I bought that bitch a bag by mistake. I bought your bitch a bag by mistake!
My mother, just north of 50, rides shotgun at my 3 o’clock. Her face rests at an all-too-familiar intersection of amusement and terror. A Great Dane, stomach stapled as to prevent some bullshit evolutionary flaw, pants with a limited appreciation of the hoarse melody as sung by Future. As harmonized by myself. A state university student entering the final year of my liberal arts degree.
I did not, in fact, buy that bitch a bag by mistake. Nor did I buy your bitch a bag by mistake. Furthermore, I haven’t completed a single consumer transaction on this day. My mother buys Noodles & Company for the both of us. She fails to spit any hot bars regarding the pasta purchase and I am robbed of the chance to respond with dozens of verbal flame emoji. If it wasn’t for the receipt, you’d have to question if the whole thing ever really happened.
The State of the Poser 2015 is my mother who, since I moved out a few years ago, no longer picks up cheese stick carcases or preemptively wipes piss from the toilet seat prior to every use.
The State of the Poser 2015 is that Great Dane who can’t even digest Purina without assistance from some science fiction veterinarian surgery, let alone a wild rabbit or something.
The State of the Poser 2015 is me, rapping along to Future between bites of Penne Rosa, skipping the n-words (and later typing out “n-words”).
The cultural circulatory system that is the Internet has democratically blessed each of us with the ability to achieve poser nirvana. Ubiquity is the State of the Poser 2015. A word so saturated with use that it has been hammered into the landscape like an unwanted penny to cement.
The walls separating pockets of people have been torn down Wikipedia page by Wikipedia page, Genius annotation by Genius annotation. The interaction between subcultures and mass culture should be feared only if there’s something to be exposed. Access plagues culture with inauthenticity (at least in the archaic terms with which “authenticity” is defined) through germination, but more importantly it strips all excuse away from those who choose appropriation of community over connection. No melody, no Grammy, no Tip co-sign could elevate Iggy Azalea to the status of her musical precedent, Elvis. Our collective level of woke-ness renders once-clever charlatans nothing more than quarters behind the ear.
Iggy isn’t a poser. She’s a lazy fraud. There’s a word for that – besides fraud, that is – we just haven’t coined it yet. And, eventually, when pretentious assholes such as myself start writing think pieces on “The State of _____ 2024,” we’ll know we need yet another new adjective. One that bites the biters even more than the last.
Man, isn’t it punk rock to embrace the existential state of poser swag?
(This piece is a response to Noah Johnson’s “State Of The Poser 2015.”)