Pronounced po ZER, of course. I remember me and some punks being called poseurs (the French pronunciation) by a rich kid in an expensive leather jacket and all the right buttons. We would have been stung to the quick had one of us not poured beer on her head. It dribbled off her pink hair and down her jacket. It splashed on her anarchy and class war buttons. She called us more names–in English–and fled back to the Westside. The empty beer can bounced off her resplendent backside.

Of course, she’s probably fabulously wealthy right now, while I’m considering an invite to an event just because it’s free eats. Publicists prey on writers like that. Free food! Free drinks! You don’t have to buy anything! Sometimes I go for it. I have writer friends who I don’t believe have ever even stepped inside a grocery store, they live entirely off the rich and publicity starved. Night after night, quaffing wine and plucking delicate little things from platters offered by silent waiters. They eat and drink and circulate and don’t mention the time they poured beer on the hostess’s head, and hope she doesn’t remember. Or read this.


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