Well, now you’ve stepped in it.

Two nights ago I stood hailing a cab. I was running late, cursing the obscene wind chill as it attacked my face like it was a frozen ham. I’d been standing there for nineteen minutes. If I don’t get this cab, I thought, I’ll die out here—when I’m cold, everything is all very Dr. Zhivago. As if from my brain to god’s ears, the driver swerved to the curb in front of me and stopped. I had won. I had gotten a cab. Warmth, mobility and reasonably safe, chauffeured service to my destination would be mine.

I kill.

The driver was nice enough. He made good time and we had some above adequate small talk. I threw in a disparaging comment about Taxi TV for good measure. It was dark out, making it hard to see anything inside the backseat of the cab’s black interior. I was strapped in my seat, but my feet slid around in the residual moisture that the weather seemed to have left on every floor surface in the city.

Reaching my destination, I paid the man, opened the door and stepped out. As I turned back to shut the door, I noticed mud smeared all over the floorboard underneath the seat I’d been sitting in. “Great,” I said, eyeing my shoes which were now caked in it.

I did the moonwalk and a spastic grapevine move for a few minutes, trying to coax as much mud off of the shoes as I could, but I was only pushing it farther into the leather body of the shoe. I picked up a piece of discarded paper (“trash” is so five non-eco friendly minutes ago) on the sidewalk and bent down to wipe some of the mud off of my feet. There was a lot more than I realized.

My shoes were covered in brown, looking like upside-down, chocolate frosted cupcakes. Bottoms, sides, toes, there was mud everywhere, and in the few steps I’d taken, it had transferred itself onto the hems of my jeans, making for what I prefer to think one could interpret as a very chic, brown ombre effect—if one was on crack. Using the discarded paper as a shield, I scooped a big chunk of it off of the sole of my left shoe. I was going to need a lot more discarded paper.

I glanced down at my watch. Wait… what was that smell?

I took a long sniff. Ugh. What was that? Moving closer down to get a better look at my stinky predicament*, something definitely smelled horrid. At this point it wouldn’t have taken a rocket scientist to figure it out, but I sure could have used one, along with a rocket to blast me out of those goddamn shoes. It wasn’t mud as I had naively assumed, it was shit.

It was literally shit. Poop that had been lying in wait for me in the back of the cab, the cab that had “saved” me from the harsh environs of fourteen minutes ago. Now what was harsh?

It’s when the answer is staring you in the face that it’s the most ridiculous.

Seriously? What the hell was I going to do? I stood there, feet caked in shit, well over fifteen minutes late to my destination, no way to remedy my huge problem and the smell—the smell was horrendous.

What could I do? I couldn’t go home, there was no time. I didn’t have spare shoes in my bag. I had no viable options. None. It was shit. I was pooped. Turd City Motel, single room please.

I stood there for a few moments thinking (read: marinating in shit), scraping my feet on the sidewalk a few more times, but it was no use. I had to get moving. There was bound to be a bathroom inside. I could get creative with some paper towels. Or something.

And so I appeared. From the ankle up, I was my usual, shining self (shining has many forms). From the ankle down, I was stench walking. Luckily, the place was dimly lit and reasonably packed, all the better to hide my stinky look. Seeing my party, I approached, waving hello in the hopes of warding off a round of hug and kiss hellos—which I am always trying to escape. My plan was to order a drink and head to the bathroom. Nothing like drinking alone in the toilet.

The plan was going well until about five minutes in. I was mid-order when I heard, “Something stinks.” This prompted a chorus of deep inhales, the result of which was a series of facial expressions I hope never to see again. Suddenly, they were looking at me, the recent arrival, the likely genesis of said stank.

The time had come. I had to say something, own up to being the stinker. “I got dog shit on my shoes,” I muttered like I’d never muttered before.

The next set of reactions came in waves of slow motion, as if I had just revealed a horrendous facelift, an ugly baby, a tattoo from a toxic relationship that everyone knew was already over; only it was worse, worse than an ugly baby with a bad facelift and a flaming heart tattoo, because they were also totally grossed out. And I was grossed out.

I looked down at my shoes. They were so unhappy. I was right, they were cupcakes. They were sad, once-frosted cupcakes that had been brutally knocked off a festive dessert party tray. Now, no one would want them. No one ever wanted an unfrosted cupcake.

And then someone said, “If it was even a dog. I mean, who knows?” Oh, god.

Collecting my drink and what was left of my pride, which was not much, I waddled to the bathroom. Smaller steps seemed wise.

Stepping in shit is never good. Typically, it’s a rare event (don’t even), not unlike the perils of stepping in gum or having a bird take a fly-by crap on you—I know, that’s “good luck.” Well, Jesus, I’m due. But stepping in poop carries with it the added bonus of a smell you just can’t shake, no matter what you try to MacGyver in the bathroom of a public place with a wad of damp paper towels. And being blindsided by it in the back of one of my beloved New York City cabs, not even having a chance to see it on the street and avoid it, that’s what really stunk.

Now I was the sad, unfrosted cupcake who had been brutally knocked off of a festive dessert party tray.

*Add another one to my list of potential band names.

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.

"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.