Anti-Social Social Club: To Apply For Membership Please Complete All Questions
The Anti-Social Social Club, brainchild of Andrew Buenaflor or ‘Neek Lurk’, began life as a streetwear brand in 2015. Born of the depressive, isolated, state that gripped him after a painful 2014 break up, he translated his pain into a hat. Then a shirt. Then a hoodie. Lemons to lemonade supplying the drive for creative output is a tale as old as time but the venture’s overnight success sets it apart from its peers. Buenaflor has managed to channel his pain into a bona fide masterpiece while keeping his ears firmly attached, though what does he know that Van Gogh did not?
Fuelled by celebrity co-signs and a ferociously loyal fanbase, the brand has since shot to the apex of streetwear. What started as one man’s passion project, a way to channel melancholia and embrace the inner introvert, has grown into a club in the true sense of the word. One that serves as a refuge for the isolated (either by choice or circumstance) and allows for a unique sort of solidarity amongst those struggling with their mental health.
I first discovered Anti-Social Social Club when I saw the four words emblazoned on the back of an International student. Already ubiquitous amongst the drip merchants on campus, I was struck simply by how the words were arranged. The logo, as clever as it was wry, warranted little more than a momentary chuckle from me at first. But later, turning over the words in my mind, my inner scholar leapt, and I found myself reaching for terms like ‘oxymoron’ and ‘juxtaposition’. Mainstays of a half-forgotten mental cheat sheet I hadn’t used since GCSE English Lit.
The longer I thought about it the deeper it resonated with me. Is Anti-Social Social Club not a contradiction in terms? Or rather a sanctuary for those who know where to look? Chasing a potential identity within the paradox I was eager to explore what this could mean.
Far from a card-carrying misanthrope, I am generally quite fond of people. I have a special place in my heart, for the clowns, and madmen (and women), that inhabit my social circles. As entertaining as they are multifaceted, I must clarify that the above positions are held only part-time by the caring, ambitious, and thoughtful people I am proud to call my friends.
My fondness of others stretches even to strangers. Whilst greasing the wheels of capitalist consumerism (death, taxes, and a minimum wage labour), I often struck up friendly conversation with customers from behind the safety of a till. These interactions were candle-like. Although they burned brightly, they were extinguished just as easily as they were sparked. Ending as soon as the transaction was complete, and the customer moved on. More often than not, then, I feel comfortable around people. Friends, John Ogundele 09/06/20 acquaintances and passing tourists alike. So why am I unable to determine just how much I actually like being around people?
After analysing the longitudinal data that is the last two decades of my life, I can conclude that in socialising, as with food, my eyes are much bigger than my belly. To this I must note two important exceptions: the incorrectly labelled 20 Chicken McNugget “Share” Box from McDonald’s and the third plate of Jollof and Fried Rice (with assorted meat as standard) at *redacted* wedding receptions. Unsurprisingly, neither of these exceptions involve social interactions.
Struggling to bridge the gap between wanting to be more social than I’m willing to be, I find help in a metaphor provided by my fossilised iPhone 7. High functioning in all other areas, my phone is all too often crippled by its embarrassingly poor battery life. My friends constantly complain as its predictable deaths cut short FaceTimes and phone calls, with no respect for the caller nor time of day. The impact of the battery life is compounded by my haphazard charging routines. I once thought I could counteract their effects with a portable charger. But when I realised that the portable charger itself had to be charged? Forget it.
My social battery, like my phone battery, is all too easily drained by a highly dangerous combination of the comfort of my bed, anaemia-like tiredness, and an unpredictably low mood. Corralling the culprits like a lawyer trying to invoke the RICO act, I find myself fighting a losing battle. Whilst I’m undoubtedly on a path to a consistent phone charging routine, I can’t seem to apply the same methods to keeping myself socially charged. Part of that involves fixing the toxic relationship I have with my (double) bed. Equally overwhelming are the thoughts that join forces to execute Operation Overthink. An operation as successful as it is efficient in its mission to take over and shut down the host, it produces results the combined efforts of Benioff and Weiss could only dream of. Like a dead iPhone, I can end up virtually unresponsive when needed most.
Social media presents a double-edged sword. On one hand, it eases the exertions of maintaining relationships and engaging in social interactions. I can hold a conversation, reference a meme, and avoid the unpredictable alchemy of mixing friendship groups all at the touch of a button. What’s more, it allows me to enjoy the wit and energy of my friends in small and manageable doses throughout the day. But there lurks the danger of forgetting the joys of experiencing personalities, chemistry, and banter in the real world.
I’m never more aware of this than when enjoying my days off. Free time has become many things to me, simultaneously a luxury spa retreat and a war-zone. At times, free time presents a safe haven of mental and physical relaxation. Picture cradling a tub of your favourite ice-cream while you recline, legs up, engrossed in a show that does not disappoint in its final season.
This is the reality of how I spend my time away from the hustle and grind that Dinner with Jay-Z twitter would have me chase 24 hours a day. But within this oasis is a battleground. A graveyard of abandoned hobbies, unread books, unlearned languages. Here lies my motivation. The final casualty of the long running conflict between my drive for self-improvement and the tenacity of my procrastination. Because of this, I often find the time I spend with friends tainted by small but lethal doses of guilt or regret.
Inadvertently, Buenaflor’s efforts provided the community I didn’t know I yearned for. Those four words have become a calling card on their own. Were the Anti-Social Social Club a formal organisation it would find me an earnest applicant. But if the next best option is to don my bucket hat and keep watch for the logo as it appears on the chests and backs of those around me, I’ll take comfort in knowing that whilst we may not be a club, we still have a uniform.
