Wednesday, November 16, 2011


“Find me on Face”, said the female I was wooing half-efficiently and more-than-half-drunkenly in this loser-infested hell-pit often referred to as the night club. My first thought was “What the what?!” Give me your land-phone-number, you common floozy, if you intend of having any chance of indulging in this Apollonic body in the yet-to-be-determined-by-me near future. But, I pondered what-the-crap - maybe this old geezer will be introduced to some kind of a new utopia there. I mean boobopia.

See you on the book. The face? Whatever...

So, it has been a month, I have 170 friends, most of them are people I’ve never met and know nothing about except that they possess a baby or a significant other from the clan of the ugly and deformed and still think their photo is a wise choice for their avatar. The rest are my acquaintances, whom I need in my life like I need murine typhus. Nice. But, wait! Everyone is posting, liking, poking, LOLing and doing other digital indecencies, while I lurk and think “whaaa?” OK, I try to understand the rules of the game and join this retardapalooza. So, it seems, if I want to be cyber-awesome, I need to be doing the following:

1. Proudly announce to my beloved virtual community that I have managed to cook lunch. Or I have an itch in my left shoulder. Or my cat fell into a boiling vat of water. That makes me unique. Like every, miserable, real-life-deprived else.

2. Share a Youtube link of an ear-desecrating hit, like Hotel California or Umbrella, because people can relate to the familiar. Originality and alternativity are frowned upon, as it is a clear attack on the community’s lethargy and is considered over-pretentious. And that would result in zero “likes”. And we can’t have any of that.


3. The times of sharing intelligent quotes are over. Them letters are hard to read. But not if you choose a barely legible font in eye-raping color and smack it across a random background. Ooooh! Pwetty pictuwe! Me “like”! Also, it has become incredibly gauche to care whose quote it actually is. Well, somebody said it. And now they’re dead. Or maybe they didn’t say it. And now they’re dead. Did they post it on Facebook, like me, who am alive? No. That speaks volumes.

Who said what?

4. Sigh, lament, complain and fret. My belly hurts. I’m tired. The goose ate my eyeballs. Alrighty, so FB is a support group? Should I share my scrotum rash with the World? Just wait while I send a friend request to my mom. She’d dig that. Mooom! Why don’t you “like” me??

5. Share photos from my vacation. Let them plebeians see how good I got it goin’, poor, unwashed inhabitants of loserVille! Yes, that’s my gut hanging on the beaches of a tropical island you never heard of. And you better “like” my pink thong.

That's right. Ogle!

6. Click “like” on all and every opportunity without the obligation to even read, listen or understand. “Likes” are like the bubonic plague. They spread if there are enough rats running around.

7. Join every group, follow every blog and click “attend” on every event imaginable. Then never engage in conversation or ever read a single post. This will make me seem like a strong-silent type, who supports good causes and enhance the overall perception of my incontestable grandeur. I just have to remember to click a “like” or two every now and then so my comrades would remain relaxed and feel safe under the gaze of the almighty overseer.


8. Post images of random puppies for adoption. Only the most despised imps from the deepest depths of Hell don’t like puppies. This is my ticket to eminence. Also, if I see someone else use this mischievous strategy, I will always take a higher ground by a compulsory “like” and an aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaw-I-wish-I-had-room-for-ONE-MORE-of-these-sugar-fluffies-in-my-infinitesimal-flat comment.

9. Post vague status updates, like “and then there were one” or “can’t not do” in hope that it will intrigue and force into conversation my styleless socialites. This will institute me as a mysterious, suffering, over-sensible, majestic creature of the online prairies and arouse the emo-infected society as I pounce them with expressions like “Weltschmertz”. Also I must remember to make grammar and capitalization mistakes on purpose or I could be labeled as a grammar-nazi or an overcalculated prick.

10. Allow random apps to do with my personal information as they please. This will trick them into believing I actually have a life. Also, I must religiously torment my FBuddies with countless game and event requests. That’s the soul and essence of efficient networking and a proof that I have nothing to hide, instituting me as an honest, hard-working person, worthy of cyber-respect.

I'm pointing at me. You know that. Yes you do!

So, what does this all have to do with art? Well, an artist (funnily, the female from the beginning of this charade being one) is a lonely animal. He lurks from the shadows. His web page is so horribly designed, you are forced to escape the moment you open it, feeling lucky you hadn’t had an epileptic seizure. So we search for the artists in their natural habitat. They’re pretty tame there.

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