love Thailand--in the original draft of TiT, in fact, there was a chapter about a visit I took to T-land, but I ended up dropping it because it wasn't really on point, but I plan to include that story in a future book, so heads up, Thailand LOVE ME AND ASK ME OUT!

I'm triple thrilled with the design job on this here book jacket. They nailed me! Especially the narrow waist, the large biceps, and the platinum blonde hair. It's like I'm looking into a mirror. What's more, the Thai publisher, Matichon, has included Tune in Tokyo in a "Travelogue Series" of theirs. You wanna see an ad for it? Okay, if you insist.

In conclusion, I don't care that Japan is completely indifferent to my book's existence, because I'll always have Bangkok.

Introducing... Sweet Tooth: the Gay, Diabetic Memoir You've Been Waiting For!

Folks, I have great news, so sit down, shut up, and pour yourself a drink. Or wait, maybe pour yourself a drink, then sit down, then shut up. (Maybe you should shut up first?) Oh, whatever, just shut up and listen: my next book, Sweet Tooth, the follow-up to my generation-defining juggernaut Tune in Tokyo, has a publication date, hooray! You can get your grubby little hands on it on March 11, 2014. Like, this 2014! The year after this one! Do you know how soon that is?
Head on over to Ye Olde Amazon page to pre-order. You might also think about getting copies for your cat wrangler, your food tester, and your doppleganger, because you know you never get them nice things.

Did You Guys Know That Madonna Had Her Picture Taken a Few Times in the 80s?

It's true! More amazing, in fact: one guy, Richard Corman, actually photographed Madonna early in her career, even before she had an album out, or even owned her own upside-down crucifixes. And this fellow is being celebrated at Milk Gallery in NYC with a small but fun exhibit that contains many great shots of our lady hanging in the East Village, and a few shocking photographs of her apparently having lost her mind, braided her hair, and auditioned for Run-DMC?



Anyway, all the gays were there, you guys. All the gays. Here are two of them:



Big fans of Vision Quest, I'm thinking. And here's Madonna at her stove, leaning up against it like she owns it, when obviously she's just renting, at that point.

















That up there's my friend Rachel Roth, who made my wedding cake and takes lots of pictures and gets pissed at you if you don't look at them on Instagram, so hurry up and go look at them before she yells at you.

Speaking of Roth's Instagram, I totally stole the next two from it, cause I've just realized I didn't take many pictures. And when you don't have what you need, children, you just take it from someone else. Remember that. Above is Roth with one of the captions. (Roth, where are all your others? I need to steal them.)

Had that same boom box, except bigger and pinker.

I just... I just couldn't... I just couldn't even... it's... what's happening?

Roth would totally have been one of these blurry East Village kids if she hadn't been two years old and living in Raleigh.
And one more with Danise.
Best one of the bunch, IMHO: full cast shot of classic 80s morality tale Desperately Seeking Susan.

Aw, yeah, this is what you came here for. A pic of yours truly in between two Madonna noses. Drink it in, children.
And there are more photos inside but you get the idea, so here's a great one of Danise looking hot in the freezing cold.

A Bikeride Into Gomorrah: NYC Pride 2013

Usually I only end up at a parade by accident--say, because I forgot it was happening and wanted to simply make my way home from work or make my way to the Y for a swim or make my way to H and M to return the latest thing I bought that was the wrong size because everything at H and M is apparently tagged with whatever label is closest at hand in the Indonesian sweatshop. But that's a different blog post.



The point is, I never really plan on going to a parade, but on Sunday I had to go into work for a few hours and, because my office building is at 5th and 37th, I got sucked into the best type of parade to stumble upon--a gay one. Sure, all parades are gay, but they don't all advertise themselves as such. So let's take a stroll through these pics and have a gander at all the folks dressed in their underwear/kimonos/flamingo-feathered tank tops in broad daylight, shall we? (You can, of course, click the clicky to enlarge the images. Sorry for any glitches, this new Blogger freaking sux.)











I immediately felt underdressed when I saw this lovely shemale bringing the rainbow realness to 37th Street between 5th and 6th.











I wanted to talk to the dude in the shades about his music box but I don't think he could hear me over the music box.





This geisha pirate doesn't have time for this bullish*t.










Ate some great opium brownies with these young ladies.








Just a normal, every day scene out in front of my office.






































Don't pretend like you've never been out in public and needed help with your loincloth.













Hello, sonnies.









































That's the same bridal skirt I wore to my confirmation.







































Some sort of Shakespearean gay cosplay type thing? Sure.











Those Russians sure know how to ride in a pickup.











































That's the same American flag banana hammock I wore to my Nanna's 90th birthday party.







































So, the inventor of Chipotle is apparently a gayboy, which explains this (as much as this can be explained).











































Yes, this is what I came here for: girls and ladyboys in purple and gray who are ready to bring it, whatever it is. Maybe some flashdancing?









































Still ready to bring it. Bringing it any moment now.





































Okay, move a little closer, sure. Yep, just walk on past. I didn't want to see any flashdancing yet anyway.





































Flashdance commencing. The view from behind.







































Guess a video would have been better, huh. Anyway, next...







































Not sure what's happening here, but the important thing is that it's confusing.











































Ah, and here comes the Berlin float, with some Berliners on it.







































We are all Berliners now. Speaking of Berliners, I'm pretty sure you're ready to see a few more pictures of the smoking hot dude with the shaved head and sunglasses in the picture up top, right?









































His name is Dieter and he's the new star of all of my sex dreams that take place at Brandenburg Gate.







































Oh, hi again, Dieter. I'm worried that your pants are too high. Maybe shove them down a little?







































Wait, these boys aren't Dieter. Nehmen Sie mich zuruck zu Dieter!







































That's more like it. A few more of Dieter before he floats away maybe?















































Phew, that was exhausting. Now, where can I go to get some gay coffee?

SeeTimBlog Explainer: Why People Hate Bikers in NYC [UPDATED]

Everyone hates everyone in New York at one time or another, often for good reason. Because in this sea of selfish humanity, let’s face it, there’s plenty to hate: hipsters with their idiotic carnie wardrobes and artisanal organic eyeglass frames; tourists with their snail’s pace and their girth; jerkwads who insist on pushing onto a subway train as soon as the doors open without first letting folks off; cabbies who don't want to go to Brooklyn; hosts/hostesses at nice restaurants who treat you like the trash you are; hot, well-dressed dynamos with their great clothes, luscious hair, chiseled features, smoldering sex appeal, fat wallets, and shiny shoes; rats; hipster rats with their fedoras and Animal Collective T-shirts. They are all the worst. But do you know who’s even worse than the worst? Bikers.








By day I'm an undercover photographer

Everyone hates bikers. HATES them. I know because I am one. I bike every day from Greenpoint, Brooklyn to my office a few blocks north of the Empire State Building. As a biker, you can feel the seething, sizzling hatred coming at you from all sides—from pedestrians, minivan drivers, school children, nannies, French bulldogs, pigeons, hipster pigeons, and, especially, cabbies. More than once I’ve seen a taxi intentionally swerve to scare a cyclist. Once I was honked at and loudly scolded by an old bat in an Escalade for not staying in the bike lane on Avenue A—even though the bike lane was currently blocked due to construction, so I had no choice in the matter. Another time I barely missed getting doored by a guy in a parked car—and I know he saw me because I made eye contact with him in his sideview mirror before he opened his door (and saw him laughing when I pulled off to the side and turned around). It’s not totally rational, this hatred of bikers. But it’s there and it’s kind of breathtaking.





But here’s the thing: this hatred of bikers isn't totally irrational, either. A lot of the time, I hate bicyclists, too. They are constantly and brazenly doing idiotic, life-threatening, and completely unnecessary things—like, say, going the wrong way when getting off the Manhattan side of the Williamsburg Bridge instead of just being reasonable and waiting for the light (see the photos). See, that part of the bridge was redesigned about a year ago to encourage bikes to slow down and wait for the signal before entering traffic or crossing over to the north side of Delancey Street—too many of us, including myself, were deciding they couldn’t wait and that they were just going to elegantly slip into traffic so they wouldn’t have to stop. Most of the time this was fine—you could judge that a gap between cars was emerging and go for it. But I’m sure sometimes it was gnarly, and people got hurt. Hence the redesign, with a much narrower point of entry onto the street and a steep decline to encourage slower speeds. The city also put up not just one but two “WRONG WAY” signs so that folks would know that, though there was another narrow passageway one could take to avoid having to wait for the light, one should not take that path because it is reserved for folks coming from the other direction and that if one did do that, one was being kind of an asshole. 



Yet bikers continually just ignore the signs and do whatever the fuck they want because fuck it. (Should the city have put up a third sign? One saying "STOP being an asshole"?) Now, I’m not typically a scold, and some rules for bikers are dumb—I don’t tend to come to a full stop at every stoplight on any old one-way street, for example. But some rules aren’t. And while, sure, we can all be dumb assholes at times--like when we get pissed on the bridge when we are overtaken on the uphill climb by an elementary schooler so we make it our one goal in life to overtake that little f*cker if it kills us--eat my dust, pipsqueak! Who among us hasn't done that? But still, on balance, one's behavior on a city bicycle must reflect one's sanity and good judgment if one is not to be wished dead by one's fellow cityzens.








Another dipshit who can't read

And it’s not just the constant breaking of clearly expressed—and, again, reasonable—rules that makes bikers so loathsome to their fellow New Yorkers. It’s also the plain-Jane, workaday reckless douchiness of the way folks ride. I take First Avenue up to Twenty-Ninth Street, and, sadly, the bike lane is on the left—this is the east side, which means that the vast majority of folks are turning left, making for a constant clusterfuck at every intersection. Yet so many of my fellow cyclists bike as if they’re in a race to the damn Apple Store. It’s not a fucking race, nerds. Bikers must constantly slow down, swerve out of the way to avoid parked cars in the bike lane or left-turners crowding it, and, yes, sometimes stop at lights so that they don’t go splat. You are not on the West Side bike path and you are not going to win a prize if you get to work five minutes earlier, probably. You are in freaking New York traffic. I’m all for going a decent speed, and there are definitely slowpokes who need to get the lead out sometimes (though I cut them some slack because sometimes they’re old and sometimes they’re probably just newbies at city bike commuting), but there’s absolutely no need for the kinds of speeds I see bikers going on this street every day—especially since I often end up reuniting with folks who whipped past me ten blocks ago at the light at Fourteenth or Twenty-Third, because that’s just how it goes. The hare and the tortoise, together again! (The hare and the tortoise will probably get to their jobs within minutes of each other.)






In conclusion, I’ll just say that one morning a few years ago I was stopping at a light that had just turned red at Houston Street and Avenue A, and a cyclist whipped past me on the right to speed across the (massive) intersection. He managed to clear it without dying and then, on the opposite side of the street, ran smack into the back of a delivery truck like a cartoon character. He fell off his bike and got the stink eye from the delivery guy as he was getting out of the vehicle. Once the biker got up and I saw that he was okay, I was able to admit to myself that that was the most satisfying thing I’d seen since Akasha got eliminated in the first season of RuPaul’s Drag Race. 







I’m not proud to say that. But it’s true.



Be nice out there. Practice your "not being an asshole" skills. And as RuPaul herself says, don't f*ck it up. Because guess what: bikeshare stations are imminent, so the number of idiots on bikes is only going to increase...



UPDATE

This little blog essay was apropos! Looks like the city is moving to crack down on bikers being assholes by stationing guards on high-traffic bridges and bike paths with signs saying "Just F**king Stop and Wait a Second, Would You?". Look here and here.

SeeTimBlog Explainer: Why People Hate Bikers in NYC

Everyone hates everyone in New York at one time or another, often for good reason. Because in this sea of selfish humanity, let’s face it, there’s plenty to hate: hipsters with their idiotic carnie wardrobes and artisanal organic eyeglass frames; tourists with their snail’s pace and their girth; jerkwads who insist on pushing onto a subway train as soon as the doors open without first letting folks off; cabbies who don't want to go to Brooklyn; hosts/hostesses at nice restaurants who treat you like the trash you are; hot, well-dressed dynamos with their great clothes, luscious hair, chiseled features, smoldering sex appeal, fat wallets, and shiny shoes; rats; hipster rats with their fedoras and Animal Collective T-shirts. They are all the worst. But do you know who’s even worse than the worst? Bikers.






Everyone hates bikers. HATES them. I know because I am one. I bike every day from Greenpoint, Brooklyn to my office a few blocks north of the Empire State Building. As a biker, you can feel the seething, sizzling hatred coming at you from all sides—from pedestrians, minivan drivers, school children, nannies, French bulldogs, pigeons, hipster pigeons, and, especially, cabbies. More than once I’ve seen a taxi intentionally swerve to scare a cyclist. Once I was honked at and loudly scolded by an old bat in an Escalade for not staying in the bike lane on Avenue A—even though the bike lane was currently blocked due to construction, so I had no choice in the matter. Another time I barely missed getting doored by a guy in a parked car—and I know he saw me because I made eye contact with him in his sideview mirror before he opened his door (and saw him laughing when I pulled off to the side and turned around). It’s not totally rational, this hatred of bikers. But it’s there and it’s kind of breathtaking.





But here’s the thing: this hatred of bikers isn't totally irrational, either. A lot of the time, I hate bicyclists, too. They are constantly and brazenly doing idiotic, life-threatening, and completely unnecessary things—like, say, going the wrong way when getting off the Manhattan side of the Williamsburg Bridge instead of just being reasonable and waiting for the light (see the photos). See, that part of the bridge was redesigned about a year ago to encourage bikes to slow down and wait for the signal before entering traffic or crossing over to the north side of Delancey Street—too many of us, including myself, were deciding they couldn’t wait and that they were just going to elegantly slip into traffic so they wouldn’t have to stop. Most of the time this was fine—you could judge that a gap between cars was emerging and go for it. But I’m sure sometimes it was gnarly, and people got hurt. Hence the redesign, with a much narrower point of entry onto the street and a steep decline to encourage slower speeds. The city also put up not just one but two “WRONG WAY” signs so that folks would know that, though there was another narrow passageway one could take to avoid having to wait for the light, one should not take that path because it is reserved for folks coming from the other direction and that if one did do that, one was being kind of an asshole. 



Yet bikers continually just ignore the signs and do whatever the fuck they want because fuck it. (Should the city have put up a third sign?) Now, I’m not typically a scold, and some rules for bikers are dumb—I don’t tend to come to a full stop at every stoplight on any old one-way street, for example. But some rules aren’t. And while, sure, we can all be dumb assholes at times--like when we get pissed on the bridge when we are overtaken on the uphill climb by an elementary schooler so we make it our one goal in life to overtake that little f*cker if it kills us--eat my dust, pipsqueak! Who among us hasn't done that? But still, on balance, one's behavior on a city bicycle must reflect one's sanity and good judgment if one is not to be wished dead by one's fellow cityzens.






And it’s not just the constant breaking of clearly expressed—and, again, reasonable—rules that makes bikers so loathsome to their fellow New Yorkers. It’s also the plain-Jane, workaday reckless douchiness of the way folks ride. I take First Avenue up to Twenty-Ninth Street, and, sadly, the bike lane is on the left—this is the east side, which means that the vast majority of folks are turning left, making for a constant clusterfuck at every intersection. Yet so many of my fellow cyclists bike as if they’re in a race to the damn Apple Store. It’s not a fucking race, nerds. Bikers must constantly slow down, swerve out of the way to avoid parked cars in the bike lane or left-turners crowding it, and, yes, sometimes stop at lights so that they don’t go splat. You are not on the West Side bike path and you are not going to win a prize if you get to work five minutes earlier, probably. You are in freaking New York traffic. I’m all for going a decent speed, and there are definitely slowpokes who need to get the lead out sometimes (though I cut them some slack because sometimes they’re old and sometimes they’re probably just newbies at city bike commuting), but there’s absolutely no need for the kinds of speeds I see bikers going on this street every day—especially since I often end up reuniting with folks who whipped past me ten blocks ago at the light at Fourteenth or Twenty-Third, because that’s just how it goes. The hare and the tortoise, together again! (The hare and the tortoise will probably get to their jobs within minutes of each other.)






In conclusion, I’ll just say that one morning a few years ago I was stopping at a light that had just turned red at Houston Street and Avenue A, and a cyclist whipped past me on the right to speed across the (massive) intersection. He managed to clear it without dying and then, on the opposite side of the street, ran smack into the back of a delivery truck like a cartoon character. He fell off his bike and got the stink eye from the delivery guy as he was getting out of the vehicle. Once the biker got up and I saw that he was okay, I was able to admit to myself that that was the most satisfying thing I’d seen since Akasha got eliminated in the first season of RuPaul’s Drag Race. 







I’m not proud to say that. But it’s true.



Be nice out there. And as RuPaul herself says, don't f*ck it up. Because guess what: bikeshare stations are imminent, so the number of assholes on bikes is only going to increase...