“I’ll send an SOS to the world.” Sort of.

Occasionally, Ridiculous in the City waxes emotional. Today is apparently one of those days so get your ultra-soft facial tissue out.*

As a rule, I try to be open messages from the universe (“Are you there God? It’s me, Ridiculous.”). I generally have very few rules, so take that for what it’s worth. I attempt to receive whatever small kernel of knowledge or information may be lurking out there in the various forms it takes on—Magic 8 Balls, fortune cookies, horoscopes—hoping for some insight or a signal that maybe, just maybe, I am getting it. What “it” is however, is often subject to ridiculous interpretation.

Many times a message can come in the form of a found object. We’ve all found things here and there that may or may not have been transmissions from the cosmos: that penny from the year of your birth you just picked up is a message; “Funky Cold Medina” coming on at the exact moment you walk into the bar is not. Similarly, that ripped Steely Dan “Aja” t-shirt laying in the gutter is not a sign of anything but the years slowly being reeled in (and to think I thought I’d never achieve a Steely Dan pun). Occasionally though, you find something, or something finds you, at a key time in your life when you need a little shout-out from the universe to let you know it’s all okay, that you’re not alone, not totally losing your mind—just enough of it to be still be conscious.

In discussing the subject of found objects recently, I was reminded of perhaps my most clearly-a-message-for-ridiculous-me finding. It happened purely by accident, years ago, but I remember it so vividly it’s like I took a photograph of that exact moment. If only I had. There I was, haggard and out of it (as usual), slowly climbing the steps out of the West Fourth Street subway station on a lackluster night after a crappy day in the middle of another frozen winter month, heading home to be in a horrendous mood for the next nine hours until I had to be back at work. Yeah life! I looked down and saw a scrap of yellow out of the corner of my eye. I kept moving robotically, but as I continued to walk up the stairs, buried in the herd of people around me, something pulled me back. Something stopped me, turned me around and walked me back down the stairs.

When I got to the bottom I located the yellow object. Gazing down at what turned out to be a small yellow sticky note, I saw something scrawled across it. I crouched down to get a better look. On the note was written one word: my name.

My name? I stood there staring at the note, briefly glancing around to see if it was a prank (but like, who would bother...?). It was no prank; it was an actual piece of paper with actual writing on it that actually said my name, and nothing else. My name!

As the note began to sink in, I smiled. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed a sign like this. Something that said, “you’re okay, we’re with you, keep going.” There I was: having an emotional event with a post-it note in the bowels of the subway. It was heartwarming, and exceedingly ridiculous. Looking down at the note once more, I nodded my head in acknowledgement. I thought briefly about picking the note up and taking it with me, but I realized that it was better left there, where maybe someone else could take something from it or where perhaps it would serve as a symbol that I was going to keep going, keep moving forward, not let the bastards grind me down.

I could win the war, smack some fools, persevere; kick ass and take names. I could break out of my rut of shitty day after shitty day. Start fresh with renewed enthusiasm. I was awesome. I was a winner. The post-it note had told me so.

After our touching moment together I moved along, shuffling up the stairs amongst the herd, feeling bathed in the glow of my message from the universe. When I reached street level I took a breath. The air smelled faintly of pizza and trash, and Nag Champa.

Yes, I was moving forward. I would live to fight another day. So too would the other eight million people in New York City, the ones who hadn’t received a message of affirmation on a post-it note.

There is surely some ridiculousness in interpreting messages from things that are merely random, everyday occurrences, but sometimes those messages come at the moment you need them most. Besides, if we don't have our ridiculousness, what do we have?

Oh right, Steely Dan puns.

*I will not be mentioning Kleenex by name until I receive my sponsorship check. Take that, Kimberly-Clark.

Well, now you’ve stepped in it.

Two nights ago I stood hailing a cab. I was running late, cursing the obscene wind chill as it attacked my face like it was a frozen ham. I’d been standing there for nineteen minutes. If I don’t get this cab, I thought, I’ll die out here—when I’m cold, everything is all very Dr. Zhivago. As if from my brain to god’s ears, the driver swerved to the curb in front of me and stopped. I had won. I had gotten a cab. Warmth, mobility and reasonably safe, chauffeured service to my destination would be mine.

I kill.

The driver was nice enough. He made good time and we had some above adequate small talk. I threw in a disparaging comment about Taxi TV for good measure. It was dark out, making it hard to see anything inside the backseat of the cab’s black interior. I was strapped in my seat, but my feet slid around in the residual moisture that the weather seemed to have left on every floor surface in the city.

Reaching my destination, I paid the man, opened the door and stepped out. As I turned back to shut the door, I noticed mud smeared all over the floorboard underneath the seat I’d been sitting in. “Great,” I said, eyeing my shoes which were now caked in it.

I did the moonwalk and a spastic grapevine move for a few minutes, trying to coax as much mud off of the shoes as I could, but I was only pushing it farther into the leather body of the shoe. I picked up a piece of discarded paper (“trash” is so five non-eco friendly minutes ago) on the sidewalk and bent down to wipe some of the mud off of my feet. There was a lot more than I realized.

My shoes were covered in brown, looking like upside-down, chocolate frosted cupcakes. Bottoms, sides, toes, there was mud everywhere, and in the few steps I’d taken, it had transferred itself onto the hems of my jeans, making for what I prefer to think one could interpret as a very chic, brown ombre effect—if one was on crack. Using the discarded paper as a shield, I scooped a big chunk of it off of the sole of my left shoe. I was going to need a lot more discarded paper.

I glanced down at my watch. Wait… what was that smell?

I took a long sniff. Ugh. What was that? Moving closer down to get a better look at my stinky predicament*, something definitely smelled horrid. At this point it wouldn’t have taken a rocket scientist to figure it out, but I sure could have used one, along with a rocket to blast me out of those goddamn shoes. It wasn’t mud as I had naively assumed, it was shit.

It was literally shit. Poop that had been lying in wait for me in the back of the cab, the cab that had “saved” me from the harsh environs of fourteen minutes ago. Now what was harsh?

It’s when the answer is staring you in the face that it’s the most ridiculous.

Seriously? What the hell was I going to do? I stood there, feet caked in shit, well over fifteen minutes late to my destination, no way to remedy my huge problem and the smell—the smell was horrendous.

What could I do? I couldn’t go home, there was no time. I didn’t have spare shoes in my bag. I had no viable options. None. It was shit. I was pooped. Turd City Motel, single room please.

I stood there for a few moments thinking (read: marinating in shit), scraping my feet on the sidewalk a few more times, but it was no use. I had to get moving. There was bound to be a bathroom inside. I could get creative with some paper towels. Or something.

And so I appeared. From the ankle up, I was my usual, shining self (shining has many forms). From the ankle down, I was stench walking. Luckily, the place was dimly lit and reasonably packed, all the better to hide my stinky look. Seeing my party, I approached, waving hello in the hopes of warding off a round of hug and kiss hellos—which I am always trying to escape. My plan was to order a drink and head to the bathroom. Nothing like drinking alone in the toilet.

The plan was going well until about five minutes in. I was mid-order when I heard, “Something stinks.” This prompted a chorus of deep inhales, the result of which was a series of facial expressions I hope never to see again. Suddenly, they were looking at me, the recent arrival, the likely genesis of said stank.

The time had come. I had to say something, own up to being the stinker. “I got dog shit on my shoes,” I muttered like I’d never muttered before.

The next set of reactions came in waves of slow motion, as if I had just revealed a horrendous facelift, an ugly baby, a tattoo from a toxic relationship that everyone knew was already over; only it was worse, worse than an ugly baby with a bad facelift and a flaming heart tattoo, because they were also totally grossed out. And I was grossed out.

I looked down at my shoes. They were so unhappy. I was right, they were cupcakes. They were sad, once-frosted cupcakes that had been brutally knocked off a festive dessert party tray. Now, no one would want them. No one ever wanted an unfrosted cupcake.

And then someone said, “If it was even a dog. I mean, who knows?” Oh, god.

Collecting my drink and what was left of my pride, which was not much, I waddled to the bathroom. Smaller steps seemed wise.

Stepping in shit is never good. Typically, it’s a rare event (don’t even), not unlike the perils of stepping in gum or having a bird take a fly-by crap on you—I know, that’s “good luck.” Well, Jesus, I’m due. But stepping in poop carries with it the added bonus of a smell you just can’t shake, no matter what you try to MacGyver in the bathroom of a public place with a wad of damp paper towels. And being blindsided by it in the back of one of my beloved New York City cabs, not even having a chance to see it on the street and avoid it, that’s what really stunk.

Now I was the sad, unfrosted cupcake who had been brutally knocked off of a festive dessert party tray.

*Add another one to my list of potential band names.

Let it Snow: Pictures of Snowy NYC Threaten to Overtake City Residents

Is Walt Disney under there?

Yes, it’s snowing again in New York City. Should you not be hip to that fact, a quick check of any social media site will quickly inform you of yet another onslaught of winter weather hitting NYC, and just what the inhabitants of our fair city are up to in the snow. Unlike pure news outlets, social media provides a stage for anyone and everyone to share. Share their experiences, share their thoughts, share their feelings (I just choked on my sandwich); share as much as they want, anytime they want, especially in picture form. This winter the experience we’ve all been sharing has been snow and, judging from the endless stream of snowy NYC photos, the city might not survive.

Which is still preferable to sharing our feelings.

When something is happening in New York City, the volume of shared images hits record numbers. But it’s not just when something is actually happening. NYC is a place that inspires tourists and residents alike to photograph to their hearts delight, providing scenery that is historic, architecturally significant and culturally rich, while producing street life that inspires and street art that can’t be ignored. As much in your face as it is silently inspiring, the New York City we all love speaks to us as a group and whispers to us, just us, as we move through our singular experience in the city. Wow, isn’t that what inspired Ridiculous in the City in the first place (wiping tear)?

With all of the technology in our pockets, who wouldn’t be moved to document their experience? A search of “#NYC” on Instagram yields a whopping 32.4 million images (as of March 5, 2015). To put that in context, “#losangeles” has roughly 8.9 million, “#Chicago” 14.7 million, and “#Dallas” 3.9 million (one cannot differentiate between photos of the city and J.R. Ewing images that make up that number, but both deserve their rightful place in #Dallas). Suffice it to say, people are crazy for pictures of New York City. “#Paris” is in NYC’s ballpark with 26.2 million photographs posted—blame it on the romance—but NYC’s numbers still leave it fronting atop the Instagram mountain.

As significant a force as NYC is on Instagram, “#snow” is even greater. With 38.4 million posts tagged “#snow” that makes for a virtual winter wonderland on Instagram. How will we ever dig out? Oh, you ridiculous pun. Incidentally, “#snowpocalypse,” which I was very fond of, has a measly 145,666 posts and the worshiped “#winterblows” a paltry 9,882. Given the huge numbers the subjects of NYC and snow put up, it’s no surprise that the combined power of a snowy New York City has people in a frigid frenzy.

In the past five minutes, roughly half of all Instagram posts for NYC were snow-related images. And from the looks of them, we are doomed. Cars buried, doorways blocked, fountains frozen over; babies wrapped up like jet propulsion packs, ice chunks floating in the East River—not in a fabulous, sexually charged Icelandic tourism ad campaign way, but in a grotesquely cold, buried alive by frozen water in little more than your underwear way. There are photos of trash lodged so far under snow that when spring comes, it will probably have composted itself and be sprouting avocados, or reveal a thawed Walt Disney. I am so ready for Walt to be thawed.

These are not pictures of kids making snow angels or laughing as they walk along a snowy path, these are pictures of a city being assaulted by winter weather. It looks so freaking cold and, I for one, am totally freaked out. Warning: Apocalypse right now. Who wouldn’t be based on these frozen tundra photos? Here I sit in the warm confines of Ridiculous in the City headquarters, god knows what will happen if I leave. If I can even leave. I knew I should have stocked up on Cup-O-Noodles. High sodium is my middle name.

By tomorrow the winter storm (Dear National Weather Service, Can we please put Winter Storm Ridiculous on the name list? Best regards, Ridiculous) and the snowy image frenzy will have passed, leaving people to post softly lit, snow-laced city blocks and pictures of the park with its snow covered trees hanging over walkways just so. We’ll remember the snow fondly, beautifully, remarking on how it dotted the streets like white pillows and say nothing of the sludge and frozen nose hair icicles that plagued our commute.

And then we’ll all go back to being our normal rate of obsessed with images of NYC.

But today, for one more glorious afternoon, we are living the onslaught of snow and pictures of snow, and pictures of people taking pictures of snow. Part of the problem not part of the solution, I continue ogling pictures of a snowy New York City and waiting for the next post.

On Ridiculous Language.

Bomb. Boss. Killer. Absurd. Obscene. Wicked. Dope. Tight. Hard. Fresh. Fine. Busted. Wet. Beat. There seems to be no end to the use of words conveying everything but their actual meaning. As a daily offender who uses the word “ridiculous” to describe everything—which in and of itself is ridiculous—I am deeply humored by the variety of words floating around popular culture, peppering our lives with the little bit of flavor we didn’t know we were missing.

Sometimes a word’s slang use seems so perfect, so legit, so solid, as if the thing being described needed a made-up meaning to fully encapsulate it. Other times it’s a bit of a stretch, a bit sorry, borderline weak. But when I hear what comes out of people’s mouths, I can’t help but think its remarkable what passes for language.

Yet, it’s not just what passes for language that’s remarkable, for most of us need merely grunt to get a point across, it’s the meanings that are commonly understood and culturally adopted as definition that are so astonishing. Slang is defined as, “an informal, nonstandard vocabulary composed typically of coinages, arbitrarily changed words, and extravagant, forced, or facetious figures of speech.” Ah yes, “facetious figures of speech,” a.k.a. shady noise. Ridiculous in the City has traced slang’s origins to the 12^th century when people first adopted the use of popular phrases to meet their needs. The word wretched meant “awesome” and the word shrew was a categorical “hell no.”

What’s interesting today is that the words being used are ridiculous, at best. “Bomb” is a term whose popularity in the slang annals is more curious than amusing. I mean, bomb? A word that literally means, “an explosive devise,” somehow passes as an enthusiastic affirmation, leading to the phrase, “It’s the bomb.” Or how about “wet?” Wet, a term for “soaked with liquid,” doubles as a descriptor for something that is distasteful, unappealing, a total no… Dude, it’s wet.

What of phrases like “fronting,” “busting,” and “jocking?” Jocking is not actually a word, but a slang term derived from the word “jock,” meaning “athlete” or “a person devoted to a single pursuit or interest.” Jock, of course, comes from “jockstrap,” making its definition both amusing and literal. But the term “jocking” refers to liking someone so much so that you are often blindly into them. I believe NWA said it best, “Cruisin’ down the street in my 6-4, jockin’ the bitches, slappin’ the hoes.”

Jockstraps and crushing on fools, I see the parallels.

Is it that slang is so open to interpretation that anything can pass for an accepted definition? It would certainly seem to be the case in phrases like “off the chain” and “off the hook,” both of which are commonly used to describe something which is insanely good, not an item that has, in fact, fallen off said chain. And what of the linguistic license being taken in the use of terms like trippin,’ or wigging? Wigging or wiggin,’ is a slang word for “freaking out.” No doubt its use came from the word “wig,” and the act of flipping ones wig when freaking out, but wiggin’ is a word that sounds utterly ridiculous.

Sites like Urbandictionary.com have given rise to more widespread knowledge of slang terms we once thought only our friends were using and given even the most ridiculous slang terms a place in the world of defined words, but that’s no surprise, the internet is responsible for furthering many etymological oddities. Phrases like “amaze,” “cray,” and “totes,” which aren’t even whole words, but bastardized abbreviations of words we once knew and loved. Their use is totes cray, but somehow they succeed in filling the brains of slang users everywhere.

I harken back to a time when slang was slang and it meant something, when words like “hard” and “fresh” could have kicked cray’s weak ass. When a word like “rad,” not only expressed how exceedingly cool something was, but as an abbreviation of “radical,” its adoption as a categorical “yes,” was radical in itself. Words like “tight” and “beat” are close to my heart and, even though I occasionally hear a slang term that should mos def be peaced, I love slang. I love the invented aspect of it, ridiculous terminology meeting meaning in a stroke of pure genius. I love saying something lame is totally beat, super wack, busted, needs to be eighty-sixed. I love that something that was once “major” is now so major it’s “epic,” like insanely, epic. I love the phrase “fine” as physical descriptor—“Is he hot?” “Girl, his ass is fine.” I love saying something amazing is ridiculous, dope, tight as hell.

Nothing is more boss than something that’s tight as hell.

As an entity, slang has the uncanny ability to speak of a time in history, reference particular geographical locations, and also be socially current. If you grew up in the early 1980s in Los Angeles, your slang terminology and references are quite different than someone who hails from New York City, or mid 1990s London. But, I’d venture to guess that, today, we are all using some of the same slang (“That shiz be ridiculously fly, homie.”), due in large part to popular music, television and movies that have given rise to shared terms around the world.

Slang is a cultural touchstone and social unifier in a way few things can be. Cue “We Are the World.” On the other hand, slang can also make you feel as though you are aging more rapidly than you realized. Hearing kids say new phrases I am ignorant of makes me feel like an elderly alien, standing in the corner mumbling, “Wait, I’m still down,” as my tears form little pools in my crow’s feet. But I continue to smile at new word interpretations that, on some level, only kids can invent. And I have long since given up the fight on thinking that I had slang terms that were mine and mine alone. Yes, everyone else was also saying “sketchy” and referring to cheesy dudes as “Cha Chis.”

I pledge to you that I will never get too old to love slang, never hate on the words I know and love, never stop embracing new descriptors—at least those that don’t suck, and never, ever stop flagging those that do. And I hope I never get too old or too culturally deaf to be in the know on hip phrases. Should that occur, there are always some tweens I can stalk.

Although, I’m sure at least one person started reading this and thought, “Oh my god, no one says ‘wicked’ any more.” Which is cool, wicked was busted from day one. Fo shiz.

“It is decidedly so.”

I’ll admit it. I have a monkey on my back. A monkey that has me in its clutches so deeply that no matter what I try, I can’t break free. I speak of an addiction that has no withdrawal symptoms, no prolonged come down effects, but one that wells up inside me at the mere mention of the monkey; my thoughts drifting, searching for a hint of what it might say or do. My monkey’s name is Magic 8 Ball and whatever it tells me, I follow.

So strong is the Magic 8 Ball’s pull that it’s had me in its web for decades, its web of extreme ridiculousness. Like many children, I received my first Magic 8 Ball as a gift, probably from relative who couldn’t think of anything and went with the option that seemed most entertaining to them—a method I now employ when shopping for the adolescents in my life (“It’s an ant farm! Awesome, right?!”) But that one small present changed my life. The idea that there was some greater power to consult, some actual object to ask the questions whose answers I longed for, an oracle in which I could put my trust and my blind, nine-year-old faith was mind blowing. Ask a question. Turn it over. Future revealed. I was in.

The commercial success and storied popularity of the Magic 8 Ball stem from one thing: the Magic 8 Ball’s mystique. That mystique is made up of two parts. The first part is the Magic 8 Ball’s appearance. Never before has so much epic, witchy possibility been housed in one perfectly round, black ball with murky purple water inside. Developed in the 1950s as a “clairvoyant” device, the ball originally looked more like a crystal ball and only took on the billiards-inspired look after Brunswick Billiards took a liking to the ball and ordered some to suit their customers (because pool playing and fortune telling go hand in hand, naturally.) The Magic 8 Ball has twenty possible answers. Twenty! How do you get all those answers in one ball? What’s really in there? If I break it open is the water smelly? These are the questions that sold a billion Magic 8 Balls.*

Later we can count up the number of times the word “balls” was used in the making of this essay. If it contains an eight, I’m leaving the country.

The second part of the Magic 8 Ball’s mystique owes itself to the fact that the Magic 8 Ball is seen not merely as an object, but a concept, an idea greater than ourselves, a force that exists beyond existence, in the dimension where answers lie and questions are solved. Critics of the Magic 8 Ball, who have chosen to remain anonymous out for fear of their personal safety, say the answers the Magic 8 Ball gives are too obscure, too vague, not concrete enough to reveal any tangible information. To those people I say, get over yourselves. Open your mind and read between the lines. The Magic 8 Ball is telling you what you need to know, but it can’t draw you a map. Should the ball not be able to give you an answer it says, quite plainly, “Ask again later.” Is there anything more clear than that?

I just can’t stop myself from consulting the Magic 8 Ball. I always have a question I want answered, a choice I need to make, a future occurrence I need foretold. If I come across a ball in a store, I immediately pick it up, my pulse racing in anticipation of just what truth will be revealed.

“Will I win the lottery this weekend?”

“Should I cut my hair?”

“Does Michael Bloomberg still care about me?”

These are the questions for which I seek the deepest answers.

Thank god I have my Magic 8 Ball. The Magic 8 Ball knows the future. And you can too for $9.99.

*Figures grossly over-inflated.

Trapped in an Elevator, Again.

Among life’s many thrilling experiences, getting stuck in an elevator is somewhere in my top ten. It ranks slightly below a good bout of food poisoning and just above more commonly enjoyed events like burning the hell out of my mouth and having my nose hairs freeze up.

Yes, I am living quite an amazing life.

Of all of life’s experiences though, being stuck in an elevator offers the uniquely ridiculous combination of total surprise and life threatening reality that few non-violent events can achieve. It happens quietly, but suddenly. You step into the box, the doors close, life is in peril, you’re screwed. Perhaps you get stuck right away, or maybe you started to ascend and now you’re dangling somewhere between the ground and the top floor (ah, these metaphors for life just keep coming). Whatever you were doing when you walked in, whatever you were thinking about, all of it is stopped short.

Actual elevator of entrapment.

While getting trapped in an elevator is in no way an event singular to New York City, it sure feels like it. With roughly 75,000 elevators in the NYC metropolitan area, the city is literally full of elevators. So, odds are you’re on an elevator more than you would prefer. The majority of the city’s elevators are in small office buildings and residential addresses where technology is not paramount, nor is any real upkeep beyond the requisite repairs mandated by the city’s inspections every few years.

I have been stuck in an elevator in NYC multiple times, the most recent of which is evidenced by the stunning photograph above—I know, it’s riveting. I have been trapped in both large, corporate office building elevators where a team of people was dispatched to free me from the confines of the metal box and random, nameless buildings where the shabby condition of the elevator probably should have tipped me off, and where I may never have been discovered. In both scenarios freedom was neither swift nor easy. And I like my freedom like I like my men, swift and easy.

The thought process you have while realizing that, much like R. Kelly who was “trapped in the closet,” you are, in fact, trapped in an elevator goes something like this:

1. Fuck.
2. Maybe it’s not stuck.
3. … It’s stuck.
4. Fuck.
5. Where’s the call button?
6. Should I push the alarm button?
7. Is anyone even there?
8. “Yes, hello… Hello?”
9. “Can you hear me?”
10. My location? I’m trapped in the goddamn elevator.
11. You stay calm.
12. “Okay, I’m staying calm.”
13. And my phone has no reception.
14. Unfuckingbelievable.
15. I guess I’ll sit down.
16. I wish I had a water.
17. Thank god I’m alone in here./Thank god I’m not alone in here.
18. Oh god, I’m all alone in here./Oh god, who the hell are these people?
19. I have to pee.
20. Where are these guys?
21. It’s hot in here.
22. Am I stuck on a floor or in between floors?
23. Maybe I could shimmy out of the top latch?
24. Yeah, okay, MacGyver. Way to get impaled.
25. Fuck.
26. What if no one comes?
27. No one knows where I am.
28. No one even knows I’m in here.
29. I could be in here for days.
30. If there was a nuclear war right now, no one would ever find me.
31. I could die in here.
32. Okay, stop being so paranoid.
33. I wish I had someone to talk to./I wish this guy would shut up.
34. Seriously, where are these guys?
35. Thank god I’m not claustrophobic.
36. I’m feeling a little claustrophobic.
37. Okay, stay calm.
38. Deep breaths.
39. I am zen.
40. I am zen.
41. Maybe some music.
42. No… save the battery. 
43. Fuck.
44. I never ate lunch.
45. I read you can survive on Chapstick.

Each time I was trapped I told myself I would be more cautious in the future, remain on the look out for a questionnable car, and avoid using an elevator altogether when I could. But as the sting of my forced confinement eventually wore off and the elevator went back to being the necessary norm it is, I let my guard down. 

The few times I have been stuck, I’ve been lucky that I was alone or with only one other person. My nightmare (jinxing myself right now for sure) would be a crammed elevator where there is no room to sit down, the collective body temperature makes for sweaty confines and some self-nominated bright light starts coming up with ideas on how best to free ourselves. No thank you. I would also never want to be stuck in an elevator at a tourist attraction. The St. Louis arch comes to mind as the worst possible elevator to be stuck in; no windows, about three square feet of space and the all the charm of a port-o-potty. Death by electric toilet.*

So, the next time I get trapped in an elevator, I will do well to remind myself that, in addition to the creature comforts I’ll be enjoying during my time in there, no one knows where I am, no one knows who I am, and I could be stuck for days without food, water or a lifeline to the outside world before anyone even realizes I’m missing. That heartwarming message should help to pass the time in between cursing my phone and renditions of Destiny’s Child hits.

There’s nothing so ridiculous as the doomsday scenario-ist within, especially when stuck in an elevator with no music.

*Going atop my list of potential band names.

2014: Can you say "Ridiculous?"

Kara Walker’s epic “Sugar Baby” at the old Domino Sugar factory in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

If you are anything like me, 2014 was a very ridiculous year. To say nothing of your sorted personal life, global ridiculousness reached epic proportions as governmental secrets were revealed, the Sochi Olympics apparantly took place, we all figured out what Alibaba was to the tune of about $25 billion and, in the midst of volatile protests in Ferguson, Missouri, Berlin celebrated an anniversary of freedom and the restoration of the most basic of civil rights, a dichotomy rooted in the very essence of harsh ridiculousness.

In the US, another election cycle brought the ugly combativeness that has become commonplace in the never ending battle of my beliefs versus yours and gravely misdirected voters voting against their own best interests. The worst drought in twelve hundred years ravaged California while the East Coast was annihilated by snow. People with functioning brains became obsessed with cat memes and Twitter exploded with demands for an NSYNC reunion—as if they could get across the street without JT.

It was one ridiculous year, but before we tack up our 2015 “Haunted Lighthouses of New England” calendar and feverishly look to see what day our birthdays are on (“Tuesday, shit.”), let’s take a moment to reflect on some of the more ridiculous aspects of 2014; the good, the bad, and the absurd, as only Ridiculous in the City can do.

Oh, 2014:

• Jon Stewart: Utters the phrase, “Why are you being such Moby Dicks about this?”
• Idea that Feminism is “back:” Meets with a ridiculous reception from actual women
• Edward Snowden: Getting a lot of chicks in Russia. Yuck
• Sony: Hacks us
• US legal system: Jacks us
• Rosetta satellite lands on a comet: I repeat, satellite lands on a comet!
• Bill de Blasio: What de Blasio is going on, man? Seriously? And this is only year one
• Sons of Anarchy: We weep for the end of this ridiculously epic show. Kurt Sutter, you are a bad mofo
• Taxi of Tomorrow: What began as a mild fascination with NYC’s new cabs has become a full-blown addiction. I must have you cab of the future!
• Lauren Bacall dies: Ridiculously fabulous has left the building
• Scientists prove climate change is real, again: What to deny next? Oooh, how about Babies?! Yes, reproduction is a myth!
• Cosmos: The Spacetime Odyssey rocks the world. Neil, I love you
• Jack Ma: Says “cash money” will be name of his next grandchild*
• Beyonce: #Badbitchwalking
• Silicon Valley on HBO: If you don’t know, now you know. Erlich Bachmann in 2016
• Joan Rivers: Goodbye to a woman who was truly ridiculous in the city
• Save Domino: The fight to save Brooklyn’s storied sugar factory took on new, ridiculous meaning when Kara Walker’s amazing “Sugar Baby” showed us her front, and her back. Incidentally, it was the best crowd watching of the year
• Kale: No one had a bigger 2014 than kale. Literally

Yes, people, 2014 was full of ridiculousness. Many ridiculous things came to an end while new ridiculousness began, the life cycle of the ridiculous. But that’s what makes the world great, always something more ridiculous around the bend. And doesn’t that feel good?

Global ridiculousness, it warms the heart. Auf Wiedersehen, 2014.

*Some of the facts revealed here may not be entirely true.

Plant a New Seed

I’m taking it literally this year.

The end of another year always brings the usual litany of year-end wrap ups, lengthy year’s “best” lists and endless reels of clips showing the year’s highlights, as if we have already forgotten what happened three months ago. For some, it can bring closure to a project or a fourth quarter they’re happy to be done with. For others, the end of a year can mean saying goodbye to a productive period of time or formally moving on to the next chapter. Whatever the year’s end signifies, it brings with it one thing above all else, the promise of a new year.

A new year. The year. The year when it all finally happens, when you do it, achieve it, receive it; a year that holds the possibility of being just one big fucking great year.

In preparation for this upcoming, epic year of life, many of us will begin to prepare ourselves. We’ll shake off the past twelve months, and take stock of where we are and where we wanted to be just one short year ago. We will cleanse our minds of what didn’t happen and wipe the life slate clean, preparing to take in the new, hopeful energy that comes with the year’s renewal. Yoga, juice cleanses, martinis, our methodology for slate cleaning is as varied as our life experiences.  

And why not feel the positive energy? This year you’ll celebrate another birthday, another anniversary; have another visit with your brother and your beloved pet pigeon. You’ll get to see your dentist, plumber, gynecologist (insert joke about plumbing and gynecology here), mailman, maybe even get to go on another glorious trip to the DMV. You will go back to that place you love, listen to your favorite Foreigner song once more; hear that one about the priest, the rabbi and the stripper, and laugh harder than you did the first time. This year, you will have an opportunity to do it all again, an opportunity to truly win one for number one.

Resolutions will be made, as they often are in the spirit of renewal. Making a resolution allows us a chance to verbalize a goal, a desire, a need for behavior modification, and attempt to attain it. Some stick with these resolutions, basking in the semi-irritating glow of a goal achieved come December; some slack off on the resolutions, moving on to other necessities by mid-February. There’s no shame in that, you went with the infectious spirit of the season and tried something. Don’t be too hard on yourself in eleven months, there’s always next year to finally stop smoking Phillies Blunts.

So, as you take in the flurry of year-end enthusiasm, remember that it doesn’t have to be the end of a year to make a change. Planting the seeds of positivity and possibility can happen year round, just like being ridiculous. I give you permission to wipe your slate clean anytime you need.

Incidentally, vodka is great for cleaning.

Witness the Ridiculous.

In contemporary society, use of the word “ridiculous” goes far beyond its generally accepted status as a synonym for absurd. Countless media and pop culture references to that which is "ridiculous" have placed the term into society's regular linguistic rotation. But "ridiculous" is no fly-by-night term and the "ridiculous" bandwagon is, well, ridiculous.

Here at Ridiculous in the City, the word “ridiculous” is not simply an adjective, but a state of mind, a way of being, and in fact, life itself. And so it comes as no surprise that "ridiculous" is having its moment—it is, after all, the very height of chic. However, to truly understand the ridiculous and embrace it with the full force a phrase of its magnitude deserves, we must first examine what it means to be ridiculous. 

The word “ridiculous” has its origins in the Latin ridiculosus (yes, it does sound vaguely like an internal infection of some kind). It was first used sometime around 1550, when there was, no doubt, a lot of ridiculousness ensuing. Merriam Webster defines ridiculous as, “arousing or deserving ridicule; extremely silly or unreasonable.” Okay, let’s not be so hasty, Merriam. While the word "ridiculous" does perfectly describe things that are glaringly nonsensical, confining ridiculous to such rigid definitions is robbing the word of its ability to encompass so many impassioned, enthusiastic descriptors. Giving usage examples like, “She looks ridiculous in that outfit,” further denigrates ridiculous as a term to be used only when hating on something or, worse, making fun of someone—which Ridiculous in the City does not support. Be ridiculous, look ridiculous, do your thing. There is enough ridiculousness in the world without having to bag on somebody.

Free to Be You and Ridiculous, my first album hits stores this Christmas!

Synonyms like cockamamie, farcical, ludicrous, pathetic (ouch) and preposterous not only push the stereotype of "ridiculous" as a negative term, but offer no real alternative for the positive, deeply inspirational meaning of ridiculous. To Ridiculous in the City, the word ridiculous means the pinnacle of greatness, amazing, over the top in the very best and oddest of ways. It means fantastical, fabulous, off the chain and often, off our proverbial rocker. Use of the word ridiculous is celebratory, awesome, the linguistic embodiment of a “hell yeah,” invoked when the word “rad” just doesn’t go far enough—though rad does go pretty far, but Rad in the City just doesn’t have the same ring to it. In some cases, the word ridiculous is used with an absurd connotation, but only when something is so absolutely, absurdly ridiculous—meaning it’s relative awesomeness can’t even be quantified on the pages of Ridiculous in the City—that the word ridiculous actually needs an adjective attached to it.

Alas, Urban Dictionary understands (English teachers of the world are choking on their Chamomile tea right now). Among their varied and humorous definitions for the term ridiculous is, “Where something is hot, cool, or off the hook.” Adding gravitas to this scholarly statement is the usage example, “The back of yo head iz ridiculous!” 

So, the next time you hear the word ridiculous, think of it not as a negative, ridiculing term, but as a term that invokes all that is right with the world, and all that humanity can become. However you want to embrace "ridiculous" is fine—just do it. Do me a favor though and don’t shorten it to “ridic.” That’s just ridiculous. 

Together, we can do it. Ridiculous as noun, verb, adverb, lifestyle, not just adjective; get out there and use it. Get out there and be ridiculous. It feels good and, by god, it looks good on you. Ridiculously so.

Reader bonus: Because I love you, I must share that which is truly ridiculous. I can’t make this stuff up.

Winners don’t hock loogies.

People of the world, I see you. I see you walking down the street, looking like a mild-mannered citizen, quietly, capably making your way through the day. You appear to be living life in your own workable way, getting things done on your terms, participating in the choreographed dance of give and take that is society; while all the while rocking in the free world, crossing things off the list, and generally, looking damn good doing it.

And then I see you. I see you hock a huge loogie on the street and keep on moving like it was nothing.

And I mean a huge loogie.

You are old, you are young. You are male, you are female. You are short, a bit fat, “athletic” you tell people. You are tall, but not Lurch tall, you are skinny, yet you want to be curvy, have some hips, understand what Sir Mix A Lot was really talking about. You have brown hair, but you were once a blonde, “It’s from the sun,” you say, lying. You’re getting grays, a sign of intelligence you once read—a statement you now cling to. You have no hair, haven’t for fourteen years, but you’re over it now and your wife tells you she likes you better this way. You go Bruce Willis.

Today you are wearing a well-tailored pinstripe suit with sneakers for a more comfortable commute. Yesterday you had on socks and sandals with your khaki shorts and spirited jean jacket as you cruised around the city hitting the farmer’s markets and stopping by Bed, Bath and Beyond for “supplies.” Last week you were decked out in a jazzy tracksuit on your way to work out. Unmotivated, you walked a few blocks and had a glazed donut. Wednesday saw you don a metrosexual date night look complete with a slightly unbuttoned dress shirt and requisite blazer. The feedback was so positive you’ll keep that one in the rotation.

You are carrying bags from the shitty bodega around the corner you swore you’d never patronize again after the expired milk fiasco. You push a grocery cart full of plants past a handbag store whose window reads, “Store Closing – 90% Off Everything,” a sign that’s been there for two years. You are dragging two huge brass lamps up the block, which is so proactive of you; we all need things to be illuminated. You appear to be bringing home your work stuff, rolling that handy little backpack-cum-suitcase you so intelligently switched to after a mild lumbar problem last year. Go ahead, pat yourself on the back, man. It’s not in anyone’s way.

You are boarding the train with a look of mild annoyance, but no detectable sign of thoughts or preoccupation. You ride past me on a bike, barely stopping to see what color the light is or which way the street goes. No matter, ride on, lady. You are holding the hand of what I assume is your child. The kid looks like you, but doesn’t seem to be listening to whatever it is you’re saying. How odd. You walk hand in hand with a loved one, the two of you matching each other’s stride in that innate syncopation that couples automatically produce. You are standing at the bus stop, staring blankly down the street awaiting your ride, a line forming behind you. You are feverishly hailing a cab, hoping for a Taxi of Tomorrow (how you love those sunroofs), but ready to take whatever you can get, as usual. You are sitting silently on a bench, watching the world go by as you zone out to the playlist you so carefully crafted for just such a mood, labeling it “Sitting Silently On a Bench.”

And then, you, wherever you are, whatever you are wearing, whatever you are doing, you haul off and spit. You spit right there, right there where you are, just in time for me to see you. My timing once again absolutely perfect to catch this precious act of humanity, my mind registering semi-horror as I shrink back, fearful of a wind gust, wondering just how it is that I’ve been witness to the loogie hock yet again.

From the looks of it, you really needed that. You really needed to get that out, eject that wad, dispose of that nasal baggage with enough force to propel it far away from you and onto the waiting, embracing streets of New York City.

I know, we all gotta do what we all gotta do and, sometimes, it aint pretty. But, come on people, winners don’t hock loogies.

Halloween is for lovers.

Halloween is for lovers, lovers of every possible walk of life and character imaginable. The dead guy, the zombie, Bride of Frankenstein, Oprah, Lizzie Borden, the gang of kids bludgeoned in the face, the headless horseman; cheerleaders, nerds, Barbra Walters, mimes, Richard Nixon, fairy princesses, Kim Jong Un, Robocop, M&Ms, Helen Keller, RuPaul, a banana split; a donkey, an emu, Ghandhi, Jesus Christ, Eraserhead, Mr. T, the guys from Erasure (okay, not really); the blank check, the chef, Michael Jackson, Liza Minelli, Cher, The Warriors, Mother Teresa, hot dogs, The Hoff and—dare I say—a witch. Halloween is for all of them.

And so today, dear lovers, embrace that which you love and hold tight to the spirit of enthusiastic freedom that lets you, me and everyone out there paste a bloody, puss-filled gash across our faces and hit the streets. Go forth and be ridiculous.

Why my mom will never understand thongs

Think Fiorello LaGuardia had nothing to do with thongs? Think again.

There are two things I love in the world, my mom and the thong underwear that saves me from ever having to worry about unsightly visible panty line—that’s “VPL” in industry speak. Getting my mom to love thongs, however, is never going to happen.

Since the days when I began empowering myself to truly be panty line free, a line in the sand has been drawn. I’m on one side, comfortably wearing whatever bottoms I choose, liberated by my no-nonsense underwear choice, and my mom is on the other, where the wise realism with which she and millions of other women view the world has her saying simply, “Honey, that’s like walking around with a string up your butt.”

Why are thongs such a hard sell to the otherwise trailblazing baby boomer generation (a generation I respect too much to categorically refer to as “generation panty line,” but it’s a slippery slope)? Thong underwear is an item that allows freedom and liberation—though not the same total liberation that comes from going sans underwear—and isn’t that what these flower children were all about?

The word thong is derived from the Old English thwong, meaning leather cord. Wikipedia defines the thong as, “a garment generally worn as either underwear or as a swimsuit in some countries. It may also be worn for traditional ceremonies or competitions such as sumo wrestling.” Because when I think thong, I think sumo. Historically, the thong has its origins in the loincloths of our ancestors, allowing them maximum movement and flexibility as they stalked large animals and went about the business of hunter gathering. Didn’t you just always know you were descended from practical style savants? Over time, the loincloth was adapted and derivatives such as the Japanese fundoshi, a traditional male undergarment, became commonplace.  In the late 1800s, the jockstrap—thong family tree member and beloved accessory to generations of athletes—hit the scene and soon thereafter, the g-string (in a literal turn the “g” is believed to stand for groin) entered our collective consciousness, gaining popularity with burlesque performers and strippers in the 1920s and 1930s.

The first reference to what we know today as a thong appears to have actually come from NYC’s own Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia (was there nothing this man couldn’t do?), who wasn’t thrilled with the amount of skin the city’s nude dancers were displaying and had them cover up prior to the 1939 World’s Fair. Modern thong style evolved from bikini bottom designs in the 1960s, like that of designer Rudi Gernreich—a man who would also invent the “pubikini,” a bikini whose bottom had a window in the front allowing a view of, well, pubes.

The mid-eighties wave of high-legged bathing suits coupled with the influx of Brazilian bikinis paved the way for a general cultural acceptance of the thong and soon, we found ourselves in the ‘90s, where all things modern and inventive were adopted en mass (hello scrunchies!). Thong underwear had become commonplace. In 2004, a New York Times article put thong sales at twenty-four percent of the total underwear market (sadly, there isn’t a ton of readily available, updated data on thong sales. Come on researchers, what are your priorities?). With a generous market share and ingenious new designs, thongs and the ladies who love them were off to the races. Ladies, except for my mom, that is.

Why is the thong such a non-starter for women in their sixties? I spoke to several women who agreed to comment on the condition of anonymity. I suppose that, like their undergarments, there are some subjects women prefer to keep, ahem, under cover. I suspected their hesitance to accept thongs might have something to do with the negative PR thongs have gotten from assorted scandalous music videos (oh, Sisqo, those were the days) and the trashy, wear-your-thong-hanging-out-of-the-top-of-your-pants-look—one I know my mom is horrified by—but, I couldn’t have been further from the truth.

It seems there are two main reasons our beloved, otherwise progressive thinking baby boomer women have a general distaste for thong underwear. One is that it reminds them of the archaic maxi pad belt contraption that was the generally accepted form of dealing with a woman’s monthly period when they were teens. Am I sorry I brought this up yet? The belt was so odd and so ridiculously uncomfortable that it left them scarred by the very thought of it. The second is that they fear the wedgie. “The belt was the most absurd thing you can imagine,” one woman told me. “It was like having a wedgie all day every day for a week,” her friend added. “And a thong is like having a wedgie. Who wants that?”

I was beginning to see the root of their objections.

Still, I pressed on. With all the advancements in thong technology—more comfortable fabrics, flexible shapes—wouldn’t they want to eliminate VPL? Wait, were they even aware they had VPL? “VPL? Listen, after a certain age, you don’t sacrifice comfort for the sake of appearance,” another wise lady told me. “Besides, who’s looking at my ass?” she howled.

Trust me, someone is.

Despite the bevy of “barely there” thong underwear choices and the emergence of new VPL-reducing products like the thong-hybrid “boy short,” their firm grasp on reality and the practicality with which my mom and millions of women like her view the world has them rooted exactly where they want to be—in underwear that doesn’t remotely resemble a thong. They know what they like and they know what they would never be caught dead in. VPL be damned.

I guess when my grandmother said, “In case you get hit by a bus, always have clean underwear on,” it meant one thing to me and another thing entirely to my mom. At least we both got the message.

Note: In researching this piece, I uncovered this baby for sale. Never stop learning.

We Gotta Move These Color TVs

Since 2007, New York City has had televisions in the backseats of its famous yellow taxi cabs. By my genius calculation that means approximately seven years of Taxi TV have elapsed. And I still just hate it.

Yes, like the youthful, radiant skin I once knew and the countless hours spent on bad dates that I’ll never get back, Taxi TV is an unfortunate fact of life, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. In fact, I don’t even have to pretend to like it. I do, however, have to sit there, in the back of the cab, and be taken captive by the repetitive advertising loop that plays at an earth shattering volume for the longest thirty seconds known to man before I can be prompted to turn the thing off.

That is if it even goes off. Having the option to shut the Taxi TV off was assured by its implementers when Taxi TV first made the scene, hoping to allay the fears of those who objected to television screens being forced on them in yet another arena of life, but all too often the shut-off function is not entirely, um, functional. Having been designed in the early, oh-my-god-we-are-living-the-awesome-futuristic-Buck-Rodgers-dream-we-always-knew-would-come-true boom of touch screen, heat sensing technology (In 2007, The New York Times hailed NYC was “at the forefront of cab technology.”), the power button often forces riders to be at the whim of what the screen can and cannot sense. It goes off, it goes back on, the ad loop starts over, you chastise yourself for leaving your finger lingering one second too long in front of the button, you wonder if you can stab it with a pen. It’s a vicious cycle.

And God help you if you have gloves on.

Volume is perhaps the single biggest complaint cab riders have about Taxi TV. Four out of five people surveyed (by me in a bodega on 23rd street while waiting for a man at the front of the line to count out thirty-seven cents in change) admitted they would be more positive on Taxi TVs in general if they were not so unnecessarily loud. Several years ago, after a wave of passenger complaints, Taxi TV relented, lowering the overall volume of the television sets in most cabs and adding a feature to make adjusting the volume a possibility. Why then, is it still so ridiculously challenging to turn the volume down? Five out of five people surveyed (in the same storied focus group) agreed that in the time it takes them to figure out how to turn the volume down, they could take up a new language, phone a long lost loved one or re-read War and Peace.

These were hard-hitting survey questions.

Between the volume, the aptitude needed to turn the TV off, and the generally perplexing mystery of why we ever needed televisions in the back of taxis to begin with, what has really been lost is silence. That solitary ten minutes of quiet time, sitting in the backseat, watching the city move around you, being forced to sit still for a few seconds, slow down for a few minutes; that’s all gone out the window. Literally. Thanks to Taxi TV that solitude has been replaced by “breaking news” of Justin Bieber’s arrests, the life changing banter of Talk Stoop, and “first looks” at luxury apartments in Manhattan. Because the only thing the average taxi rider needs less than Taxi TV is a $50 million dollar Midtown condo.

Last night, after a long, exhausting day, and with my negativity towards Taxi TV firmly in place, I stepped to the curb and hailed a cab. Slumped down in the backseat, I opened the window. Riding along, the cool air felt good as it met my tired face. I was so calm I could have taken a little cab nap or written a taxi haiku. Approaching my destination, I looked up and suddenly noticed that the Taxi TV had been on the entire time. Had I been so out of it that I didn’t register its presence? Or have I just become used to it? Have I finally been broken down by the Taxi TV to the point where I let it exist, let it win the war, let it zone me out and allow my brain get sucked further into the vortex?

Or was I just a person, finally sitting down for a minute, with the thoughts and sights of real life in my head overruling the news and pictures of Taxi TV? Yes. I was. Even when met with constant noise and action, the mind has an uncanny ability to take over and allow you to find a little bit of peace if you let it.

Maybe Taxi TV isn’t all bad. Some people like it, some people don’t. But, it is here to stay and so am I. And so I found my peace, maybe even made my peace with Taxi TV.

Now there’s some breaking news.

When the Moon Hits Your Eye Like a Big Pizza Pie, That's New York, eh?

It happens quietly. A subtle, often untraceable shift takes place. Slowly, but surely, a once occasional foray becomes a full-blown habit.

What is it that breeds such an unconscious, deep seeded attachment? Pizza. And the zombie-like slide towards elevated levels of consumption that I speak of can only mean one thing, you are a New Yorker.

Pizza—not to be confused with “pizazz,” an equally enthusiastic and, not coincidentally, similar word. As a child, pizza held an almost holy place in my young life, personifying all that was festive, celebratory and over indulgent, essentially defining fun itself. Birthday parties, Saturday nights when baby sitters were in charge (supposedly), sporting events, slumber parties, congratulatory meals where the main event was whatever you wanted; it wasn’t pizza night every night, but when it was, hold the phone. Ordering pizza signified you were going all out, letting go and giving permission for the rockin’ waves of excitement to come rushing in.

You were heading straight into the coma-inducing black hole of supreme pizza and Coca-Cola, and it was okay with your mom.

Yes, in those days pizza was god and in the sea of Domino’s and Pizza Huts that made up the proverbial pizza landscape for large swaths of America, no one personified that more so than the man himself, Little Caesar. With his trademark, “Pizza. Pizza,” refrain and his paper covered, rectangular cardboard packaging (mind blowing), the lovable Little Caesar jumped out of the television screen and into our hearts. But while some of us were swimming in Crazy Bread and loving every minute of it, society began to take a cruel turn. Suddenly, adolescence turned into young adulthood and the once popular pizza-pie-palooza birthday parties were replaced by 6-foot party subs, taco bars and worse, all dessert menus.

By my teen years (a.k.a. the delightful mid-1990s), the pizza industry itself had shifted. The designer pizza craze swept the country and chains like California Pizza Kitchen roared into popularity with their nouveau, “fresh cool” vibe and quirky West Coast flavor combinations that kept you distracted just long enough to think their product was healthier. At home my mom began pushing the “make your own” pizza trend, another dark chapter for the pizza establishment. Soon my beloved, piping hot pies were taking on the form of over-stuffed Boboli ready crusts with a panoply of toppings that no doubt had their roots in a misguided CPK visit (“Honey, asparagus is great on pizza!”). Life was imploding.

Fast forward. The sun shined on me and I moved to New York City, land of pizza and dreams. I say fast forward because we needn’t waste time getting into the dark years when too much late night pizza was nobody’s friend. Yes, people, it was here, here in the Empire State that the first hint of that untraceable shift began to happen. Soon, pizza-as-diet-staple had me in its clutches. Me and everyone else in town.

As a vast array of New York stereotypes underscore, New Yorkers eat a lot of pizza (fuhgeddaboudit). In my ridiculously astute opinion that stems from two main factors: one, there is great pizza in NYC; and two, pizza is the ultimate convenience food. Am I blowing your mind yet or what?

A recent study by the USDA concluded that 1 in 8 Americans eats pizza every day (true to form, Eater greeted the news with the earth-shattering headline, “USDA Scientifically Concludes Americans Eat Lots of Pizza.”). 1 in 8? I can’t speak for the rest of America, but I know that number is significantly higher for New Yorkers. Here, pizza places dot the avenues more than mailboxes, fire hydrants, froyo outposts, fruit stands, guys hocking tube socks and fedoras, and even liquor stores — which is saying something. A slice of pizza in NYC is akin to a piece of Kleenex, a bottle of water, a Metrocard, a discarded newspaper; its presence and use is so ubiquitous, the evidence is everywhere. Although unlike a waded up Kleenex, I don’t typically find pizza crust in my bag.

So how much higher is the rate of pizza consumption in NYC? “I see the same people in here everyday at lunchtime. Every single day they come in,” a staff member at Famous Ray’s Pizza in Chelsea told me. That’s five days a week, one meal a day. Assuming those customers generally eat at a frequency of three times per day, that means almost a quarter of their weekly meals are pizza. Other New Yorkers told me that a slice of pizza makes up closer to a third of their weekly diet. Manhattan resident, Kelly Russell commented, “I eat pizza probably six times a week. It’s just like, right there.” Indeed it is. “And because, I like pizza.”

A truer statement was never uttered.

We eat pizza because we like pizza. And we eat pizza because in the city, you constantly find yourself hungry (thirsty, tired, needing to go the bathroom…) and on the go, and what else stifles hunger for $2.75* better than a slice of pie? We don’t see it as unhealthy and why should we? The USDA study points out that 30% of our daily calcium and 50% of our lycopene can come from pizza — that’s like inhaling an entire crate of heirloom tomatoes right in the middle of the farmer’s market while Dr. OZ watches. We don’t see pizza as a festive-occasion-only food, we see it as necessary, hearty, affordable and accessible in ways nothing else really is. That $8.00 sandwich? I’ll have a slice instead. That $7.50 burger? I’ll still go for the slice. What about an $12.00 salad? Please. Who has $12.00?

For New Yorkers pizza is fuel. And we will fill our bodies with whatever fuel we need to get us from point A to point B. If that fuel also happens to be a wonder of cheesy tomato perfection, hey, that’s the beauty of NYC. Between the amazing local pizzerias and the high levels of availability, pizza makes its way into your life, replacing more snacks than you ever realized and becoming firmly ensconced in your existence.

And sure, we all have our favorite place, the place with the best slice, but let’s get real, in a pinch I’ll eat a $1 slice and keep on moving.

Like millions of New Yorkers, I love pizza and will grab a slice anytime the hunger pains strike, often making it part of my diet by bookending it with a green juice and a non-GMO flax granola bar. I’m nothing if not practical.

But that’s pizza in NYC, practical. Which is why it’s the number one food for New Yorkers (according to ridiculousinthecity.com) and the number one food in my ridiculous heart.

Pizza. Pizza.

*current price of a plain cheese slice at Joe’s Pizza on Carmine Street. Ridiculous in the City keeps it real.