The Stush Network

It’s no mystery that online social networking is extraordinarily popular. Just about everyone in the world has heard about Facebook, and just about everyone you know uses some kind of social networking platform, be it Twitter, LinkedIn or that FriendFinder (?) website that advertises every now and then telling me that there are hot women near where I live who want to have sex with me.

Social networks facilitate the sharing of interests, activities, backgrounds as well as discussion and truly do we max out that function. More and more, social networks are becoming a place where we advertise ourselves, and not just for dating. We don’t want to just share what we like, what we do, or where we went – we want to show it. In short, we use social networks to make ourselves look cool.

And that just opened up a whole can of narcissism.

While everyone is inclined to post up photos of themselves every now and then, I have to draw the line when individuals dedicate an entire album to pictures of… themselves.  

“Hey look it’s me!”

“Look it’s me again, no shirt!”

“Look it’s me! And my boobies!”

It may not always be an album, but it could be a series of photos of individuals just letting the world know how much they love themselves, and expecting you to love them too. Don’t forget to hit that Like Button folks!

What is there to be said about photos of guys flexing in the mirrors post-gym workout? Yes, we see that grim, tough guy look on your face. You want us to know you’re a bad ass, but seriously, it just indicates to us that that last lift gave you a hernia. Here’s the thing though: nobody wants to see your sweaty biceps and calves. Look, your man-boobs are putting teenage B-cup breasted girls to shame, and that’s not really something you want to be proud of. Truthfully though, some girls might find you attractive, but everyone else just thinks that you’re a douche.

We know you want us to lick those biceps, and eat your melons.

Then, there are the photos of girls casually wearing next to nothing.

“Lalala… I’m in my room… and look! A photographer has materialised and is now taking pictures of me!” Cue duck lips and bootypopping.

Six year old rapper Albert was the photog in your room, making you booty pop.

Nudity, half-nudity doesn’t bother me. I think everyone should be naked! Hooray! Except fat hairy dudes over fifty. And your grandmothers. And your parents. And my parents. Especially my parents. Call me a hypocrite, but there is a difference between wearing no clothes like you don’t care, and wearing no clothes like you do care. What you are saying to me and everyone else (including the ones who told you how pretty you are) is that you want attention. There’s a fine line between being sexy and slutty.  But hey, if lascivious dudes commenting, “Nice baby” or “Hottt” (with three Ts, for emphasis) does it for you then maybe I can look at how charitable you are. One less creep paid for porn today.

The best part is how these photos appear to be nonchalant – unceremoniously winding up on the internet. The flexing? - Just casual every day behaviour. The booty popping? She does that whenever she isn’t mobile. I could be wrong though; they could be so gross and do those things in public.

It’s also no surprise that most of these records of conceit happen to be photographed in the mirror. For flexing your sweaty muscles in the gym, the mirrored walls suffice, and for ‘pretty-girl’ photos, the bathroom usually makes the cut. Clearly, you’re too stupid to figure out the how to use the self-timer on your smart phone, and really, that is the only approach to tone your vanity down a smidgen.

Everybody takes photos of themselves when they want to remember a special occasion, a birthday party, a fête they spent $1000 on, or a musical event. Nothing’s wrong with that, but what about those who want to show us every photo of every… single… lime they attended… imaginable.

Or every meal they ever ate. Oh yeah? You’re eating doubles? Big deal! I’m gonna walk down the road in my pyjamas and buy some too! Who’s full now? Pics or it didn’t happen. Right?

But wait! The douchebaggery doesn’t stop there! Let’s take the photo records one step further! Show everybody on your social networking list that you are just the crème de la crème by taking a photo of that exorbitant bill that came up to $6000! We want to know how much you paid for that bottle of wine, we want to know how much you paid for that delectable meal of steak flavoured lobster with caviar on the side, drenched in ketchup! Thank you! oh great one of exquisite class, for it is through your photo I shall live vicariously and dream of meals that you assume that nobody else can afford. But, while you’re at it, don’t forget: nonchalance. Pretend that you are shocked that you didn’t know what you were paying for, as menus do not come with a pricelist – and we will pretend to be shocked too.

To cement the concept that you must show records of your evening excursions, you should also let everyone know where you are at that moment.

You’re at The Rig? Nobody cares!

You’re in Zen? Nobody cares!

You’re at One Fete (drop it so we all know you spent $1000 on a ticket)? Nobody cares!

You took a wine on Machel in Shakers? Isn’t he supposed to be in jail?

But I will give it to you. Some people care. They’re called stalkers. And they wait with heavy breathy sounds to know where you are, what you’re doing, and whom you’re doing it with. And you geo-tagged yourself too – basically handing them the map with “STALK ME!” tattooed on your forehead.  

Though, how else would we know how awesome you are and how pathetic we are in comparison, just sitting there, watching photos of you having a great time. Because, really, none of us ever had a good time like you did. The point is I could be toting just a bit. Why the hell didn’t you invite me? What kind of friend are you anyway? Now existential questions about friendship and who my friends really are begin to surface.

The messed up part about this over-sharing on the social networking is that the average user has no idea how to use their privacy settings. Maybe when you’re done wining on Machel in jail, you may want to use the social network site more productively and read about the dangers of your over-sharing. People do get kidnapped. People do lose their jobs. And you might just get caught kissing that stranger while your wife is at home taking the laptop and smashing it through your car window.

Everybody shares, everybody advertises himself or herself, yet, there is a point where it’s just too much.

More than likely those who need to read this won’t heed this anyway continuing in their attention seeking, nonchalant, apathetic ways because they’re too busy snapping photos of themselves in the mirror.

Artsy Fartsy

Artist unknown (unfortunately).

“Art is of the people, by the people, but not for the people” – Me.

Yes. I just quoted myself. I am taking a swipe at someone with that, but nobody will know just who. I am also grinning snidely right now, even though I know that this person will not even feel the breeze.

The person who I am taking a swipe at exists amongst a group that I have labelled Art Elitists. This is no coincidence. While I trust you can comprehend just what an art elitist is, I feel the need to expound on what makes them eye roll worthy.

In a nutshell, art elitists believe that they are at the pinnacle of society; they are culturally and intellectually superior to the rest of us. They have small gatherings where they sip on wine and discuss art and literature and pat each other on the back for their innate cleverness. In fact, when I told another elitist acquaintance (a well known artist, I might add, but mum’s the word) that I enjoy visiting exhibitions every now and then, he asked me in his usual perverted breathy manner, whether or not I didn’t enjoy being in the company of a more sophisticated calibre of individual. What he thought was a rhetorical question that should only be met with the affirmative, was met with a raised eyebrow and incredulity. I also wanted to smack him. He was staring at my breasts the entire time with what I can only assume was an air of erudition.

A conglomeration of art elitists offers the opportunity to lament society’s negligence of the arts. This grievance, of course offers the opportunity of solidarity in ostentatious disdain for the rudimentary country bumpkin who prefers to spend his or her days struggling to put food on the table rather than forge an artistic masterpiece. The contempt for the ingenuous commoner is typically coupled with events and exhibitions that are poorly publicized in seeming deliberation to maintain their exclusivity. I look to a current event circulating amongst that group of individuals with a capacity of four hundred social network invites (or so it would appear). Compare that with a wine (the other kind) and jam event at Zen and wonder at the numerical disparity. In their defence, why should anyone want to invite us plebeians when we probably don’t have the funds to dish out on these priceless gems in the first place?

Note: we never see newspaper advertisements of these exhibitions, but we certainly get to see who attended in the paper a few days later, don’t we?

At the same time, I get it. I really do. And you know what? Maybe elitists are really more acute than the rest of us.

Hey, if I could create a work of art that addresses the concerns, complications and/or consequences that arise from the decolonisation of our nation and call it “Original Copy: a Teardrop” by randomly splashing and smearing paint all over a canvas and slapping a hefty price tag on it, I would! The subsequent media write ups, museum displays and eminence won’t be too shabby either.

Note to self: invest in paints and canvas tomorrow. I’m going to be famous (kind of).

So, I decide in the end to paint something more picturesque. My subject matter of course will be fishing boats, coconut trees, beaches and sunset, dancing women, sexy women of colour, fat women of colour with cows and other rural scenes depicted using earthy browns, greens and blues that so accurately represent the masses, the people of the soil. After decades of independence, our elitists continue to revere the reproductions of our artistic predecessors in our contemporaries. I will then announce the relationship of identity, space and time that I explored, my influences and my imaginative teenage aspirations, all manner of watered down bullshit that makes elitists and tourists alike, squeal with delight, all of this with my trusty wine glass in hand, mind you. None of what I represent, however, will confer any ideas of our current political, social or economic status, because that’s not what we learn in our history and cultural classes. Stuart Brown could only be so apt to refer to the “sleazy tourist art” in Piarco that we want to sell (out).  I am willing to concede that maybe because after all these years, nothing in this country has really changed, politically, socially, or economically, so maybe all that will ever be produced in this postcolonial society is clichéd ‘Caribbean’ art. “Original Copy: a Teardrop” remains an appropriate title.

Unless the more common, more experimental forms of art were to break loose from their mediocre creators and become trendy and hip, the fate of working-class art that mirrors their society is fated to be washed away, or painted over on city walls or forgotten in the homes of others. Graffiti (I mean er... the mural) is one such form of art that is all the rage, but several years ago, it was considered to be the nefarious opus of street urchins who had nothing better to do than defile public spaces with their unskilled eye for ugliness. In the same way graffi- I mean, murals, ascended from its baser associations, comic book art does not seem likely to. Their art is strictly commercial, available to the masses (Oh horror!) and has nothing to arouse the elite intellect.  Comic book art is concomitant with tacky humour; it is the habitat of superheroes and villains; the niche of pubescent boys ogling busty, spandex adorning two-dimensional women and worse yet, you can sample them in your daily newspaper.

I mean, who are comic book aficionados trying to fool anyway? Comic books do not examine social issues, they do not discuss culture, nor do they tackle politics. They are simply bi-products of men who never grew up and harbour fantasies of supremacy. Aren’t they?

But, you know what’s even lower than comic book art? Digital art! Oh yeah! The stuff that’s printed on our toilet paper wrappers could never be considered art, unless you smoke a lot of weed and are Andy Warhol. Digital art is just too commercial. Added to that, it’s just too easy! It is merely a poor replica of traditional art, which requires far more patience and technique. All a graphic designer (not a digital artist, pfft!) has to do is click on some buttons and voilà! They’ve created a toilet paper commercial.

Don’t get me wrong though. I love art; just like Nolan’s Gotham believes in Harvey Dent, I believe in the power of art. I will go so far as to suggest that the relevance of art parallels that of medicine or engineering, because if the latter allows us to physically prosper, then art allows us to grow spiritually and psychologically – it balances our egos with our conscience (not to be completely mistaken with Freud’s, id, ego and super-ego).  I also enjoy wine.

At the same time, I have no inclination towards fashioning a hierarchy of art due to style, or genre or form. There is such a thing as good art and bad art, but to turn up an elitist nose at something that is different, and more importantly accessible, only puts a limitation on what art could be.

So while sipping on that wine, art elitist, try to remember that your appreciation of art of the people that excludes the people doesn’t make you one of the people. It makes you an artsy fartsy douchebag.

A real woman should do what she likes.

Almost everybody who knows me knows that I am a feminist. Yet not a lot of people know what a feminist actually is. The average person envisions a feminist as a female Sasquatch likely to obliterate anything that looks like it owns a penis walking by. People are also likely to assume that these women are the products of neglectful and abusive fathers; that they were dumped by some man and have since then turned to other women to satisfy their needs or that they are so ugly all they have got left in the world is to hate on the men who will never love them.

Anyway, I don’t imagine myself to be any of the above (though I refuse to negate or confirm my hideousness). I own a razor, I love my father and my relationship status is none of your business.

While calling myself a feminist, I mean that I believe in equal rights for all, regardless of gender or sexual orientation. The feminist mentioned in the former is associated with radical feminism (but even then it is never a good idea to stereotype). Radical feminists are much more popular because quite frankly nobody is interested in learning about us peaceful hippies; they’re more interested in the crazed knife wielding Lorena Bobbitts in the news. Everybody loves a good horror story after all.

Even though I am not as angry as a radical feminist, there are things that do in fact make me angry.

Easily I point to this Internet meme floating around in cyberspace.

The photo portrays a woman standing in the kitchen bereft of any attire save for a white thong undergarment while holding some sort of indiscernible kitchen utensil. The words that hover to the side of the photo so as to not obstruct the view of the lady’s bounteous boomcie read: “A real woman never lets her man leave the house hungry or horny.”

As the photo floats around, being propagated and affirmed, I cannot help but feel the message conveyed in the image particularly disturbing (and I am not talking about her bare ta-tas being exposed to the stove’s fire).

The meme lucidly asserts that in order for a woman to be ‘real’ she must cook a meal for her man while simultaneously providing for his raging libido. Okay, that statement might be as amplified as her buttocks - she may not have to do it at the same time… but still. She has to submit to her man’s needs at the risk of being deemed fake, or not good enough.

Now the obvious arguments are, “What if she is sick? Does she have to cook for him then? Does she have to spread her legs open then?”

Those are relevant questions, but I have more questions.

Can’t the man cook for himself? If he can’t cook, shouldn’t he get off his lazy ass and learn to do it himself?

Shouldn’t he try to satisfy her too and not just try to get his? After all, women could just turn the aphorism around and say that he is not a real man because of it.

Why should the woman have to cook if she just doesn’t feel like it? What if she just wants to lie in bed and relax?  Seriously, if he is hungry and she wants to relax, he should get up and make something to eat himself.

Why should she have to accommodate him sexually, if quite frankly, she is not in the mood? If her man is horny, and she doesn’t feel up to it, just spend fifteen more minutes in the shower; I am certain she won’t mind.

What if she can’t cook? What if she hates cooking? Surprise, surprise – not every female is adept in the kitchen, and not every female likes cooking, though we do like eating. Wait. How did I get in that last statement?

Shouldn’t she have a choice in the matter? It is after all, her body and her mind.

The issue in question here, is the idea that in order for a woman to be considered worthy, she must serve. A ‘real’ woman must please her man. It has nothing in that meme that suggests that she is serving herself, other than pandering to the desire to be ‘real’. And that is absurd. Why should a woman have to oblige someone else to feel a sense of self? She should take care of herself to get that feeling.

The other scary part of this photo, are the comments from women in accordance with the archaic concept of female subjugation. Women once again, betray themselves. Women so desperate to get a man and to keep him, that they are willing to subject themselves to his every whim, to betray that sense of sisterhood and community that is so often sold to us in popular culture.

Well, here’s an idea. A real man would not be afraid to be with a real woman who does not pander to his every need, but finds balance between his needs and desires, as well as her own. That type of man is the one to aspire to be with when he unabashedly posts his well-balanced thoughts on how women should treat him, and how he should treat them.

Never settle.

So, while I post these opinions, I am fully aware of the snide comments that will arise from cynics and sexists alike. Well, here’s my predetermined rebuttal to all of you. Your quips about kitchens and sandwiches are neither funny, nor are they clever. You can try to convince yourself, but we both know you were not original enough to come up with your own sexist joke, but had to ride on the coattails (or mammoth fur?) of some other cave dweller’s joke.

Not only are you a bad driver…

It was a bright and sunny afternoon. My excursion home was so mundane (nearly as mundane as the beginning of this post) I could dodge every pothole, bump and stray dog that materialised in my path like an automaton.

Yet, the banality of this afternoon’s drive was to be disrupted.

On approaching the usual traffic-light moderated intersection, I was overtaken by an individual driving a bronze automobile on the left side of the roadway with opposing traffic ways. In Trinidad, we drive on the left side of the road, so by law, we are expected to overtake (especially on a single roadway, with opposing traffic ways) on the right side. The unperturbed driver brought his car to a stop in front of mine placing my car and myself in mild danger.

I shook my fist and scowled menacingly at the aforementioned douchebag with the fatalistic anticipation that he could see my discontent by glancing in his rear-view mirror.

However, whilst glaring at this inconsiderate cretin, I became aware of a protrusion from his driver’s side window. The red, white and black object was unmistakable: a miniature of our national flag, a $10 relic from Trinidad and Tobago’s independence celebration just a few weeks ago.  

I didn’t know whether to laugh or be disgusted. What a conundrum.

This man, this flag, represented a person who feels proud of his country’s accomplishment of 50 years of  (arguable) independence but in the same breath paradoxically showed flagrant disregard for the country’s basic traffic laws!

It made me think of all those other displays of red, white and black all over the country that flaunt patriotism, yet how many act on it? Those who bawl repeatedly, “Sweet, sweet TnT!" And then toss their garbage on the roadsides, curse their neighbours and chop up their children. No concern for the people who make up this country, but they just love being a Trini. Maybe being a good Trini to some people means being a self-absorbed cur.

Anyway, it got me to thinking of all the bad drivers I’ve seen in this country, and a distinct pattern emerged.

Apart from pseudo-patriots, bad drivers have a propensity to be pious. I have been intercepted and bombarded too many times with vinyl decal bible scripture, prayer hands and self-proclaimed absolution.

Three hypotheses could be derived from this observation:

• that the abominable automobilist truly is blessed, therefore he is granted the liberty to drive how he pleases, with reverent disregard of all other creations of God, as he is superior to us all. The decals are after all angel-enforced, so he can fly if he needs to;
• that because the motorist is so exalted that even if he drives parsimoniously, not only would he survive, but we would too;
• that God is sending me a message. I am not worthy to be called Christian, or human for that matter since I stole five Reese’s chocolates while on my diet and pretended it never happened so this prayer on someone else’s rear window is the last thing I must say before I die.

At any rate, I really wish the bible would have some print against being a douchey driver rather than the douchey driver having bible print on his vehicle.

Then there are the famed “Baby on Board” stickers on random car windows, letting us know that we need to drive cautiously around baby. If we didn’t see that sticker how else would we know that is not okay to ram our vehicles into yours?

Unless we are supposed to drive safely all the time, because all life is valuable and easily forfeit? I dunno, maybe?

But then, if there is a baby in your car, and I am expected to tread carefully around baby, why precisely are you driving like a jackass? Why are you bobbing and weaving through traffic, breaking traffic lights and driving way past the speed limit? Did baby take a rather large dump in your car, thereby ruining your leather seats and temporarily mitigating your concern for baby’s safety?

And then you’re the ones in charge of our future generations.

Even if your child survives your reckless driving, he/she will still have the misfortune of being parented by an imprudent jackass.

This pattern appears warranted: bad drivers are indeed wolves in sheep’s clothing. So God bless you, you patriotic chauffeur of babies.