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!

Don't Be That Dude: The Speedo

That is just disgusting,dude!

I know you recently lost weight. You look great! But you're not exactly sporting a David Beckham body!

Your body is covered with a brown pelt, and your ass cheeks swallow just little more material each time you walk. No one needs to see that dude!

Especially me. You've betrayed me.

Last night, at the bar, we were saying how great it would be to go to the beach in the morning, and sleep off our hangovers. I even agreed to do the driving.

This is how you repay me? Sporting a neon yellow banana hammock?

Dude, now my hangover is back, and I think I'm going to throw up.

Huh? You wanted to what?

Whaddya need a tan ass for?

Forget it. I don't want to know. But you need to set up your blanket way over there or you can find another way to get home.

Don't be that dude.

To(o) Many Words. Really

 A couple of weeks ago I posted my final original writing post to my Tumblr account. Not by design, or with any forethought, but it became my last notwithstanding.

It all happened because of "To Many Words." Three grammatically incorrect words meant to critique a post I had written about the abuse of the acronym LOL.

The post topped out at 333 words, including the 5-word title -- not terribly long in the old-school world of publishing from whence I have come. So I asked a Tumblr friend of fine, "What gives?"

"Tumblr as a whole is supposed to be more visual," she says. Oh, now she tells me.

To be serious, that kind of confirmed what I had been sensing about Tumblr for some while. I've been pouring my editorial heart out on Tumblr and no one is reading. Great! Well, at least there's a reason. So I switched it up and made Tumblr a photo posting spot.

So, hopefully the "to many words criticism was just from someone trying to clue me on the fact that Tumblr readers aren't really feeling the "longwinded" posts.

What I dread about "to many words," however, is if this is indicative of some greater loathing toward reading by a society more accustomed to 144-character Tweets and staccato, fragment-sentence Facebook status updates.

Really no way to be sure. And if even if that is happening, who's to say whether it's a good or bad shift.

But maybe, just maybe, if people did read more, they would know the difference between "to" and "too" and even "two.

Just my (too) cents.

Don't Be That Dude: Dancing at the Club

Dude, what the hell are you doing over there?

Get off the dance floor right now!

Why?

Because you can't dance, dude.

What's that? No, guys on the dance floor don't always get chicks; guys on the dance floor who actually know how to dance get chicks.

Guys who do what you're doing get laughed at, get pissed off about it and curse out some girl, get escorted out of the club, and get to go home early - by cab.

Uggh! I couldn't believe what I saw. You got your arms bent at the elbow at a ridged 90-degree angle, hands tightly knotted in a fist, head titled back, and your eyes closed. You pick up your feet and move them from side to side, and you might as well not have a torso - cause it ain't moving at all dude.

And that girl you were dancing near…

What?

No, not with, next to…Well, that girl wants to dance, with a dancer. And you ain't one.

So stop embarrassing yourself and the rest of us. Get off the dance floor, go grab a Rum and Coke, and Don't Be That Dude.

The Pregnant Woman Refused My Seat, and Another Guy Took It

I remember reading a really great post from the Chocolate Belly recently about pregnant women not getting the seat privileges on mass transit -- being lumped under the moniker of disabled. The post also posed the question as to whether one would give up his, or her seat to a pregnant woman.

Not to pat myself on the back, but I am a big proponent of this. It makes me feel good, and is respectful to the woman and the precious cargo she carries. But I've been burned before, and last night I got burned again.

On an ultra-packed, standing-room-only 5:38 train out of Penn, I had a seat - a prime commodity, like beachfront property in the Hamptons. I saw a woman get on the train, who looked pregnant. She wasn't showing amazingly, but she was pregnant.

I deliberated for a few seconds, and got up. I tapped her on the shoulder, and offered her the seat.

She turned me down. It turned out she was getting out in a few stops and would probably be harder to get up after sitting down.

I didn't want to sit back down; that's kinda rude. In case she needed the seat, the offer would stand for as long as I was on the train. Turns out, so did I - stand, that is.

What's worse than that?

Some other bonehead who happens to call himself a man gets on the train, spies the seat, and claims it. Not once did he consider the fate of this woman with child.

What is wrong with people these days? There were many men sitting down, and none of them even flinched to give her the seat.

Men: Give up your seats, before you give up your souls
Pregnant Women: Take the seat.