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Let me just start by admitting that I feel deep hatred for many unworthy subjects, simply because I was born with an overabundance of ire. I hate all sorts of stuff that's not really worth it: Mini Coopers, the word "node," flip-flops, Seinfeld, stirrup pants, tanning salons and the entire city of San Francisco. Hate. Why? Dunno. Just hate.
Mostly, though, I hate John Mayer. In this case, I do know why. I hate him because he sucks. I hated him from the moment I heard that song he became famous for, "Your Body is a Wonderland." I think it's supposed to be an ode to sensuousness, with lyrics like "I'll never let your head hit the bed without my hand behind it," and "If you want to make love, we'll make it . . . break all your big plans, this is bound to be a while." Ohhh. Blech. Listen, let's just have sex, okay? Because I really only want to talk like this with someone I'm really, really feeling the chemistry with — which means that revealed in the cold light of day, blasted on every teenager's radio, the mushy-smoochy stuff makes me cringe, like when I see people fake-kiss on a Spanish soap opera and they purposely make that spitty-kissing sound. Gross. GROSS.
Not to mention that the whole idea of a "bubble-gum tongue" is repulsive. You're going to chew my tongue? My tongue comes with a comic strip starring Mort and Metaldude? More to the point, when my tongue loses its sweetness, you're going to abandon it under your desk and get a new tongue from the dispenser outside the arcade? Huh, asshole?
But that would have just been one gross, carefully calculated makeout song. I would have forgotten about it by now — as I've mostly forgotten about that silly "Sex and Candy" song — if Mayer had the good manners to disappear after cashing in on his sweet-talking-playa patter. But he didn't. The fact that he somehow garners positive critical attention just baffles me. John Mayer is a media darling. He has a column in Esquire, for fuck's sake. Dave Chappelle used him in a skit — a really funny skit. (Is this why he fucked off to South Africa? From shame? I think yes. I really do.) Wherever I turn, people whose opinions I otherwise respect show utter crackheaded judgment when it comes to Mr. Sensitive Guitar Faker. This piles frustration on top of my rage, making for a nice open-face sandwich of hostility.
The really, really big nail in the coffin (in which I want to bury John Mayer, after I beat him to death with my System of a Down CD case) was an interview I heard on NPR. I was in traffic, trying to get onto the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge (ironic, because that's the title of a really good song by Simon and Garfunkel, and it's what you see during the beautifully scored opening credits for Taxi), when Michelle Norris announced that she was going to interview him. Why did I listen? I couldn't stop. In an earlier NPR interview, he had said, and I quote, "My dream of staying in Connecticut and becoming a star while living at home did not happen. It just did not happen." Knowing this was the extent to which his insight could stretch, even after the prolonged navel-gazing that is his life, I should have turned off the radio. But something in me perversely refused.
This time, he told a story about the process of composing his then-new, now-Grammy-nominated song "Daughters." It seems he was supposed to be doing an interview with a local reporter when he was suddenly visited by The Muse. This song sprang, fully formed, from his pasty-faced, greasy-haired head. He was ninety minutes late for his interview. When he finally appeared, his manager was furious. Mayer, in his own description of the story, said, "Dude, don't even worry 'bout it."
Problem One: A reporter's time was totally dispensable. Think Mayer bought the guy a beer to make up for his tardiness? Hm, me neither.
Problem Two: He honestly believed that he had just written a song so profound, so meaningful, that it was right and proper for the world to stop whilst he did so.
Problem Three: The song itself is the very epitome of fake-feminist, ersatz-sensitive-man, phony-baloney-pretending-to-care-about-the-plight-of-women, wanna-get-laid-the-nice-guy-way bullhockey. That's right, I called it bullhockey. I don't buy this crap for a minute: "Fathers, be good to your daughters. Daughters will love like you do. Girls become lovers, who turn into mothers, so mothers, be good to your daughters, too." In other words, everyone, everywhere, should strive to be better parents, so it'll be easier for John Mayer to get laid twenty-three years in the future. Because it's all about you, John Mayer. It's all about you wanting to chew on my daughter's tongue.
I am unhinged by the hatred I feel for John Mayer!
Here is an excerpt from the email I sent NPR in response to this interview. "Far be it from me to criticize, but why in God's name didn't Michele Norris take the opportunity she had to rip John Mayer's guitar from his fat, talentless, derivative hands and use it to pummel his bloated head into the pulpy mess it apparently already is?"
As asked, I spelled my last name out phonetically. Nonetheless, my letter was not read on the air. NPR is afraid of the truth.
In the end, I'm sure, John Mayer will fade into my hate-filled memory, along with Steven Spielberg, Swiss cheese, Dharma and Greg and Birkenstocks. Especially if he goes away. So please: keep him off your radar. The fewer people pay attention to him, the quicker he'll return home to his beloved Connecticut, home to blandness in all its dull glory.
And John, if you're reading this, and you're itching to forward it to your friends and/or post in response (just the sort of faux-self-deprecating shit I'd expect from you), go ahead. I'll be waiting. n°
| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
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Amy Keyishian is a New York freelancer with four parrots and a bad attitude. She sometimes writes young-adult fiction under an entirely different name, but she's not telling you what it is here. She's a big fan of The Moth, Venture Brothers, and Air America Radio. |
©2005 Amy Keyishian and hooksexup.com
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