“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?

The only thing more ridiculous than not voting is walking around posing your “I Voted” sticker in front of New York City’s finest landmarks.

As you can see, only one of those things is actually acceptable.

West Village, NYC.