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 12th century when people first adopted the use of popular phrases to meet their needs. The word wretched meant “awesome” and the word shrew was a categorical “hell no.”

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

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

Jockstraps and crushing on fools, I see the parallels.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is decidedly so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will I win the lottery this weekend?”

“Should I cut my hair?”

“Does Michael Bloomberg still care about me?”

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

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

*Figures grossly over-inflated.

Of Vivid Dreams and Ridiculousness

I am at a party. The monstrous house is full of people, drinking and laughing, all seemingly enjoying the festive atmosphere. I make my way into the living room and I spot my mom in the corner. She is surrounded by a group a women with a very “ladies who lunch” look to them; gold buttoned pantsuits, perfectly coiffed hair, pastels. The room is getting more and more packed. I look around for the bar, feeling intensely thirsty all of the sudden.

As my eyes dart around I begin to see that everyone in the room looks a bit like Hillary Clinton. No, they look exactly like Hillary Clinton. It’s as if Hillary’s face has been supplanted on every person in the room. Were they all like this when I walked in?

I glance back at my mom. Now, she too looks like Hillary. What happened to her face?  She sees me and starts waving me over. The room is getting thick with Hillarys and I’m having trouble getting over to my mom. I’m becoming fearful, not of the Hillarys—for I know they would never hurt me and only want to cradle me in a warm, Democratic embrace—but that my mom’s face may not go back to the way it was. Above the crowd I hear her yell to me, “Honey, honey, come show us your face.” A rush of hot panic hits me. I raise my hand to my face. It feels fine. I glance in a nearby window. To my horror, I see Hillary staring back at me. I touch my face again. It’s not a mask, it’s flesh. What’s happening? I look back at my mom. She’s still waving to me with a huge smile on her alien Hillary visage. I have to get out of here.

Outside, the cool air feels good on my face. My face. I think about going back in for my mom, but as I turn back to the house, the Hillarys are crowded in the window, watching me. There are hundreds of them now. I start running. I’m making my way through a vast clearing and into the woods. I’m running so fast that the trees are flying by me as if I’m in a speeding car. But there’s no one chasing me. The trees are so tall that the night sky is almost entirely blocked out. I want to touch my face, but I keep running.

I come to the top of a hill and I stop. Daylight is breaking. Down below in the valley I see a platform next to a single train track in the grass. I run towards it. It’s farther away than it appears. A train is coming. I have to get on it. I run faster. The train pulls in and stops just as I approach the platform. I look up and see my Dad. Thank god. I throw my arms around him. He is happy to see me, but somehow not surprised that we are meeting on a random train platform in the middle of the woods that I have been feverously racing to get to and I may or may not look like Hillary Clinton. I try to catch my breath.

“We’ve got to go,” he says to me.

Looking down, I see I’m not wearing any shoes. “But, I forgot my flips,” I say.

Pulling away from our hug, he puts his hand on my shoulder and whispers, “Perhaps you should have been more prepared, honey.”