Let it Snow: Pictures of Snowy NYC Threaten to Overtake City Residents

Is Walt Disney under there?

Is Walt Disney under there?

Yes, it’s snowing again in New York City. Should you not be hip to that fact, a quick check of any social media site will quickly inform you of yet another onslaught of winter weather hitting NYC, and just what the inhabitants of our fair city are up to in the snow. Unlike pure news outlets, social media provides a stage for anyone and everyone to share. Share their experiences, share their thoughts, share their feelings (I just choked on my sandwich); share as much as they want, anytime they want, especially in picture form. This winter the experience we’ve all been sharing has been snow and, judging from the endless stream of snowy NYC photos, the city might not survive.

Which is still preferable to sharing our feelings.

When something is happening in New York City, the volume of shared images hits record numbers. But it’s not just when something is actually happening. NYC is a place that inspires tourists and residents alike to photograph to their hearts delight, providing scenery that is historic, architecturally significant and culturally rich, while producing street life that inspires and street art that can’t be ignored. As much in your face as it is silently inspiring, the New York City we all love speaks to us as a group and whispers to us, just us, as we move through our singular experience in the city. Wow, isn’t that what inspired Ridiculous in the City in the first place (wiping tear)?

With all of the technology in our pockets, who wouldn’t be moved to document their experience? A search of “#NYC” on Instagram yields a whopping 32.4 million images (as of March 5, 2015). To put that in context, “#losangeles” has roughly 8.9 million, “#Chicago” 14.7 million, and “#Dallas” 3.9 million (one cannot differentiate between photos of the city and J.R. Ewing images that make up that number, but both deserve their rightful place in #Dallas). Suffice it to say, people are crazy for pictures of New York City. “#Paris” is in NYC’s ballpark with 26.2 million photographs posted—blame it on the romance—but NYC’s numbers still leave it fronting atop the Instagram mountain.

As significant a force as NYC is on Instagram, “#snow” is even greater. With 38.4 million posts tagged “#snow” that makes for a virtual winter wonderland on Instagram. How will we ever dig out? Oh, you ridiculous pun. Incidentally, “#snowpocalypse,” which I was very fond of, has a measly 145,666 posts and the worshiped “#winterblows” a paltry 9,882. Given the huge numbers the subjects of NYC and snow put up, it’s no surprise that the combined power of a snowy New York City has people in a frigid frenzy.

In the past five minutes, roughly half of all Instagram posts for NYC were snow-related images. And from the looks of them, we are doomed. Cars buried, doorways blocked, fountains frozen over; babies wrapped up like jet propulsion packs, ice chunks floating in the East River—not in a fabulous, sexually charged Icelandic tourism ad campaign way, but in a grotesquely cold, buried alive by frozen water in little more than your underwear way. There are photos of trash lodged so far under snow that when spring comes, it will probably have composted itself and be sprouting avocados, or reveal a thawed Walt Disney. I am so ready for Walt to be thawed.

These are not pictures of kids making snow angels or laughing as they walk along a snowy path, these are pictures of a city being assaulted by winter weather. It looks so freaking cold and, I for one, am totally freaked out. Warning: Apocalypse right now. Who wouldn’t be based on these frozen tundra photos? Here I sit in the warm confines of Ridiculous in the City headquarters, god knows what will happen if I leave. If I can even leave. I knew I should have stocked up on Cup-O-Noodles. High sodium is my middle name.

By tomorrow the winter storm (Dear National Weather Service, Can we please put Winter Storm Ridiculous on the name list? Best regards, Ridiculous) and the snowy image frenzy will have passed, leaving people to post softly lit, snow-laced city blocks and pictures of the park with its snow covered trees hanging over walkways just so. We’ll remember the snow fondly, beautifully, remarking on how it dotted the streets like white pillows and say nothing of the sludge and frozen nose hair icicles that plagued our commute.

And then we’ll all go back to being our normal rate of obsessed with images of NYC.

But today, for one more glorious afternoon, we are living the onslaught of snow and pictures of snow, and pictures of people taking pictures of snow. Part of the problem not part of the solution, I continue ogling pictures of a snowy New York City and waiting for the next post.

Ridiculous in the Mile High City

"…intelligence can be eaten."

"…intelligence can be eaten."

Ladies and gentleman, there are many ridiculous things going on in Denver. And while the Mile High City’s ridiculousness may not be in the overt form that we see in our beloved New York City, Denver’s ridiculousness is found through experiences that are often so amazing they can only be described by one word: ridiculous.

When I speak of Denver’s ridiculousness I don’t mean the famous Colorado things you’ve heard about (legal weed, Bronco fever, epic mountain experiences, Mesa freaking Verde), I mean the lesser known events that come together to help form one ridiculous city visit. Of course, Bronco gear is always in style. On a recent Friday, I found myself in the Mile High City and wisely decided to give myself over to the wave of ridiculousness. Herewith, two experiences I wish you could have joined me for, but as usual, I was there for you. There to witness the ridiculous.

               "Ludicrous?" I think you mean ridiculous.

               "Ludicrous?" I think you mean ridiculous.

The world’s largest carved ruby. In all its ridiculous glory.

The world’s largest carved ruby. In all its ridiculous glory.

My main mission on a trip out West—and in life—is smothered burritos. But one must fill the limited time in between burrito consumption opportunities with something and this trip, epic ridiculousness was found at the Museum of Contemporary Art’s Mark Mothersbaugh: Myopic exhibit. The MCA has come a long way since its Sakura Square days and its prime downtown location coupled with a layout that lends itself perfectly to a one-artist show, especially one as prolific as Mothersbaugh, make this a perfect stop for those with limited time and short attention spans who want to see some ridiculous art. I could tell you how insane this show was, from Mothersbaugh’s formative college years to Devo and beyond—way, way beyond. I could tell you of the mutations, the rugs, the epic musical machines and the room of 30,000 postcards, but in true Ridiculous in the City fashion, I’ve provided a sampling of visual proof.

This is a rug. The man makes rugs. 

This is a rug. The man makes rugs. 

Sadly, Mothersbaugh’s time at the MCA is fleeting, but its ridiculous will live in infamy.

Now, it’s Friday night in Denver and somewhere someone is rocking. On this particular night, that rocking is taking place at the Gothic Theater and it’s safe to say I am totally unprepared for what I’m about to witness. Enter Itchy-O Marching Band. A 32-member assault of drums, guitars, synthesizers, dancers and various performers weaving through the crowd puts on a show that you literally can’t take your eyes off. 

The audience is absorbed into the wave of pounding sound so completely that when it’s over you feel sad, like the sickest thing you’ve ever seen in your life has gone away. It has. The Taiko drummers were the hottest things I’ve seen in a long time. Epically rocking ridiculousness at its best.

Dollar bills y'all.

Dollar bills y'all.

With the glow of Itchy-O upon me, I spill out onto the street and curse Denver for shutting down at 2 a.m. It’s off to bed with visions of Chinese dogs and air raid sirens dancing in my head. My last memory is a tip jar on the bar with the sticker “I heart vagina.”

A healthy dose of Mile High ridiculousness behind me, I return to NYC, but I wont soon forget what I’ve seen.

Self portrait with Devo.

Self portrait with Devo.

"It's an honor just to be nominated."

$5.99 suckas.

$5.99 suckas.

Igor had been practicing his speech in the mirror since he was six years old. An egotistical youth, he worried not about how his particular rise to fame would occur. The question of whether he might get discovered or if he actually possessed the talent necessary to propel him to stardom never entered his adolescent mind. He had only one thought: Oscar.

He spent years refining which tone of voice to use during each stage of the speech, emotional but stoic, strong but human. He worked endlessly on his facial expressions, refining every teary look, every touching smile—play to the camera, make the audience fall in love with you. He obsessed over which touchingly poignant stories to tell about childhood, his adoring family, his “journey” as an actor; which haircut to go with, which historic film references to insert that would make him sound like a star that was both thoughtful and profoundly respectful of his stardom. His stardom. Staying up way beyond his bed time to see who won, laying in bed buzzing with the afterglow of the glamour and spectacle that was Oscar, his young mind raced, imagining he’d wear Armani or Dolce and Gabbana—shawl collar, no vest. His lady would be in vintage YSL, of course.

Every inflection, every gesture, every movement, all practiced with precision and repetition.

He would be exceedingly humble on the red carpet, so humble he’d make headlines as “The Humblest Man in Hollywood,” a term he would later trademark. Arriving early, stopping to talk to the press, posing for a thousand flashbulbs, he would give the impression of a man trying in vein to take everything in. Polite, excited, honored by the nomination, overwhelmed by the attention, and deeply grateful to be in attendance with all the “amazing talent in the room.”

As he listened to his name being read alongside his fellow nominees, the camera would show him looking fresh faced with anticipation, giving a bit of a smile and slight eye roll to keep up the self-deprecation, masking his innate over-confidence. Glancing around he would see his “peers” nervous, smiling weakly with hope, gazing into the adoring eyes of their spouses who looked back at them with pride and admiration for the talent they possessed, as though this was the single greatest moment of their lives: being married to someone who was about to not win an Academy Award.

When the presenter fumbled with the envelope, cutting into his speech time with a pathetic attempt at witty banter, he would give a short laugh, which would be seen by the viewers at home as a welcome moment of tension relief. Please, take your time, you fucking total waste of space.

“And the Oscar goes to…” As his name was finally announced, he would sit motionless, expressionless for a moment, as though he hadn’t heard what was said, hadn’t heard the one goddamn thing he had been waiting to hear his entire life. “Oscar.”

Cueing his reaction he would begin to blink his eyes, looking around at his fellow cast members with shock and beginning to grin, selling it just so with an “aw shucks, me?” face. That’d hit em’ in Middle America where his box office numbers had sagged last summer. His girlfriend of the moment, a model/budding Indie star (who made a name for herself baring her toned torso and perfect breasts for the Axl Rose bio pic, Paradise Shitty) he had met while doing his time on Broadway—a “requisite” his manager had said for Oscar—would lean over and kiss him, hold for a second, then kiss him again, hinting at their steamy chemistry.

And then he would smile. Then he would fucking beam.

Standing up to raucous applause, for his was the performance of the year, he would start to make his way to the stage, stopping for two embraces: his co-star, whose heart wrenching performance had carried the entire movie (fickle Oscar hadn’t shined on her), and his director, a man who had been an insolent jerk-off everyday of filming, but whose “vision and storytelling” he would laud momentarily. Ascending the stage, he’d straighten his tie and smooth back the front of his hair, lest anything be out of place. He would hold himself back from yanking his statue out of the hand of the presenter, graciously giving her a kiss on the cheek before effortlessly taking it out of her hand, trying hard not to whisper something derogatory in her ear. And there he’d be. Him and Oscar.

His speech would begin with an adoring look at the statue, mouthing a quiet “thank you,” to the lingering applause. He’d pause for a few moments, appearing to take it all in, the glory of Oscar. Humble, thankful, lucky. Then, with a firm grip on Oscar, he’d begin. He would read from no notes, have no written remarks, nothing that would indicate he was expecting a win. Surprised, grateful, blessed. “I’d like to thank the Academy…,” he’d finally say, a given.

He would start with the director, the “epically talented writers who wrote an ingenious film,” his “lovely” co-star (now tearing up out of jealousy and regret for that fling they’d had on set that had ended in her fit of rage at his flirtations with her mousey assistant), the producers who “championed this movie from the beginning,” members of the crew who “worked their damn asses off every day.” A mild curse word always played well with the fans. Next would be his “team.” His team who couldn’t get him a decent part to save their lives three years ago. Now they’d be riding his coattails, signing the next big thing for a decade.

Next would be the girlfriend, with the requisite mention of deep affection despite the three month tenure of their relationship, “Baby, you bring out the best in me.’’ Then came his family. Mom first, winning the hearts of moms everywhere with his teary eyed, “You’re the greatest mom a kid could ever have.” Then his father, in heaven, “I love you, Dad. I wish you could see this… I know you’re with me tonight,” before segwaying into a story of the school play his parents had video taped, watching the video over and over, telling everyone how his teacher, Mrs. Alfie, told them he’d be a star. “Thank you, Mrs. Alfie. You taught me about life and told me there was nothing I couldn’t do.”

With his nearest, dearest and necessary out of the way, he’d move into the “I’m a film lover” section of the speech, “John Ford, Orson Welles, Cassavetes.” Inspiration. Genius. Film. He knew movies, he was cinema. Finally, he would pause, looking out into the sea of faces once more, gazing up to the rafters, preparing the audience for his final words, his piece of heartfelt wisdom to impart on them. He, Oscar winner, he would wow them, inspire countless generations to come, etch his name in Oscar history. His would become the speech.

“I just want to say one more thing. To all those kids out there watching tonight, thinking that they love movies, thinking that one day, they could be on this stage, here with all these talented filmmakers who give so much to the world… Don’t let anyone ever tell you can’t. Don’t let anyone stand in the way of your dreams. Trust yourself, trust the gifts that god gave you.” Good, way to work in a god reference. “Because you can do anything you put your mind to. Anything at all. Believe in yourself… (wipe tear) Thank you, good night.”

And then he would be done. He’d thrust Oscar into the air, give the crowd one last look at him, the star, the winner, the Academy Award winner. Then he would turn, pausing to collect the bitch presenter before exiting stage left with a slow, steady pace. Every fiber of his being just waiting for a moment alone with Oscar.

Oscar.

But somehow the night hadn’t turned out that way. Somewhere between the humble red carpet interviews and the envelope being read by that twit, he’d lost. Same stunned, motionless reaction, only in this version, no Oscar.

Standing in the living room of his Spanish colonial, four-bedroom with pool and adjoining guesthouse in the Hollywood Hills, he stared into the distance like a zombie version of himself. He’d lost. Worse, he’d lost to that lame sack, Tim Monty. Never trust a guy with two first names. A haze engulfed his memory after the moment his name was not announced, but this morning’s text messages indicated he had been very public in his displays of less-than-gracious losing at the after-parties. In fact, the evening had deteriorated into various horrific scenes—horrific for his ego and his reputation.

How could he have lost? He was a star. People were obsessed with him. He’d practically saved Africa single handedly with his movie idol smile and safari chic wardrobe while traveling with the UN. He had launched the careers of numerous directors, writers; everyone attached to him was golden. He’d gone through countless starlets. He had done Broadway. He had done fucking television. And now what? He wasn’t “Academy Award winner, Igor Boss.” He was “Academy Award nominee, Igor Boss.”

Moving towards the mantle, he lifted his hand and brushed a thin layer of dust off the spot where Oscar was to live. Beside him, his tuxedo jacket lay in a rumpled ball on the floor. Jesus Christ, what would Joan Rivers say?

Fuck it. He still had Octopus Apocalypse to shoot in Paraguay next month. And that indie shit in Serbia in July. He was a star. A star.

And it had been an honor just to be nominated.

Dear Tina Turner,

This Valentine’s Day, I’m thinking of you. To celebrate you, my special lady, I have composed a Valentine’s poem made up entirely of song titles from some of your greatest hits. Of course, Tina, you don’t need me to tell you that they’re some of your greatest hits—you know how boss you are. It’s entitled, Tina Tina Bobina.

 

Tina Tina Bobina -

Two People. Nutbush City Limits. We Don’t Need Another Hero. Typical Male.

Private Dancer. What’s Love Got To Do With It? Complicated Disaster. I Don’t Wanna Fight.

Look Me in the Heart. What You Get is What You See. It’s Only Love. Better Be Good To Me.

Proud Mary. Let’s Stay Together. Open Arms. The Best.

 

Today and everyday, Tina, I love you. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Love,

Ridiculous