Top 3 Reasons St. Patrick’s Day is our Most Ridiculous Holiday

1.     It is a holiday largely celebrated by drinking. March 17th is the feast day of St. Patrick, Patron saint of Ireland. March 17th is also the middle day of spring and St. Patrick himself promised better weather from that day forward. Taking their cue from him, the farmers would busy themselves planting the potato crop in the days before so as to be ready for maximum merriment when the feast day arrived. St. Patrick’s Day came to represent a break from the self-denials of Lent, a day when all fasting and holding back was thrown out the window. When mass was over the men headed to the pub to drink “Pota Pádraig,” Patrick’s Cup, before heading home to feast on what we can safely assume was something that included potatoes. The celebrating continued into the evening when, at last, the shamrock you’d been wearing that day was placed in the bottom of your last drink and a prayer was said as it was thrown over your left shoulder.

Flying whiskey-soaked shamrocks, always a threat.

These days, we would be lucky to get a prayer anywhere near the severe inebriation that takes place on St. Patrick’s Day. Here in New York City, people are decked out in their best green finery during the morning commute and the evidence of what came next liters the sidewalks the next morning. Lunchtime is a maze of people spilling out of local bars, as if it is their duty to St. Patrick to take part in a midday booze fest. Of course, with the parade blocking off half the city, what are they to do but sit and drink? Read maybe? At one time, bars in Ireland were actually closed in honor of St. Patrick, but with modern society focused on making money, beer companies and commercial enterprises alike saw fit to market the hell out of St. Patrick’s Day and thus, a drinking holiday was born.

2.     “Erin go Braless.” Erin go Bragh is a fine Irish phrase meaning, “Ireland Forever.” Dating back to the mid 1800s, Erin go Bragh has been used by groups of citizens, political parties, unions and sports teams to pledge their true allegiance to Ireland.

Like Irish Friday Night Lights, only better.

And like any epic phrase, it comes as no surprise that the more ridiculous of us have ripped it off into something absurd and a little risqué. There was no credible information available on the origin of “Erin go Braless,” but one need only visualize a braless, drunken reveler, possibly clad in an Erin go Braless t-shirt, to absorb the full weight of why this bastardization is so totally ridiculous. However, considering that roughly eighty percent of women are wearing the wrong bra size, perhaps we should just give up altogether.

3.     Gang green. The tradition of decking yourself out in green on St. Patrick’s Day is said to originate from St. Patrick’s love of shamrocks. Prevalent in Ireland, he often referred to their representation of the Holy Trinity: the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit—or, in Ridiculous in the City Terms: Tina Turner, George Michael and Barack Obama. Tina, George, Barry and Oprah if it’s a four-leaf clover. Because of this, the Irish began wearing shamrocks on St. Patrick’s Day, representing him with a little bit of green. The tradition grew into what can now be referred to as green fever, with everyone and their mom sporting green on March 17th, not just the Irish among us.

Hats, clothing, fake green beards, crowns, green Mardi Gras beads; green fever effectively takes over the city on this fair day and it is nothing if not ridiculous. But then, St. Patrick’s Day is for celebrating and I suspect St. Patrick, a man who was enslaved until his twenties, would want us to accept the enthusiasm and dedication these green wearers put out into the universe.

Yes, “Accept gang green, lose the bra, have a few drinks and eat a potato, my child,” he would say. Because tomorrow it’s back to the austerity measures of Lent for all of us. That’s why you’re celebrating right?

Good god, it's only 8 a.m.

Ridiculous in the City understands few things more implicitly than the fact that advertising makes the world go round, but no one needs to see this in their face when they open Instagram on Monday morning. Or do they? One of the morning’s “top posts” for #NYC, it’s a testament to the half-comatose, ridiculous mood we all start the week in. Yes, we do need a laugh, just spare me the close up booty detail.

Perhaps the one element that truly elevates this is the emphasis on this particular Brazilian Butt Lift being yours for “Only $6 per day.” Because in New York City, we even get a deal on our butts.

Happy Monday to all the butts out there. Flat, round, double-wide, boney, ridiculous; it is you who allows to get through the week by the seat of our pants.

“I’ll send an SOS to the world.” Sort of.

Occasionally, Ridiculous in the City waxes emotional. Today is apparently one of those days so get your ultra-soft facial tissue out.*

As a rule, I try to be open messages from the universe (“Are you there God? It’s me, Ridiculous.”). I generally have very few rules, so take that for what it’s worth. I attempt to receive whatever small kernel of knowledge or information may be lurking out there in the various forms it takes on—Magic 8 Balls, fortune cookies, horoscopes—hoping for some insight or a signal that maybe, just maybe, I am getting it. What “it” is however, is often subject to ridiculous interpretation.

Many times a message can come in the form of a found object. We’ve all found things here and there that may or may not have been transmissions from the cosmos: that penny from the year of your birth you just picked up is a message; “Funky Cold Medina” coming on at the exact moment you walk into the bar is not. Similarly, that ripped Steely Dan “Aja” t-shirt laying in the gutter is not a sign of anything but the years slowly being reeled in (and to think I thought I’d never achieve a Steely Dan pun). Occasionally though, you find something, or something finds you, at a key time in your life when you need a little shout-out from the universe to let you know it’s all okay, that you’re not alone, not totally losing your mind—just enough of it to be still be conscious.

In discussing the subject of found objects recently, I was reminded of perhaps my most clearly-a-message-for-ridiculous-me finding. It happened purely by accident, years ago, but I remember it so vividly it’s like I took a photograph of that exact moment. If only I had. There I was, haggard and out of it (as usual), slowly climbing the steps out of the West Fourth Street subway station on a lackluster night after a crappy day in the middle of another frozen winter month, heading home to be in a horrendous mood for the next nine hours until I had to be back at work. Yeah life! I looked down and saw a scrap of yellow out of the corner of my eye. I kept moving robotically, but as I continued to walk up the stairs, buried in the herd of people around me, something pulled me back. Something stopped me, turned me around and walked me back down the stairs.

When I got to the bottom I located the yellow object. Gazing down at what turned out to be a small yellow sticky note, I saw something scrawled across it. I crouched down to get a better look. On the note was written one word: my name.

My name? I stood there staring at the note, briefly glancing around to see if it was a prank (but like, who would bother...?). It was no prank; it was an actual piece of paper with actual writing on it that actually said my name, and nothing else. My name!

As the note began to sink in, I smiled. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed a sign like this. Something that said, “you’re okay, we’re with you, keep going.” There I was: having an emotional event with a post-it note in the bowels of the subway. It was heartwarming, and exceedingly ridiculous. Looking down at the note once more, I nodded my head in acknowledgement. I thought briefly about picking the note up and taking it with me, but I realized that it was better left there, where maybe someone else could take something from it or where perhaps it would serve as a symbol that I was going to keep going, keep moving forward, not let the bastards grind me down.

I could win the war, smack some fools, persevere; kick ass and take names. I could break out of my rut of shitty day after shitty day. Start fresh with renewed enthusiasm. I was awesome. I was a winner. The post-it note had told me so.

After our touching moment together I moved along, shuffling up the stairs amongst the herd, feeling bathed in the glow of my message from the universe. When I reached street level I took a breath. The air smelled faintly of pizza and trash, and Nag Champa.

Yes, I was moving forward. I would live to fight another day. So too would the other eight million people in New York City, the ones who hadn’t received a message of affirmation on a post-it note.

There is surely some ridiculousness in interpreting messages from things that are merely random, everyday occurrences, but sometimes those messages come at the moment you need them most. Besides, if we don't have our ridiculousness, what do we have?

Oh right, Steely Dan puns.

 

*I will not be mentioning Kleenex by name until I receive my sponsorship check. Take that, Kimberly-Clark.

 

Spring has sprung... a leak in your brain.

 

With an end to winter’s brutal smack in the face finally upon us, residents of New York City greeted the first solid weeks of warmer temperatures with enthusiasm for a much-needed wardrobe change and hope, as ever, for a sunny disposition. Yes, the hills are alive with the sound of chirping birds, fire escape gardening and ridiculousness, the way every spring should be.

Maybe it’s the fact that winter took its sweet time packing its bags this year—which is odd considering all it had was a duffle stuffed with long underwear and a fake Triple F.A.T. Goose parka—or maybe the lone, lingering effect of six-months of sub-arctic chill is, in fact, one giant brain freeze, but this year, it is achingly apparent that humanity’s enthusiasm for friendlier temperatures is being joined by an over-zealous desire to not simply transition into warmer weather clothing, but dive head first off the cliff with as little covering our bodies as possible. Public Service Announcement: G-strings and frozen glaciers don't mix. Yes, we can all agree that an end to the obscene, ten-minute, coat-scarf-hat-gloves-boots-shit, I forgot something-wait, I have to go to the bathroom-now I'm hot performance we’ve been starring in since October can’t come soon enough. But with temperatures in the high-60s one day and the low-50s the next, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

In any season there are always those that hit the town South Beach style, without a care or a coat, shivering away on the sidewalk, waiting in line to get into a club and groove their way to warmth, looking pretty cold and pretty ridiculous, all to spare themselves the pain of not ruining their “look.” And we all remember that irritating guy in college who wore flip-flops and a t-shirt no matter what the weather, channeling the earthy hippie he strived to be (something tells me that these days on college campuses that translates to channeling the Steve Jobs portrayed so ridiculously by Ashton Kutcher. My eyes are still burning.). That guy looked like an idiot then and is probably still looking like a bona fide idiot to this very day. But I’m not talking about him or the wanna-be Miami Sound Machine back up dancers, I’m talking about the generally wise-minded citizens of NYC that are going above and beyond merely switching to a lighter coat, and going straight to mini skirts and shorts. Public Service Announcement: Not everyone is beach ready.

Now I believe, as a human and a citizen of a free society, in the right to bare arms and bare legs, but is it really wise to be breaking out your gams with the temperatures still teetering on the brink of chilly? Are you not, as my grandmother would say, “asking to get a cold,” by going so scantily clad, exhibiting a lack of judgment in the first weeks of spring that indicates you learned nothing during your long period of frigid winter hibernation? Perish the thought. There must be some data to support underdressing as well, ridiculous.

According to the facts of modern medicine, you do not actually catch a cold from being cold, “at least not directly.” Thanks WebMD, for leaving a sliver of gray area there. You catch a cold, and worse the flu, primarily from not washing your hands. And so I must wash my hands of this debunked myth (but not of that amazing pun). Don’t tell my grandmother.

What then is the real risk of not having enough layers on when the weather is cold? Is there one? I don’t mean frozen, death-inducing temperatures here so obvious threats aside, is there scientific research supporting the decision to not wear sufficient clothing in nippy weather as being totally asinine? Or do you merely run the risk of looking like an idiot?

Some of us run that risk every day.

Weighing in on this heady subject, the CDC points out that a number of cold weather related injuries and conditions can occur when it is “as warm as 60 degrees.” Those include chilblains, trench foot and even hypothermia. The CDC goes on to say, “Mild hypothermia can make you feel confused, and you may not think anything is wrong until it is too late.” Um, kind of like not wearing enough clothes. “Being too cold can also cloud your judgment and cause you to make mistakes while you work, and mistakes can sometimes be deadly.”

That’s right. The right to bare arms equals death.

Well, there you have it. Though science contends you will not catch a cold by going without proper layers in borderline cold temperatures, you may end up dead. Or, as the Miami Sound Machine would say, “un tonto muerto.” Okay, I’m dramatizing a bit for production value, but making an inadequate clothing choice could propel you towards more serious conditions and it is important to know that covering yourself up intelligently as those projections for weather in the high-50s turn into days in the mid-40s might safeguard your health.

It might also leave you looking less ridiculous in the long run, something your fellow citizens would really appreciate. You may recognize us, we’re the ones with the scarves around our necks and the socks on our feet. 

 

Tourism: It's Happening.

Fat tourists go home. Venice, Italy

Fat tourists go home. Venice, Italy

It’s easy to hate on tourists. It’s not only easy, it’s amusing, entertaining, a sociological study of absurd ridiculousness at its finest. Because at the core of this disdain is one scorching truth: tourists are irritating. They’re lost, they’re in the way, they’re wandering around taking pictures of everything in sight; crowding the streets, the trains, and just about every corner of the city as their dollar bills and high enthusiasm keep the “I love NY” t-shirt industry in business.

Evidenced by the fact that they are immediately wearing the newly purchased t-shirt.

Tourists come in all shapes and sizes; solo travelers, gangs of tour groups, families with so many factions they’re not even sure whether they are down a man until they get back to their hotel. They wear black socks and sandals, they have cameras that rival the finest paparazzi models strapped to their chests, they’re asking you for directions and yet, somehow, still not getting it. They want to find the “in” restaurant, the hip club, the Cronut; seek out Carrie’s house from Sex and the City, have a Manhattan in Manhattan, ride the subway—ah, the glamour and mystique of the subway—stopping just long enough to photograph every moment of their journey and plaster those precious moments on social media (#bigpimpinNYC). And now, thanks to the entrepreneurial determination of modern invention, they are equipped with selfie sticks, the ultimate tourist accessory.

But for as much annoyance as tourists bring they can also be easily avoided. Don’t go to the “Knockoff Riviera” (a.k.a., Canal Street), stay out of Times Square, hold yourself back from a pilgrimage to Strawberry Fields and try to squelch the urge to ascend the Empire State Building on the Friday before Fourth of July weekend. It’s not brain surgery, you know where the vast majority of the crowds are headed.

According to nycgo.com, New York City had roughly 54.3 million visitors in 2013 that spent an estimated $38.8 billion dollars. That’s revenue the city uses to improve itself for everyone’s benefit, residents and tourists alike. So maybe it's time to put that haterade on ice.

More adventurous tourists seek out The Highline, obsess over Eataly, go to The Met or walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. They will stop at nothing to have Chinatown’s best dumplings, hit Russ and Daughters for some "appetizing," achieve cool in Williamsburg’s most hipster Airbnb and get drunk in a former speakeasy that serves drinks in teacups. Even the most jaded of us can relate to at least one of those desires on some level.

In case you’re wondering, I’m in the speakeasy.

We can all relate because the reality is we are all tourists somewhere. As much as we hate on tourists running around desperate to inhale every New York City experience they can, we’ve all been there. At some point we were all that tourist at the Eiffel Tower, the Grand Canyon, St. Mark’s Square, the Great Wall, the Alamo, Avanos Hair Museum; trying our best to get the perfect shot—the picture—and freeze frame that memory for all time. Okay, you were a little chubby then and your hair was abysmal from the obscene humidity that day, but you were there and you totally rocked that town, the picture says it all.

And after your killer photo session you wanted to hit the streets, find the best “non touristy” restaurant, discover the greatest neighborhood boutique, stumble upon the underbelly of the local live music scene, immerse yourself in the would-be East Village of Bangkok or Bucharest or Buenos Aires or Belarus or Boise (yeah, blue Astro Turf). Hey, why the hell not? Have a Chicago dog, find the essential Philly cheesesteak, go to a real Hawaiian luau, be like Yanni and rock the Acropolis. It’s all possible. It’s your vacation, your chance to spend your hard earned money to live like the locals for a few days and see the sites. Go ahead, take it in, that's all the tourists infesting your town want to do.

We all know how much New Yorkers love an infestation.

And let’s not forget about our own humble tourist beginnings in our beloved New York City. Once upon a time you were that kid on your first sweaty visit to NYC being dragged around by your parents to every tourist attraction they could squeeze in before you hit the inevitable crabby, late afternoon wall and had to be revived with a hot pretzel and a smack in the face (sweet memories of youth). But how you remembered the energy of the city and longed to be in its clutches, making it there just like Frank and Carrie and the Donald. Now look at you, you’re all grown up and a bona fide New Yorker. Damn you look good.

So, the next time we nay say the tourists clogging the oversized pores of our beloved city, let us remember that we are all tourists, in travel and in life (and often in our own homes, our careers, the juice bar, spin class, the topless club in Tribeca you’ve never been to...). We’ve all been just as annoying to someone as they are to us, and someone has made just as many jokes at our expense as we have at theirs.

It’s that kind of quid pro-quo ridiculousness that makes the world go around.

I love you, EV.

Yesterday’s blaze in the East Village left an entire corner decimated, numerous people injured, several missing, and businesses and apartments destroyed in a scene that was exceedingly scary to witness. Scary because any disaster that fills the skies over downtown New York City with thick black smoke conjures images of another horrific day, and scary because it took a while to understand the full extent of what was happening. People walking around, confused looks on their faces, breathing in the hazy, ashy air as it filled the cavernous blocks that stretch uptown; straining their necks to see downtown and up, the smoke blurring out anything in view more than two blocks away.

The Empire State Building, which is somehow always with us, was no longer visible to the north. Freedom Tower, which rose from the ashes of the greatest tragedy NYC has ever seen to literally tower over downtown, obscured by the smoke which has washed everything in a dingy gray, the color of smoked cigarettes butts floating in water.

Closer to the blaze, the result of an explosion caused by work to a gas main, people stood in droves, inching their way as close as they could get towards the blocks that neighbor 2nd Avenue and East 7th Street. The police had the area on lockdown, trying to prevent unnecessary bystanders from entering. What seemed like hundreds of fire trucks filled the streets. 

FDNY kicking ass.

FDNY kicking ass.

You could see multiple ladders of firemen high above the blaze, aiming their hoses at the inferno. The FDNY was indeed all over it, as they have been so many times before and will be so many times again. People stared up, covering their mouths in shock, some cried, some leaned against buildings like they couldn’t stand on their own. Sirens whaled continually in the distance as if on a timer. Phones were thrust into the air, the effort to snap the perfect picture of the blaze in full swing. Surgical masks began popping up on passersby. It was a now a situation. 

In front of me, a man was explaining what happened to two younger guys in blazers and backpacks, conspiracy theory already in action. “A man went into the bathroom of the sushi place. A few seconds later he ran out. The explosion happened literally two minutes later… I saw the lady from the sushi place trying to tell someone on the street, but the cops snatched her up quick. They don’t want that out, don’t want her talking to anybody.” God love the East Village.

Yes, it was scary to see the raging fire, scary to see the destruction, scary to be reminded of disasters past, and have a window on those yet to come. It was scary to think about the people who had lost their homes, their businesses and worse, possibly their lives. It was sad to see neighborhood landmark, Pommes Frites, reduced to rubble. But the scariest part was watching the devastation happening to my beloved East Village.

The minute I understood what was going on and where it was going down, I felt a pang in my stomach. I was worried, uneasy, saddened by the loss that had not yet fully occurred. Just knowing the East Village was being threatened was an affront. I love the East Village like I love my parents, my first love, Depeche Mode, my childhood dogs—deep in my bones. My whole self: mind, body, pores, ridiculousness is at total peace in the East Village. There’s something about the feel of it. The air changes in the slightest way as you cross Astor place or slip below 14th Street. It feels good, like you’re breathing in relaxed positivity and exhaling your best self, a self who just happens to be exceedingly awesome and absurdly at home in their own skin.

The energy of the East Village, the Easy Village, the EV, the 10003, is alive. Alive in a comfortable, laid back way that is electric and energizing, but not in your face or irritating. Tompkins Square Park, St. Marks, Avenue B, the little community gardens, Odessa Café, it’s a place where life feels hyper tangible, where you can observe anything and anyone at anytime on a given day. Fifteen minutes on a bench in Tompkins Square will change your outlook and maybe your life. Beware the sketchy dog run though. 

When people say, “I hate New York,” I say go to the East Village on a Tuesday afternoon and wander around, that’s New York, not fucking Midtown.

New York City is a place where freedom and individuality underscore so much of daily life, but nowhere is that more evident than the East Village. Little kids, groups of old men, musicians, newbie New Yorkers, seasoned EV lifers, all of them make up the neighborhood; a place rich in history and culture and “cool” street cred (hey man, it’s the truth). 

I wax ridiculously poetic on the East Village because it’s where I began my New York story. Luck or the gods, or just the spin of the Craigslist wheel, landed me in my first place off of Avenue B. It was a shit hole, but it was my shit hole, the greatest NYC shit hole ever in my ridiculous mind. And that’s where my obsessive affection began. I knew no one, had no idea what life might become, but I had the East Village and together we made our way. Many years and many East Village apartments later, I remember every inch of it, burned into my brain and the well-worn soles of my less-than-desirable early NYC walking shoes.

I hope I’ll always have the East Village. I can promise the East Village it will always have me. Perhaps that’s why yesterday’s events struck me with such a sad tone. The East Village is my touchstone, the place I always know will bring me back to myself, my self. It feels like home and heaven, and a $4.99 all you can eat prime rib buffet with horseradish sauce. In short, it’s paradise. But yesterday reminded me that nothing is forever, not even my beloved East Village, though it will surely outlive my ridiculousness.

Ridiculous in the City was born in the East Village. One fateful night I saw a toilet bowl someone had placed underneath a “dead end” sign on 13th Street and Avenue B and I knew the EV and I were soul mates, true soul mates. And so, today I pledge to keep the East Village at the forefront of Ridiculous in the City. An occasional love poem, nostalgic photo montages, the possibilities are limitless, just like the EV’s own special brand of ridiculousness. I owe that to the East Village and my love and I are up to the task. Ridiculousness lives everywhere in this city, but we can never forget where we came from.

I love you, EV.

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.