Don’t call me Ma’am.

In the storied history of ridiculousness, no term produces an eye roll from deep within my bones more than the word “ma’am.” Rhymes with spam, makes me feel like I resemble a yam and leaves me wanting to shout, “Goddamn,” ma’am is a full-fledged assault on my psyche.

Push me off a cliff, gently “nudge” me over the cruise ship railing as I pause to sip my bone-dry martini, leave me to die in the wet gutter—just, please, don’t call me ma’am. This request is, of course, wishful thinking. Try as I might, there is no possible way to prevent people from calling me ma’am.

When did ma’am take over? I was “miss” at one point, a time not that far off when everyone was still hyped on HBO* and kale was vying for popularity (I guess we know how that ended). Are my newly minted crow’s feet suddenly giving me away and forcing me into permanent exile on the Isle of Ma’am—a place with the backdrop of ancient Lesbos and the social practices of Gone With the Wind?

Yes, ma’am. And those babies are not “newly minted.”

Ma’am makes me feel like my grandmother. It’s a term that seems tailor-made to be reserved for only those of a revered age and social standing. Ma’am has a formality, an undercurrent of proper, polite etiquette that I simply can’t participate in on a daily basis (instead, I participate in other ridiculous activities like decorative napkin folding and dog treat alphabetizing). I can’t take myself seriously enough for ma’am, I don’t want to take myself seriously enough for ma’am. Accepting ma’am is like handing over my ridiculousness and saying, “I’m ready to go straight. Please, Sir, do you have any Peter Pan collar shirts I can wear underneath this pearl button cardigan?”

My grandmother is smiling down on me at the mere suggestion of that. Now she’s trying to hand me a lipstick.

My old friend Merriam Webster defines ma’am as a term that is, “used to politely speak to a woman who you do not know.” Okay, I know I am being a bit of a b-i-t-c-h (if you spell it, you haven’t cursed) about being treated politely, something I was always taught is of high importance, but Merriam goes on to say ma’am is, “used to speak to the Queen or to a woman of high rank in the police or military.” Therein lies my issue. The suggestion of “rank,” the idea that I, as customer or patron, am somehow of a higher echelon than you, as purveyor or provider of goods and services, is ridiculous. We all have roles in society, but there is no better, and there is certainly no worse amongst those that we deal with day in and day out. Do you not deserve to be treated with more respect than I given the fact that you did all of the nitty-gritty leg work involved in getting this item here for me to procure with almost no effort at all?

Yes, ma’am.

Ma’am has an old-timey feel. It’s not just that it sounds like it may be for a woman of a mature age, but it also sounds like ma’am should be living on a plantation next door to Scarlett O’Hara. As ma’am complains endlessly about Scarlett’s behavior, her maid nods her head and says, “Yes, ma’am.” There’s a classicism that comes with ma’am that I object to. There’s a stuck-in-the-past connotation that I dislike—me of the “Hey, babe,” generation—preferring instead terms with a formality that is non-existent. “Sweetie,” “Honey,” “Dear,” even “girl” are all terms legions of women dislike as they can be diminutive in nature and reflect the fact that the subject isn’t being taken seriously, but I prefer all of them to ma’am.

Anything but ma’am.

When I get to heaven and my grandmother lists all the things she’s disliked about my existence, this commentary is sure to be one of them. I will smile, obsessively hugging her while listening to her talk, knowing she is right about most things and far off on others. As they come to take my bags and escort me to my private wing complete with sun room and topiary garden views, I’ll turn to her and say, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t be a smartass,” she’ll respond.

Even in death, people… even in death. 

Throwback Thursday: "Fine."

The word “fine” has lived. Perhaps the most user friendly term to ever grace human lips, “fine” enjoys a status few words can even dream of: the multi-purpose go-to. Suitable for anything and everything, there is almost no question that "fine,” can’t be the answer to, no mood or feeling that "fine,” can’t describe, no situation in which "fine,” can’t be uttered to ultimately get you out of said situation.

Fine comes from the French “fin,” meaning end, and it can bring conversation to a halt like no other phrase—like a ridiculous gift from the gods to help save humanity. Uttered an estimated two million* times an hour, in many cases the only response to, “Fine,” is, “Fine.”

But “fine” has also known another rarified existence, that of cultural phenomenon. Cool kid, all the rage, slang before you even knew you were using slang; when people were still trying to figure out how to be hip, "fine" was hip defined. Phrases like, “She’s so fine,” gave birth to a new definition of fine: “fine” as descriptor of something so freaking hot you almost couldn’t stand it. It caught on like wildfire in the eighties and nineties as hot and bothered people of the world stood up and breathlessly said, “Damn, he is fine.” And oh was he.

Fine went where other sad slang wanna-bes of its day like “bomb” never could, it not only functioned as an adjective, it became the feeling itself. When you said someone was, “fine,” you felt it in your stomach, in your knees; every inch of your body felt as though it would explode if you didn’t scream out loud just how fine they were. You passed them in the hallway and your knees began to weaken from the weight of their fineness. You lay in bed, pining endlessly with the full strength of your being about just how fine they were. You set about making yourself look all the more fine in an attempt to get them to take notice. And when the day came that they walked over and said, “Can I sit here?” all you could do was mumble, “Fine.”

Locking yourself in the bathroom following this exchange, you exhaled and thought, holy shit, he's SO fine.

Yes, Fine had hit stratospheric levels of linguistic use. Songs, movies, television and popular jargon were littered with references about how fine someone was. Not even Fine’s closest cousin in slang terms, “fly,” could touch it—which is saying something because Fly was pretty fly. Fine was in our collective memory bank, on the tip of our tongues, embedded in our subconscious. And then something happened. Fine went from being fine to being just… fine.

Somehow the word that had come to define the longing in our very souls began to fade, not unlike the fades many of us were sporting. Phrases like “hot” took over, forever marginalizing our expressions of lust and wanting. By the time the aughts (still sounds so ridiculous) were in high gear, Fine was relegated to being like “interesting”—the phrase I often employ to stay vague—midway between positive and non-committal, not unlike a few fine people I know.

But why the fall from grace? Was Fine just not fine enough? Did Fine get replaced with a newer, sexier model like so many of its eighties and nineties counterparts? Did throngs of people move on from it like they did Madonna (I’ll always love you, Madge), acid-washed jeans, perms and Tab? Only to be replaced by Lady Gaga, skinny jeans, blowouts and—wait for it—water.

Was it because Fine was too damn fine for its own good? Was Fine the victim of pent up jealousy like so many beautiful things, until the other words finally snapped and hatched a plan, collectively ensuring the downfall of our fair Fine? Was Fine so fine that its ego became inflated and it lost touch with the little people, exhibiting diva behavior, saying it wouldn’t get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars a day, throwing cold-pressed green juice at its assistant and insisting it was the definitive phrase of our time?

Is Fine who Jay-Z was referring to when he said, “Merci, you fine as f*** but you givin’ me hell?”

Yes, like so many stars before it, it seems Fine was a victim of its celebrity. Obsessive paparazzi, late nights in the club, too many substances, too many lovers; a jet-set life of excess that came crashing down. The True Hollywood Story would reference mismanaged money, inner circle distrust and sources quoted saying Fine was often seen walking around in a disoriented haze, muttering, “I’m fine.”

By the time Fine cleaned up, its relevance to the new century’s collective cultural unconscious had been replaced by phrases like “hot,” and the way was paved for future ridiculous social media darlings like “on fleek” to eventually take over our brains. After almost two decades, Fine’s time atop the slang heap was officially over.

“Fine,” said Fine. One must always know when to throw in the towel.

And so began the long journey back for Fine. Humbled and grateful for a second chance at the user-friendly life it once lived, Fine slowly began to pick up the pieces. Thanks to fellow eighties and nineties icon Richard Gere, Fine found solace in the teachings of Buddha and daily meditation. Eventually finding itself at peace with money in the bank and its status as a “multi-purpose go-to” still intact, Fine knew there was nothing more a word could ask for. Things were once again just fine.

Fine is now mentoring Fly, Bomb and other linguistic casualties of the mid-nineties. Speaking from its home in Malibu, Fine said it’s stronger than it has ever been and happier than it could have dreamed, thankful every day for the opportunities ahead and the lessons that it continues to learn. He and Gere recently traveled to Nepal for a forthcoming documentary entitled, Think Fine, Be Fine: The Path to Contentment.

But I miss the glory days of fine. The days when fine really meant something. When fine was more than just hot, more than just attractive, when it was sexy as hell in the best and worst possible way. Fine was something to attain, something to aspire to; fine was the very depth of desire—often unrequited. And wasn’t that yearning what made someone all the more fine?

Though society has put Fine back into its box, shelved alongside “yes,” “no,” “okay,” “alright” and long-suffering “sure,” I long for Fine’s days as a slang celeb and try my best to keep them alive in my ridiculous heart. Every time I hear someone utter, “I’m fine,” in response to a bland inquiry, I smile to myself. For I know Fine will someday be back atop the pile of cultural influence, its status as a once and future icon cemented forever.

So let us raise an eyebrow and casually reply, “I’m fine,” knowing that we are also fine. And that’s damn fine.

*Ridiculous in the City’s estimates are based on a mixture of hard facts and educated guesses. Much like life.

Fine.

The word “fine” has lived. Perhaps the most user friendly term to ever grace human lips, “fine” enjoys a status few words can even dream of: the multi-purpose go-to. Suitable for anything and everything, there is almost no question that, “Fine,” can’t be the answer to, no mood or feeling that, “Fine,” can’t describe, no situation in which, “Fine,” can’t be uttered to ultimately get you out of said situation.

Fine comes from the French “fin,” meaning end, and it can bring conversation to a halt like no other phrase—like a ridiculous gift from the gods to help save humanity. Uttered an estimated two million* times an hour, in many cases the only response to, “Fine,” is, “Fine.”

But “fine” has also known another rarified existence, that of cultural phenomenon. Cool kid, all the rage, slang before you even knew you were using slang; when people were still trying to figure out how to be hip, "fine" was hip defined. Phrases like, “She’s so fine,” gave birth to a new definition of fine: “fine” as descriptor of something so freaking hot you almost couldn’t stand it. It caught on like wildfire in the eighties and nineties as hot and bothered people of the world stood up and breathlessly said, “Damn, he is fine.” And oh was he.

Fine went where other sad slang wanna-bes of its day like “bomb” never could, it not only functioned as an adjective, it became the feeling itself. When you said someone was, “fine,” you felt it in your stomach, in your knees; every inch of your body felt as though it would explode if you didn’t scream out loud just how fine they were. You passed them in the hallway and your knees began to weaken from the weight of their fineness. You lay in bed, pining endlessly with the full strength of your being about just how fine they were. You set about making yourself look all the more fine in an attempt to get them to take notice. And when the day came that they walked over and said, “Can I sit here?” all you could do was mumble, “Fine.”

Locking yourself in the bathroom following this exchange, you exhaled and thought, holy shit, he's SO fine.

Yes, Fine had hit stratospheric levels of linguistic use. Songs, movies, television and popular jargon were littered with references about how fine someone was. Not even Fine’s closest cousin in slang terms, “fly,” could touch it—which is saying something because Fly was pretty fly. Fine was in our collective memory bank, on the tip of our tongues, embedded in our subconscious. And then something happened. Fine went from being fine to being just… fine.

Somehow the word that had come to define the longing in our very souls began to fade, not unlike the fades many of us were sporting. Phrases like “hot” took over, forever marginalizing our expressions of lust and wanting. By the time the aughts (still sounds so ridiculous) were in high gear, Fine was relegated to being like “interesting”—the phrase I often employ to stay vague—midway between positive and non-committal, not unlike a few fine people I know.

But why the fall from grace? Was Fine just not fine enough? Did Fine get replaced with a newer, sexier model like so many of its eighties and nineties counterparts? Did throngs of people move on from it like they did Madonna (I’ll always love you, Madge), acid-washed jeans, perms and Tab? Only to be replaced by Lady Gaga, skinny jeans, blowouts and—wait for it—water.

Was it because Fine was too damn fine for its own good? Was Fine the victim of pent up jealousy like so many beautiful things, until the other words finally snapped and hatched a plan, collectively ensuring the downfall of our fair Fine? Was Fine so fine that its ego became inflated and it lost touch with the little people, exhibiting diva behavior, saying it wouldn’t get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars a day, throwing cold-pressed green juice at its assistant and insisting it was the definitive phrase of our time?

Is Fine who Jay-Z was referring to when he said, “Merci, you fine as f*** but you givin’ me hell?”

Yes, like so many stars before it, it seems Fine was a victim of its celebrity. Obsessive paparazzi, late nights in the club, too many substances, too many lovers; a jet-set life of excess that came crashing down. The True Hollywood Story would reference mismanaged money, inner circle distrust and sources quoted saying Fine was often seen walking around in a disoriented haze, muttering, “I’m fine.”

By the time Fine cleaned up, its relevance to the new century’s collective cultural unconscious had been replaced by phrases like “hot,” and the way was paved for future ridiculous social media darlings like “on fleek” to eventually take over our brains. After almost two decades, Fine’s time atop the slang heap was officially over.

“Fine,” said Fine. One must always know when to throw in the towel.

And so began the long journey back for Fine. Humbled and grateful for a second chance at the user-friendly life it once lived, Fine slowly began to pick up the pieces. Thanks to fellow eighties and nineties icon Richard Gere, Fine found solace in the teachings of Buddha and daily meditation. Eventually finding itself at peace with money in the bank and its status as a “multi-purpose go-to” still intact, Fine knew there was nothing more a word could ask for. Things were once again just fine.

Fine is now mentoring Fly, Bomb and other linguistic casualties of the mid-nineties. Speaking from its home in Malibu, Fine said it’s stronger than it has ever been and happier than it could have dreamed, thankful every day for the opportunities ahead and the lessons that it continues to learn. He and Gere recently traveled to Nepal for a forthcoming documentary entitled, Think Fine, Be Fine: The Path to Contentment.

But I miss the glory days of fine. The days when fine really meant something. When fine was more than just hot, more than just attractive, when it was sexy as hell in the best and worst possible way. Fine was something to attain, something to aspire to; fine was the very depth of desire—often unrequited. And wasn’t that yearning what made someone all the more fine?

Though society has put Fine back into its box, shelved alongside “yes,” “no,” “okay,” “alright” and long-suffering “sure,” I long for Fine’s days as a slang celeb and try my best to keep them alive in my ridiculous heart. Every time I hear someone utter, “I’m fine,” in response to a bland inquiry, I smile to myself. For I know Fine will someday be back atop the pile of cultural influence, its status as a once and future icon cemented forever.

So let us raise an eyebrow and casually reply, “I’m fine,” knowing that we are also fine. And that’s damn fine.

*Ridiculous in the City’s estimates are based on a mixture of hard facts and educated guesses. Much like life.

Throwback Thursday: Witness the Ridiculous.

I think it's time to remind ourselves why we're here.

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 current "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!” Oh, iz it?

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.

My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas. Or something.

In the annals of highly effective memory tools, the mnemonic stands alone as a genius technique rooted in the very best of ridiculousness. Looking at the recent images of Pluto taken by NASA’s New Horizons spacecraft, an unmanned mission that has travelled over nine years and three billion miles to reach Pluto, allowing us the first glimpses at what NASA calls the “icy dwarf planet” (yeah NASA), I couldn’t help but think back on my early solar system teachings and wonder why, decades and countless advances in planetary science later, is the go-to key to remembering something as essential as the order of our fair planets still “My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas?”

The answer, I suspect, lies in the black hole of ridiculousness.

It can be said that I’ve never met a mnemonic I didn’t like. Helpful for recalling even the most tedious of facts and order of sequences, a mnemonic can be made up anytime, anywhere based on nothing but what works for you. If only more things in life were like that… politics anyone? Unlike the periodic chart, the multiplication tables burned into your brain and the insanely catchy song you were forced to memorize in order to learn the names of every state in alphabetical order—Oh, “Fifty Nifty United States,” I think of you often—a mnemonic does not fit into one box, it fits into every box your brain can think up. And we know how much your brain thinks about box.

The planetary mnemonic “My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas” is but one form of mnemonic. Other common mnemonic devices include image mnemonics, spelling mnemonics (“i” before “e” except after “c”) and musical mnemonics like singing your ABCs. Perhaps the most widely used mnemonics are word mnemonics like “Never Eat Shredded Wheat” to remember the North, South, East, West directional order or mnemonics involving use of the first letter in a word, a la “ROY G BIV” for the red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet, colors of the rainbow. You remember Roy; he was the nose picker who sat behind you in Language Arts. “But isn’t ‘ROY G BIV’ really an acronym?” you are yelling at your screen right now, incensed by the outright blasphemy you’ve just read. Yes, it is acronym, that beloved device society holds so dear, but an acronym is simply another form of mnemonic.

Is there no end to your greatness, mnemonic?

As widespread and seemingly adored as the mighty mnemonic is, the planet Pluto stands at the opposite end of the respect spectrum. Long maligned for being small in stature (Pluto is smaller than even Earth’s moon) and portrayed as a land of frigid darkness, the ultimate slap in the face to Pluto came in 2006 when it was unceremoniously demoted from its classification as a planet and relabeled with its current “dwarf planet” status. In its reasoning, the International Astronomical Union announced that Pluto did not meet all three criteria for planet status, “It must be in orbit around the Sun, have a spherical shape, and have ‘cleared the neighborhood’ around its orbital plane of other bodies.” A significant blow to the icy sphere we had all come to know and love, Pluto, it seemed, just couldn’t get no respect.

Wouldn’t you think Uranus would be the maligned one? I mean, Uranus.

Then, low and behold, in July of 2015, the images captured by New Horizons revealed a planet that National Geographic called, “stunningly alive.” Nitrogen glaciers, carbon monoxide and methane ice, and evidence of active seismic shifts have once again given way to the debate on Pluto’s planetary status. And thank god, because “My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine” just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

“My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas” without “Pizzas” is like the tedium of “A, E, I, O, U and sometimes Y.” Why only sometimes “y?” Yes, “y” is also a consonant, but let it into the club. Don’t leave it dangling there like that, pulled between two worlds, like Bo Jackson, leggings (for the last time, they are not pants) or poor Pluto. Frankly, without Pluto, “My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas” needs a major overhaul. But then, hasn’t it always?

For starters, if your mom was so educated, wouldn’t she be off doing something with more gravitas than serving pizzas? Like curing cancer or discovering a way to recycle all of the world’s water. And, going off her high education, wouldn’t she also have the sense to know that you don’t need nine pizzas? You need a salad and some lean protein. Anyway you look at it “My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas” is a completely ridiculous mnemonic. Keeping Pluto in the group—above all, I am an equal opportunity planetary enthusiast—what might be some better mnemonics to help the world embrace planetary order?

“May Vic’s Enthusiasm Merit Jumping Sandwiches Under Nightly Patrol.” Late night sandwich patrol makes perfect sense. “Mayor Vows Euphoria Makes Jury Sentence Upper Ninth Precinct.” Perhaps a bit much for the school children of the world. “Melinda’s Vest Eats More Juice Slicing Up Nonsense Pasta.” Yes, I love nonsense pasta. Or how about, “Mary’s Violet Encrusted Maserati Justifies Solitary Use Not Publicity.”

Attention: Ladies and Gentleman, we have a winner.

“Mary’s Violet Encrusted Maserati Justifies Solitary Use Not Publicity” is perfect. It not only provides the tools for our brains to adequately remember the order of the planets, but also gives a small lesson in humility to the youngsters of the world. You may be rocking a sparkly purple Maserati someday, but do it in the privacy of your own driveway, Mary.

Perhaps that’s what the universe is all about. It’s not so much how we remember what we need to know, but that we remember it and learn the lesson it teaches us. We can spend time splitting hairs about which celestial being is or is not a planet, or what mnemonic does or does not make sense, but we only have so much time (I’m sorry, you’re never going to get this ten minutes back). And in that time we need to gain knowledge, move through life, try not to hurt anyone, be humble about our violet encrusted Maserati and die.

Whether or not “My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas” happens to be an absurd phrase, if it works for you, then keep using it. I may have just given the world the new go-to mnemonic for planetary order, but light years from now when those violet Maseratis are floating space, the only thing that will matter is that people know what planet they’re on. It will be of no consequence that the person who came up with “Mary’s Violet Encrusted Maserati Justifies Solitary Use Not Publicity” frequently used “Never Eat Shredded Wheat” to figure out where they were going.

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.

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.

“Meet me on the coroner in five minutes.”

— Another dispatch from Ridiculous in Auto-Correct.

“Call Bach!”

—

Another dispatch from Ridiculousness in Auto Correct.

Thus prompting the recipient to reply, “What should I call him?”

PSPTRAP

According to my extensively researched sources (thank you Slang.org. If ever there was an organization with a true, world-improving purpose, this is it), I am the last one to find out that the phrase, “on the other hand,” has been reduced to acronym form: OTOH. Of all the phrases that scream out for an acronym, is this one of them? Is there really enough use of “on the other hand” in the universe to warrant this? As I write the word “universe” I am momentarily flashing on little green men seated at a round table having a philosophical discussion as one causally puts his hand in the air and says, “Well, on the other hand…”

Apparently, for us and for little green men, saying “on the other hand” has become so arduous that it needs to be shortened. OMG, BTW, that’s ridiculous. On this hand and that one.

Please stop perpetuating these ridiculous acronyms people. Wait, I meant: PSPTRAP.