Pose for Me, Baby

Can't help but laugh about certain words. If a picture is worth a thousand words, why do some words spark up so many pictures in our heads? The word I'm thinking about today is "poser". The thought of that word conjures up so many flash-card-style memories of 7th grade smirks from prepubescent know-it-all brats. Hard to believe that 13 year old kids that haven't so much as driven a car, drank a beer or much less earned a buck took such ownership of words like poser. Maybe because we couldn't squabble over much else (nobody was getting laid yet either), so I guess musical taste was the only currency available for drawing lines in the sand.

It was the early 90s. The hit video for "Jeremy" had all of us uniform wearing private school kids mesmerized. As the so called grunge wave hit our neighborhood, I remember certain kids immediately trying to sell the rest of us as if they came straight out of the womb sporting mushroom haircuts, dirty converse, all the while wrapped in red flannel. None of this is new, I guess I just can't help but crack up at how some of these "original and pioneering" flag holders for being "legit" kids threw around the word poser at everybody else who jumped on a micro-step slower. Funny study of human nature. The truth is, same is true for adults today.

You know how it starts, you hear about a band through a random friend or "indie" radio station that nobody's heard about. All of the sudden you're actively yet secretly working for them. All is well until they make it big. Boom. Your little baby's all growns up and she's banging the pop world six at a time. Pretty soon t-shirts are exploding faster than popcorn off of [insert fantasy hot chick's] blouse. And, naturally, you want EVERYONE to know that YOU knew about them FIRST! To this I say, stop being a freak show.

I mean seriously, about the only truest of the true original appreciators of your now favorite band were a couple of hairy gay dudes with tie dye shirts in Seattle. (I also feel its important to note I imagine them with cartoonishly long noses and Lennon-style-circled-lens reading glasses) And really? I like me better.

Yes, me. The guy that lives 3k Miles away from any real grassroots musical towns. Put it this way, if the music traveled all the way down to Miami, I'll bet the farm it brought a 10 piece luggage-shit-load of "pop" with it so stop fakin' the bacon boys and girls.

In the end, when it comes to good taste, it's better late than never.