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.

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.

The Concept of Literal Meaning

Sally sat in seat 32D, the middle seat of a row that was otherwise populated by an oversized, snoring man to her right and a squirming child to her left. To put it plainly, she was wedged in. The cabin smelled faintly of rotten eggs, or sulfur depending upon your reference point, and there was a thick mist emitting silently from the air ducks above the windows. Her eyes darted around, searching for mutual recognition. Did anyone else think that was a dead ringer for some kind of like, poisonous gas?

Physically unable to reach into her bag due to the reclining seat of the comatose person in front of her, and having lacked the foresight to retrieve her book before takeoff, she was now forced to sit quietly, hands folded, watching the repetitive advertisement loop on the screen above her head. Three hours of that would no doubt ensure the further deepening of her forehead wrinkles (Sally had recently faced the music about their existence), not to mention the havoc the cabin’s dry climate was wreaking on her pores. How had the glamour and excitement of air travel fallen so far?

Perhaps it might have been worth it to pay for the extra legroom. Where once there sat a girl unwilling to give the airlines another penny for what was already an overpriced ticket, now there was a woman who would have gladly paid the forty bucks to be delivered from this misery. She really wanted her book. When they called her row for boarding she’d been at the end of a pivotal scene where Vlad is finally face to face with his dead father who, thanks to the aid of an elaborate human face mask, has been secretly masquerading as his overzealous interior decorator. “More chintz, Vlad. You must have more chintz!” Now her mind was obsessing, wondering what Vlad would do next. Maybe there was a clue hidden in the rhythmic wheezes of the guy on her right.

Next to her, the kid had goldfish crackers spread out on the tray table in front of him. Didn’t his mother know about the germs those things harbored? Disgusting. Sally frowned. Looking across the aisle at the rest of row 32, she saw the mom in question holding a little, pink, stuffed pig over her baby’s head, her arm moving up and down towards the child in a flying motion while saying, “piggy, piggy, piggy,” over and over. Great, Sally thought, give the kid the impression that pigs do fly.

“Hey,” the little boy next to her said, jabbing her in the arm with his orange-coated finger.

“Hey,” she responded.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“Vomit is another word for throw up.”

Ah, the friendly skies. Sally raised her eyebrows and thought briefly about handing the kid a barf bag. If nothing else, it might shut him up. He might also be able to look back someday and pinpoint the exact moment he was introduced to the concept of literal meaning.

“So is puke,” she replied, amazed at the gratification gained from intellectually besting a four-year-old.

Turning her head forward, she closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. And thus the weekend began.