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.

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.

Unprepared for Christmas? But of course.

He’s ready. Are you?

Why is it that every year Christmas seems to come out of nowhere? It’s embedded in your calendar. You know that it happens every year, on the same day, just like it always has. It goes on all over the planet and, let’s be honest, it’s been screaming for your attention since July, yelling louder than any other freaking holiday known to man.

Yet somehow, come the 20th of December, I always feel like I’m getting kicked in the ass by Santa once again.

Am I unprepared for Christmas? Yes. Or, as my beloved Magic 8 Ball would say, “It is decidedly so.” With roughly five days until Christmas Eve, I have left every shred of holiday preparation undone. Nothing succeeds like procrastination and no one profits from our lack of holiday readiness like the retail giants that are there to inhale every dollar you can throw at your glorious tardiness. In fact, retailers are now banking on people like me (if they only knew…), targeting last minute consumers by hyping up their speedy shipping methods, inventing last minute sales strategies and doing everything they can to ensure two things: you get your holiday packages on time, and you spend your hard earned desperation cash with them.

This weekend will bring what is now being called, “Panic Saturday.” No, sadly it doesn’t refer to the hazy Widespread shows of yesteryear, but the last Saturday before Christmas when the present buying “panic” is in full bloom. British retailers alone are estimating that the hoards of crazed last minute consumers will spend 2.1 million pounds per minute tomorrow (right about now, I’d say something like, “Imagine the impact that 2.1 million pounds a minute could have on the world,” but it’s a subject so obscene, and the moral deficit so vast, I can’t begin to touch it with my ridiculousness.). That figure alone is panic inducing. According to retailmenot.com, fifty-six percent of shoppers will still be hitting the stores in the coming days and 1 in 5 people haven’t even begun to shop. So, not only am I not alone, I will be greatly out numbered this weekend and I’m guessing they’ll all be carrying some stinky holiday spiced latte to add a festive smell to my sensory experience of being one with humanity.

Amazon, Wal-Mart, Macy’s; judging from their advertisements, they all seem to be willing to lay down in the street and let me roll right over them in the taxi cab I’ll be rushing around in trying to find the ridiculous holiday odds and ends I can’t get shipped to me—Frankincense, Mirth, mistletoe-tinis—so long as they get my business. And why not, they’ve been at this since September. Retailers now begin saturating the market with Christmas décor, holiday products and theme sales so early that, by the week before Christmas, those of us who still don’t have our shit together might as well have a target on our backs. Which, incidentally, is Target’s wet dream.  

Perhaps therein lies the source of my holiday unpreparedness. I begin to mentally zone out as soon as I see the first packages of tinsel and holiday cards on the shelves at the drugstore after Labor Day, the weather not even remotely cold, the leaves on the trees still mostly green, my attitude as ridiculous as ever. By the time the Christmas music starts penetrating the pores of every location in the city—before the Thanksgiving bird is even out of the oven I might add—I’m numb to it. And I remain numb to it like a lamb to the retail slaughter, wandering the streets in a haze of Christmas ignorance (or is it bliss?) for several months, able to pretty much totally block the rising tide of holiday cheer right up until just about now, when it hits me. Oh shit, next week is Christmas.

The retailers of the world and their multi-million dollar advertising machines know their customers. They have me pegged every February 13, July 3rd, October 30th and day before Thanksgiving when I exhibit the same need to throw money into the black hole of last minute holiday preparation that I do before Christmas, only on a much more ridiculous level. Dollar bills, y’all. Dollar, dollar bills. The retail giants start early and don’t let up because they know they’ll get us in the end.

Yes, when push comes to shove, I’m lying in the gutter obsessively tracking packages on my phone with nothing to cling to but my festive, nondenominational wrapping paper. But guess who forgot to buy tape?

Sorry, I didn’t have time to wrap your present, Jesus. It’s a Chia Pet. 

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.

Everybody loves Depeche Mode.

West Village, NYC.

“Dude, it’s so ducking annoying.”

— Another dispatch from Ridiculous in Auto Correct.

The full extent of the intended emotion was somehow lost on spell check.

"I think I've got it."

For 189 days straight, Francis had not wanted to get out of bed. In actuality, Francis had not really wanted to get out of bed for 12,774 days. She assumed that as a child she’d likely never wanted to get up and was repeatedly forced out of a peaceful slumber by her parents (and other powers that be) from the day she was born. Given that tomorrow was her 35^th birthday, it would bring the grand total of mornings she had miserably greeted the day to a nice round 12,775. Francis was never an optimist.

But it came in waves. The current ebb had begun 190 days ago when she’d experienced a brief brush with enthusiasm stemming from the promise of a callback for an off-Broadway revival of Our Town. She awoke that morning, on day 12,584, in her usual tired, irritated state, but pushed herself to get out of bed, certain the good news she had been pining for was on its way. As she methodically brushed her teeth, A Chorus Line’s “I Hope I Get It” played on repeat in her head. “God, I think I’ve got it. I think I’ve got it.”

Seven hours, four cups of coffee and half a pack of cigarettes later, Francis had not gotten the coveted callback. Apparently, the “our” in Our Town did not include her.

The very next morning, on day 12,585, Francis once again began the day in a bad mood. One that was certain to last at least through tomorrow.

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.

“I heart astroturd.”

— Another dispatch from Ridiculous in Auto-Correct.

Never before has astroturf launched such ridiculous speculation.

Life for Dummies

Dolly needed a vacation. The phrase, “I need a vacation,” is uttered by millions of people each day, each one firmly believing that they need a vacation, a break from the routine of their daily lives, a change of scenery to interrupt the vague monotony of their existence, but the word “need” has varying degrees of truth. In Dolly’s case, she really needed a vacation.

Dolly looked terrible. Pale, underweight, tired; dark circles below her eyes so large they could harbor fugitives for weeks at a time. She was physically exhausted. Passing by her desk, co-workers often commented she looked like she was going to, “face plant right into the computer.” The computer. Dolly sat in front of the computer for hours at a time, motionless except for the movement in her fingers as they typed along. She could have been doing her assigned tasks or writing the Communist Manifesto 3.0, she barely knew the difference at this point. Although Dolly had never been very political, save for the “New Yorkers for a Green Tomorrow” rally she had attended in 1997 clad in purple Birkenstocks and a homemade tie dye dress she’d ruined a lobster pot making.

Her mind was spent. So much so that she had no thoughts beyond those that got her from point A to point B. The only thinking that took place was that which was essential to her going through the motions. Her brain read like the table of contents from Life for Dummies:

I. Wake up

II. Turn off alarm clock

III. Sit up

IV. Walk to bathroom

V. Turn on light

VI. Look in mirror

VII. Frown

VIII. Turn on shower to get water hot

IX. Lift up nightgown

X. Sit on toilet

XI. Try not to fall back asleep while waiting for bowel movement

XII. Poop

Another day in the life of Dolly.

“What are you Doug?!”

— Another dispatch from Ridiculous in Auto-Correct.

Intended as a friendly “What are you doing?" the text subsequently sent the recipient into an existential tale spin.

I mean, “What are you… Doug?!”

Reasons to just ridiculously love New York City: Sidewalk doo wop.

Soho, NYC

A Charter Member of the Joan Collins Fan Club

Levon never liked is name. Being born to an Elton John enthusiast was not quite all it was seemingly cracked up to be. Still, he accepted his lot in life, occasionally self-medicating with reruns of Dynasty and coffee flavored Haagen-Dazs—his default brand of choice due to a childhood umlaut obsession.

Levon wondered what life might have been like as a Jeff or an Edgar, maybe a Mitch or a Brett. Okay, not a Brett. Would he have been a distinguished Richard or a charming Dashell? Perhaps he might have made a sexy Serge or an astutely intelligent Arthur, but Levon would never know.

What he did know was a life of being chastised for his name, endless taunts from other kids calling him “Left on” as if it was the funniest thing they’d ever said. So funny Levon forgot to laugh.

One absurdly sunny day in early July, Levon received a call from the office of Mr. James Pinkerton, Esq. Mr. Pinkerton was looking for someone by the name of Levon, someone who would be the beneficiary of a large estate from a distant relative in Topeka, Kansas.

“Yes, I’m Levon,” Levon said, recognizing the need for a direct answer.

“Levon, my boy, I can’t tell you how great it is to hear that,” Mr. Pinkerton replied.

And it was great to hear that. For once, Levon was happy to be a Levon. A Levon who was also a charter member of the Joan Collins fan club.

They say a rolling stone gathers no moss. Obviously, the same cannot be said for a rolling log in New York City.

Chelsea, NYC.

After months of soul searching, Betty decided it was time to turn to hypnosis. If it worked out, she’d finally kick her late night Gouda binges and be fluent in German. If it didn’t, she’d only be out three installments of $19.95.

West Village, NYC.