Make America Ridiculous Again

As someone who lives in a perpetual state of ridiculousness, there was no worse after-effect of the 2016 presidential race than the loss of my ridiculous spirit in the days following the election. Well, that and the immediate concerns brought on by being forced to accept a reality fueled by waves of falsely placed negativity, intolerance and the kind of hate I like to think doesn’t exist. But as the initial sting began to numb, subtle hints at the blow my ridiculousness had sustained floated to the top. Humorous graffiti went unnoticed, little dogs in absurd sweaters elicited no comments, my Tina Turner greatest hits CD developed a thick layer of dust; I was a shell of my former ridiculous self.

Weeks went on. The streets of my beloved New York City offered no respite from the depressed, beaten-down mood that had become my new m.o. The holidays came and went. Thanksgiving was a listless, albeit tasty, exercise in giving thanks for all that was now somehow in doubt. By Christmas, it was as if Santa had come by, found the door locked and left a flaming poop in a paper bag on the doorstep.

And then George Michael died. I had hit rock bottom.

I needed no excuse to imbibe on New Years Eve, having begun my non-revelatory liver drowning weeks before. My attitude was crap, my skin was dry and sad, my hair staticky and brittle, just like my ridiculous soul had become.

Roundabout the second week in January, as I was lying on a yoga mat drinking a watery iced latte in my Obama jammies, listening to “One More Try” for the seventy-fourth time, a feeling of lightness came over me. Had the milk gone bad or was it the spirit of George Michael coming to show me the way à la It’s A Wonderful Life? God, I hoped it was George.

“I’m here George, I’m here. And I never burned my leather jacket,” I wanted to say. I took a deep breath, exhaling into the meditation of George’s voice and remembering better days.*

“So if you love me, say you love me. But if you don't just let me go.” Let it go, let it go, George was telling me. “So when you say that you need me, that you'll never leave me, I know you're wrong, you're not that strong… Let me go.” Yes, yes… let it go. Let go of the shell-shocked, sad feelings I’d been holding on to. Let go of the negative energy that was squashing my ridiculousness. Those gravitational pulls may be strong now, but nothing is forever. And nothing is stronger than my ridiculousness.

“And teacher, there are things that I still have to learn. But the one thing I have is my pride…” So right, George, so right. I can’t know everything this election has brought upon us, but walking around in a state of non-acceptance isn’t moving anything forward. Above all else, the one thing I have is my ridiculousness.

George Michael forever.

Had I really been that upset about the fact that so many Americans were, at the very least, willing to attach themselves to the momentum of racism and hate speech, or was I just too wrapped up in my own views to see the intolerance that is still there, that was always there? I hadn’t seen it because I hadn’t cared to, preferring to live in a consciousness where everyone thinks the way I do and, inevitably, it all works out. If history has shown us anything, it’s that things rarely work out and when they do, it’s a long time coming. Nothing works unless you work it. Letting intolerance take over by sitting idly by, recovering from election overload and blocking reality is, well, ridiculous.

I hadn’t bothered to notice the depth of the intolerance out there. Just like I hadn’t bothered to notice my ridiculousness had been lost somewhere mid-November. Because it went unnoticed, because I had allowed myself to get thrown off of my game, to become used to things, assume things, accept things—things had changed when I wasn’t looking. I had changed when I wasn’t looking. And in that way, I was just another casualty of the election.

Thank god George was there to show me the way.

So, today I am moving forward with a renewed sense of ridiculousness and strangely, a feeling of optimism. I mean, why not be positive? The apocalypse may be here, but I’m still standing and there is no time like the present to get out there and spread some ridiculousness. Laugh at a good pun, stop and smell the lattes (“Is that almond milk?” “No, I’m down with bovines, bro.”), wear my old “My mom went to Paris and all I got was this stupid t-shirt” t-shirt, ponder the eternal question of who buys the hard boiled eggs at the bodega—there is no end to the ways to promote catharsis.

Letting outside forces strip me of my unalienable right to think positive and believe that we can affect change is downright un-American. Letting those same forces push me into a state of blocking news and information for the next four years is dangerously ridiculous. It is imperative that we all stay on our toes and stay informed. We need each other and our ridiculousness now more than ever.

Spread the word: Ridiculous lives. 

*Dancing around to "Faith," obsessing over the "Freedom 90" video, experimenting with mousse.

Vote Ridiculous 2016: What Else Can We Do?

Tough choice: Hillary or "Mr. Billionaire?"

In an election season so littered with absurdity, the American people have been left with no option but to vote ridiculous on Election Day. Any way you slice it, you are casting a ballot for ridiculousness in 2016, so embrace it. Wrap your arms around that hanging chad, that pregnant chad, that sad unattractive kid named Chad; ridiculous hugs are the best kind.

Perhaps you are voting for Trump on November 8th, in which case your vote will go down as the most ridiculous in history for a variety of reasons, beginning with The Donald’s road kill-chic hairdo and penchant for self-tanner, and ending with his endorsement by The Crusader, the number one newspaper of America’s favorite costumed band, the KKK.

KISS is so pissed at me right now.

Or maybe you are “with her.” A Hillary fan who may just wear your red pantsuit t-shirt to the polls, you love you some Hillary, some Bill, and the whole email thing is, well, ridiculous. Or perhaps it’s on a pendulum, swinging somewhere between flaccid non-issue and blazing obstruction (hello, constipation metaphor). In any case, Hill is your girl and you’re not budging, not even for a second. You stopped listening to the naysayers months ago and all you can think is how great her hair looks right now. Stronger together, that’s you and Hill. In it to win it.

And what of the third party candidates? Oh, there’s plenty of ridiculousness there. From anti-vaccine comments by Jill Stein, to everyone’s favorite lost man, Gary Johnson, it seems like we have all had a “What’s Aleppo?” moment during this campaign. Some of us have been mentally “What’s Aleppo?” since last fall when the current state of things could never have been imagined. And while Stein and Johnson will both eek out a few percentage points here and there, a solid third party candidate eludes American voters once again. The greatest democracy in the world and it boils down to two choices.

Incidentally, “What’s Aleppo?” may be the biggest gift I received during this campaign:

“Hey, where’s the remote?”

“What’s Aleppo?”

The debates, the attack ads, the downright lies and dissemination of misinformation now accepted as fact by large swaths of the United States population, it’s all been too much. While you may not be able to cling to any real sanity right now and, like the more ridiculous amongst us, you may be having nightmares about Wednesday morning (I’m on a cruise ship with Hill, she’s drinking a Coke and accepting defeat calmly. I realize the ship is not actually going anywhere and I wonder what happened to my bags. “I’m done with Diet,” she says. “Who cares about the calories now?”), there is plenty of ridiculousness to drown yourself in until Tuesday.

That and the continuing flood of love for Obama. Oh, Barry, never leave us.

So let’s enjoy one last ridiculous binge this weekend while we still can. Then, come Tuesday, let’s dust ourselves off, put on our finery and march to our local polling place. As you stand there casting your ballot, you can feel good about the fact that you survived the ridiculousness, at least this time. If this election is any indication, there is surely more to come.

“Brexit:” The Birth of a Ridiculous Term

As news of Britain’s historic vote to leave the European Union spread like wild fire on Friday, there was much to talk about. Global markets went into turmoil, politicians began spinning the results and many Britons woke up to realize that perhaps they hadn’t fully understood what they were voting for.

Not unlike the 1985 board meeting that resulted in “New Coke” I imagine.

As the chaos erupted, one thing became abundantly clear, the star of the spectacle was the term “Brexit” itself. Little more than a mild-mannered portmanteau, Brexit was born out of the ridiculous need to take the beginning of the word “Britain” and add it to the word “exit” (that mind-blowing revelation is for all of you who are a little slow today)—a bespoke phrase for the ages. How appropriately British.

By Saturday morning, as we were greeted with headlines like, “Global Shocks After Upheaval in Britain,” I was feeling a little Brexit momentum myself. After all, here was a phrase that essentially defined the action of taking total and complete leave of any and all activities and associations, the ultimate “let’s go” terminology. Eager to get my weekend tasks accomplished, I began encouraging my household to get it together and, “Brexit.”

As the dog stood at the top of the stairs, not wanting to venture into the heat for a potty break, I looked at him and said, “Come on bud, Brexit.” He quickly fell in line. Surrounded by sweaty tourists on 23rd Street, I raised my voice and bellowed, “Brexit, people, Brexit.” And part like the Red Sea they did. When I found myself at the gym a little while later, a historic movement in itself, I worked my way out of an enthusiasm slump by telling myself to, “Shut up and Brexit.”

Evening fell and more people were swept up into my Brexit momentum. For some reason, I had a hankering for fish and chips. Walking to dinner, stragglers in our dining group were faced with taunts of, “Dude, Brexit.” Later on, as it became clear the night was over, I made my exit, uttering, “I gotta Brexit.” That night I dreamed I was in a prescription drug ad. As I bobbed for apples in the shape of Big Ben, a voice said, "Ask your doctor about Brexit."

Sunday morning’s New York Times arrived emblazoned with the phrase, “Europe Urges Dazed Britain to Get Moving.” In other words, Brexit, Britain, Brexit.

Brexit was transcending. I had visions of Brexit taking on stratospheric levels of meaning. “Get it together,” “Hurry up,” “Make haste,” “Move your ass;” Brexit would come to define a generation's momentum. Soon it would be known as Sir Brexit, lunching with the Queen, motivating youth around the world, standing up for climate change. "We aren’t going to take it anymore," Brexit would say, arm in arm with Leo at a Save the Oceans rally in Copenhagen. “The time is now. We're here, we're Brexit, get used to it.”

But by the time I had finished my stale scone and half a crumpet on Monday morning, I realized it was me who needed to Brexit. History may or may not look back on the Brexit vote with the disdain it is currently inciting, but with global markets continuing to slide and no end to the post-vote confusion in sight, even someone as ridiculous as I am can see that we need to get serious and collectively shore up a strategy for moving forward.

Or, for lack of a better phrase, Brexit.

So, today I pledge to get my Brexit on. Because in life, it’s lead, follow or get ridiculous. And getting ridiculous is one thing I’ll never Brexit.

New Coke: Just totally Brexit.

Photo: time.com

Because You Can't Un-Know.

Thanks bro. 

Election season is a funny thing. Thinly disguised as “testing the waters,” politicians start posturing, taking the initial steps towards throwing their hats in the ring months before we are anywhere close to a vote, no matter that the majority of the electorate is essentially burned out by the time the actual election is upon us. That, of course, is what they’re counting on.

Listening tours, meet-and-greets, connecting with their base; it’s not unlike the unending postulating that goes on during football season about who will make the Super Bowl, except it’s a lot more mind-numbing and lasts six times as long. All of it is designed to get their names in our collective consciousness and get us talking about who will be our candidate.

At first, all the activity is somewhat amusing. Watching characters of all shapes and sizes—from very few races and religions—jockey for positions they will never end up in is nothing if not laughable. However, as the pool of wannabe candidates gets whittled down to the few souls who actually become contenders, the laughter stops. What you are reading and seeing on television continues to carry with it the humorous gaffes of election season, but the comments and conversations around you begin to take a turn when you realize those opinions actually belong to people you know and love.

Conservative, liberal; evangelical, atheist; pro-life, pro-choice, pro-gun, pro-marijuana; everyone has an opinion as they are absolutely entitled to. Yeah, America. But finding out we are not all of the same viewpoint can be a harsh reality, especially when the subject matter veers toward race, equality and the income gap. Where once they were jovial co-workers and friends, the revelation of political leanings and social policy opinions opposite those that you believe to be right and rational casts a pall over the relationship like an irritating shadow fronting on your tan line. It’s there, it’s creeping, it’s leaving its mark and you can’t do anything about it.

Facing the truth about the political leanings of those close to you is often a bitter and insanely ridiculous pill to swallow. Everyone deserves to have an opinion, you tell yourself, but it is a lot easier to feel that way when the people on the other side are halfway across the country. You picture them somewhere out there, living with their beliefs and their Spam and their taxidermy, and it has no bearing on your everyday life. Except that it does and election season underscores that glaring truth. Whether those thoughts are thousands of miles away or sitting across the table, they all matter now.

As does the rise in cost of a can of Spam, something we can all agree on.

The brave amongst us will try to force a friendly dialogue, try to discuss the issues in a civil manner and make our friends see that common sense lies in our viewpoint and we should all be on the same page. After all, we are thinking people and no one who thinks would think that way. This effort will inevitably fail and more details surrounding the background of these opposing views will surface, revealing them to be even more deep-seated than previously known. At this point, the brave will give up and the shadow on your tan line will become a crack in the bedrock of the relationship.

Forgive, forget, move on. We do it after every election, every disagreement, every unattractive revelation, but moving forward and erasing memory are two different things (although, Ridiculous in the City vehemently supports the development of brain cell replacement technology). According to the National Institutes of Health, we may remember less quickly over time, “When you remember something, you pull up a file. Memory doesn't always work perfectly. As people grow older, it may take longer to retrieve those files,” but the memory remains in there somewhere.

Adding to our inability to erase disturbing facts from our minds is the three-headed monster that is social media. A comment here or there by an associate is one thing, but now we are all witness to the depth of their views in the most public of arenas. A showing of support for a particular candidate or a comment against an issue can surprise you and bring with it a rash of scathing reactions from friends and strangers alike. Misinformation is rampant in any election, but in the age of social media, facts get tossed around and distorted so completely that people come to believe manufactured truths, especially if those facts support their way of thinking.

That’s why I switched to diet soda. I love that it’s healthy for me.

Come April of 2017, you may have forgotten your colleague’s unfortunate comments about civil rights, you may even have had a few laughs in the months since the election, the swearing in and, yes, the Super Bowl, but you know something now. You know something that separates you, something more fundamental than what you look like or where you grew up or whether you are a Warren G fan. And try as you might, you can’t un-know that. You can’t un-learn that which you really wish you had never heard. It’s like seeing Britney Spears shave her head in a drugged-out rage all over again. You can’t block it, you can’t quite believe it and it still makes you cringe.

You will still work together, still celebrate holidays at the same table, still laugh at the same dumb jokes, but when someone asks you to describe your friend now, you’ll say, “Biff is a pretty good guy. He’s funny, loves the Denver Broncos… but he voted for Ross Perot.” And that will be that. Because you can know, and you can think you know, but once you really know, you can’t un-know.

Proof that even memory is ridiculous. Was there ever any doubt?

Ray-Bans, Ted Cruz and the Apocalypse: This is Happening.

Photo: inquisitr.com

If we needed a sign that the world was finally nearing its inevitable apocalyptic fate, it came this past weekend in the form of Ted Cruz wearing Ray-Bans at a Nevada rally. So absurd was this attempt at “cool guy” posturing that it sent shock waves through the hearts of dedicated Ray-Ban wearers across the globe.

The Ray-Ban, a symbol of hope and all that is right with the world that once adorned the faces of Audrey Hepburn, James Dean and John F. Kennedy, has long been an accessory that defined bona fide coolness. For almost eighty years, the brand that was born out of an attempt to protect Air Force pilots from the sun’s glare has been pioneering sunglass technology while introducing styles that would go on to become cultural icons.

The Aviator, the Wayfarer, and the Clubmaster (a.k.a., Ridiculous in the City’s early nineties obsession), are among a multitude of styles that have risen to the top of our cultural consciousness and given us the burning desire to wear our sunglasses at night. When we think of movies, we think of Ray-Bans, thanks to burned-into-our-brain films like Easy Rider, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, The Blues Brothers and Top Gun—a movie that was basically one giant pair of Aviators. When we think of rock and roll, we think of Ray-Bans, picturing Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones, The Ramones and the thousands of musicians who have come after them, all craving a little bit of the cool that lies behind those shades.

Those shades. Maybe that’s why seeing Ted Cruz sporting Wayfarers is such a comical affront, because the cool that lies behind our Ray-Bans isn’t forced, and it isn’t manufactured; it’s fundamental and unquestionable, just like our beloved Ray-Bans have come to be. At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter if you’re wearing a pair of $160 Ray Bans or the $10 knock-offs you bought on Astor Place (hey, we do what we have to). What matters is you put them on and you immediately looked like the cool customer you’ve always known you were.

As a cool customer, you know when you see someone who is most definitely not a cool customer. The lack of authenticity, the forced attempt at being the genuine article; it looks ridiculous, which is what Ted Cruz looked like up there on that stage wearing the Ray-Bans someone handed him to up his cool quotient. 

Correction: it looks ridiculous and it smells of Lysol and polyester.

Cruz's onetime opponent Rand Paul learned just how seriously Ray-Ban takes its cool. After appearing on the campaign trail in a pair of modern Ray-Bans—and looking slightly better than Cruz doing so—Paul's website began selling "Rand" branded knock-offs saying they were, "at the intersection of politics and cool." I'm guessing they were pretty lonely in that intersection. Ray-Ban's parent company, Luxottica, swiftly shut Paul down insisting, "Ray-Ban is not at all a political brand. We’re focused on making sunglasses that people love."

In recent years, Ray-Ban has rolled out their “Never Hide" campaign. Now there’s a campaign slogan (Jay-Z/Ridiculous in the City 2020!). In the spirit of never hiding, we Ray-Ban lovers will face this apocalypse head on. If Ted Cruz becomes the next president, I’m putting on my Wayfarers and boarding a raft bound for parts unknown. I may not know what life will be like when I get there, but I know I’ll have my Ray-Bans to shield my eyes from the burning apocalypse I left behind.

That and a roll of toilet paper can get me across an ocean. 

Mitch resented that he was always being portrayed with so many wrinkles. Extremely faithful to his skin care regimen, he longed to launch his own line of moisturizer, Creme de la Mitch.

Chelsea, NYC. 

Throwback Thursday: When this was all people were really up in arms about.

DUMBO, Brooklyn.