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.