Don't Be That Dude: Speaking in Movie Quotes

Dude, when you got pulled over that time, and the cop asked you if you'd been drinking, and you said, "That's the fact, Jack!" like Bill Murray in Stripes, that was legendary. You solidified your place in the folklore of stupid things guys do. It's a classic tale.

And when you were at the bar, and that girl asked you what your name was, and you go, "Keyser Soze," that was pretty funny too. Totally unexpected and off the cuff. So what if she called you an ass and hooked up with Sluggo.

But you gotta stop with the movie quotes, dude. Like always, you take something pure and good and organic, and overdo it. You run it into the ground, and drive it like a nail into your own comic coffin.

Oh no? You don't? It's good material?

Uh-uh, dude. No one thinks it's funny, especially when you do it all the time! And you use these lines when they don't even make sense, with bad impersonations too.

Yes you do! Yes you do, dude!

The other day, at work, we were in that meeting. You got up to use the restroom and you announce, "I'll be back," and wink at everyone in the room. Then you start laughing to yourself as you walked out the door.

Then, Joe told me that when you were standing at the urinal, you were still laughing about it, and you go, "Say hello to my little friend" in that stupid Scarface accent. That's disgusting dude!

One of the worst examples, was when we were all over by the water cooler a couple of months ago. You overheard someone talking about a tumor, and of course you pop in and say....

Right! "It's not a tumor" from Kindergarten Cop.

What's wrong with that? Dude, it is a tumor! A brain tumor. We were all talking about why Jen P. hasn't been at work in a while you dope!

And when people ask you how you're doing, you have a bunch of canned responses, most of which make no sense in context to the question. You either say, "Kowabunga, dude", "I'll make ya famous", or "You had me at hello." What the hell does that even mean? Don't you have any original thoughts up in that gin-soaked cranium of yours? Have you really drowned your own reality that deeply in the black waters of Hollywood fantasy?

Well, it's gotta stop, dude. We've had enough of "Go ahead, punk, make my day," and "I'll make him an offer he can't refuse," "Wax-ah on wax-ah off" in that horrible Mr. Miyagi accent, and "It just doesn't matter!"

You really need to get this under control. It's over. It's over dude.

No, don't go into the Belushi speech from Animal House!

Just don't be that dude.

The Mosquito: One Boy’s Losing Battle

My previous post got me thinking about how much I really despise mosquitoes.

A Hatred I Need
I’ve hated the tiny, bloodsucking predators since I was a little kid growing up in the humid, hot, marshy south shore of Long Island.

I remember doing battle with these parasites almost nightly as summertime established itself in late May through the final days of September. Go out after 6:00 p.m. and you risked becoming a universal blood donor to every mosquito within a 10-radius. Your ankles looked like a red, skin-covered mountain range and the itching could drive you to check yourself in at Bellevue Psychiatric.

My mom always told me I was just sweeter than everybody else, but moms are biased.

Let the Buzzing Begin
And just try to go to sleep at night. As soon as the lights went out, and my head hit the pillow, the buzzing began. Like a dentist’s drill in my ear, the mosquitoes would attack, relying on their keen sense of CO2 emissions, and my inability as a human to function at all in the dark.

A slap to side of my head, hoping to trap them inside my ear. Ha! That’ll show em! And then a slap to the other side. Was that the same mosquito, or are there more than one, I’d wonder. I’d itch all over, convinced that there were scores of mosquitoes plunging their malaria-laced sabres into my young, delicate skin. I’d begin kicking at the covers, as if I were drowning in a see of 200-thread-count cotton.

A Desperate, Foolish Attack
Finally, I’d get the courage to leave the bed. I needed to attack, so I’d stumble to the light switch, flick it on, roll up a magazine, and begin the hunt. They were nearly impossible to track down, crafty little bastards, but after a while I’d become somewhat of expert mosquito hunter. Inside a lampshade, out of reach on the ceiling, motionless and camouflaged on a poster or painting — like I said, crafty.

When I’d finally locate one, I’d creep on it, covert and slow. Gripping the magazine, I took aim and prepared to strike…Thwap! But the S.O.B. would inevitably dodge the fire. I’d return, dejected, to my foxhole bed, covers pulled up over my head and pillow over that.

This process would typically repeat several times before I’d fall asleep. In reality, I was only relinquishing my body to their sick mosquito science experiments.

Can’t We Just Eradicate Them?
I’d always figured that, as annoying and even deadly mosquitoes can be, they serve some small but important purpose in the global ecosystem. Turns out, that may not be so, as this article from Nature.com points out: “…In many cases, scientists acknowledge that the ecological scar left by a missing mosquito would heal quickly as the niche was filled by other organisms. Life would continue as before — or even better.”

Danger in the Men’s Room: A Mosquito Stares Me Down

I have “much love,” as they say in the hood, for most of the creatures that walk, crawl, fly, flip, flop, march, sleep, eat, and mate on God’s great earth.

The mosquito, however, does not show up anywhere on that “nature love” radar. But their tenacity I do respect. Think about this:

I saw a mosquito…in the urinal…in the men’s bathroom…on the 27th floor…of a building…in Penn Plaza. Midtown-freakin’-Manhattan!

Now, I’m not that stupid. I know there are mosquitoes on Manhattan island, but I can seriously say I don’t remember ever encountering one there.

I don’t have to spell out the potential ramifications of a mosquito being in a urinal, do I? Good. Let’s just that there was some panic involved.

My first thought was to try to figure out how to kill it by flushing the water. But thankfully, it just flew away.

As I left the bathroom, though, I began thinking about how it got there, the possible journey which this insect had gone on.

Somehow, it had escaped the frogs, bats, sparrows, and other predators out there in the big city. It made its way into the building, without an ID card, got into the elevator, exited at 27, waited for someone with an ID card to open the door, zipped through, flew around a bit looking for something to eat, found its way into the bathroom, and settled in that urinal until I shooed it away. Before he bit me, for the record.

Where did it come from? Long Island, Staten Island, Jersey? Or was it a native New Yorker? Did he hitch a ride in the pocket of some fine Italian silk suit? Who knows? Who cares? I still hate mosquitoes, and you should too.

Overpackaging: When Is Enough Enough?

So, in preparation of this past weekend's Perseid Meteor shower, I decided I'd need several accessory items for my photographic endeavors: a bigger SD card and a shutter release cable. I shoot with a Samsung NX100, and use an adapter to support my old Canon FD manual focus glass.

Anyway, that's not the story: the cloudy night precluded even any attempt at seeing a meteor, star, or the crescent moon.

The crux of this article is the products I purchased: a Lexar 8-GB SD card and a Vello remote shutter release.

The Lexar was packaged in a big, square, cardboard box that, when opened, revealed a similarly sized plastic holder. In this holder sat my new card. Really, Lexar? Similarly, check out the Vello remote device I bought. Doesn't it seem like they could've gotten away with a much smaller package? All that real estate is just being used for labeling, promotion. I'm sure that's what it's all about. Making sure one's product stands out in the crowd, on the shelf, behind the counter.

Lexar 8-GB SDHC Exterior Package

Lexar 8-GB SDHC Interior Package

Vello Remote Wired Remote Switch Package

Sad, huh? Is all that waste really necessary? Maybe it is. Maybe I'm not seeing the big picture. But it seems like the packaging could be more efficient, cost-effective, and environmentally friendly. And maybe it would be reflected in the cost. Neither of these products broke the bank, but a little here and a little there tends to add up. Same goes for the packaging.

Don’t Be That Dude: Bathroom Chatterbox

Shhush up, dude! Not in here!

Zip your lip, then zip it up, and meet me over by the sink.

I refuse to talk to you at the urinal, dude.

When guys step up to the urinal, it’s for one thing and one thing only. Eyes on the wall, concentrate on the task at hand, wash up, and get back out there. This goes for when you’re at a bar, at work, the baseball game – anywhere you share a restroom with other people.

Don’t start talking to me about last night’s game. Don’t strike up a conversation about that girl you’ve been talking to all night. Don’t tell me about some great new investment that you really think I should get in on before it blows up. And especially don’t make any idle chit-chat! I hate that dude.

If you’re bored in the restroom, it’s because you’re supposed to be. Oh, and what’s up with that pose? You have your hands on your hips, as if you’re superman. Hilarious, dude! In a bad way.

Anyway, how are you not grossed out, talking to me while you’re, you know, and I’m, well, you know?

I’m even uncomfortable chatting with you over here by the sinks. Can’t whatever is so important wait, until we’re outside?

Oh, and by the way, same goes for when you’re in the stall. Don’t be talking to me through the stall door. And stop making cell phone calls in there too. That’s disgusting, dude. You spend way too much in the bathroom. Are you dealing drugs again?

Just kidding. But I'm not kidding about your bathroom etiquette. 

Stop thinking the restroom is for socializing. Don't be that dude!