Tag Archives: John Mayer

How John Mayer Ruined My Life: A Love Story

14 Apr

guitar-clip-art-9cRb7z9ce

“L’amour de loin”; love from afar; Medieval Courtly Love; King Arthur and Queen Guinevere love – leave it to the French to create an incredibly seductive yet torturous form of love and sell a bunch of books about it, lulling all of us mere mortals into believing that it’s trendy and fulfilling.

Love from afar is like the croissant; the French pretend that they eat croissants “for breakfast” and that croissants are the key to balanced lifestyles. So then we Americans go to Costco and buy a bunch of croissants and eat ten in one sitting, and we wonder, “Why can’t I see my genitals when I stand naked and look down at my feet?” Spoiler alert: you can’t see your genitals because the French don’t eat croissants for every breakfast. And you also can’t find fulfillment in “love from afar” because you can’t see past the fact that you can’t see your genitals. This all comes down to croissant, really. Are you following?

Alright, I’m being dramatic. I’m not in love. But I do have a crush on someone who doesn’t know I exist. Actually, I believe that somewhere, deep, deep down, John Mayer does know I exist and is just waiting to tell me…that I exist…and that he cares about my existence… (and yes, I am holding my breath for this affirmation, so if I start to turn blue in the face, dial 911 and don’t leave my side until I’m in the hands of a capable medical professional).

I recently attended John Mayer’s Boston concert with my mom. Before the concert, I was an enormous John Mayer fan. I’ve always listened to his music. In fact, his “No Such Thing” music video was one of the first videos I ever saw, after my aunt accidentally left MTV playing on the TV and I snuck in to watch a whole ten seconds of the music video. (Music videos were banned and yet I somehow managed to watch Jerry Springer on all of my sick days? Suspicious parenting, at best.)

A week has passed since the aforementioned Mayer extravaganza, and yet, I still find myself…crushing.

My friends are saying supportive things, like, “Oh, it’s totally normal to be obsessed with a performer after his/her concert! I feel you, girl!”

Like Gluten-free cookies, these friends are sweet; but they’re wrong. This is different.

I’m no fool. I know that concerts do weird things to people.

The first concert I ever went to was the Dave Matthews Band concert. I was ten and everyone around me was high. Some dude spilled beer on my sweatshirt, and I wore it to fifth grade the next day and told my teacher to smell it. Clearly, this concert had me thinking I was a 19-year-old frat boy.

One time, I saw Train in concert, and it started raining, right as they started playing “Drops of Jupiter.” I remember thinking that I’d never forget that moment. I then proceeded to go to the dining hall and eat five pieces of pie. Five pieces. All because of the concert.

When I went to Adele’s concert, I forewent drinking so that I could “soak up every moment.” Who was this girl? Why wasn’t she drinking? She was clearly possessed.

So you see? I know that concerts can cause abnormal behavior. But something in me changed during the John Mayer concert. It wasn’t the two beers I drank, or the fact that I ate some weird Thai food before the show and thought that maybe I’d contracted a parasite…There was a cosmic shifting of my soul, and I know that it was caused by a crushing crush.

I’m not even someone who gets celebrity crushes. Ok, sure, when I was 11, I once spent an entire weekend watching Leonardo DiCaprio’s deleted scenes from Titanic. I was supposed to be studying for a “math final,” but I couldn’t rip myself away from Leo, and so I scored a 74 on the test.

But I’m an adult now and I rarely have tests anymore because grad school is more of a “project-based” type of learning environment…so I’m all good, academically.

I felt swept up by John’s musical talent, his weird, scrunched up facial expressions while playing the guitar, and his ability to play the piano and whistle at the same time. I think I’m letting this celebrity crush continue because the universe is slowly but surely signaling to me that John Mayer and I are meant to be together. Shall I break it down for you (John)? Here’s a list of the whys:

  1. At the concert, John played the song “Why Georgia,” which is my mom’s absolute favorite song. She started screaming and kind of growling, and I briefly felt embarrassed because the gentleman in front of her looked like he might say something, like, “Ma’am, are you choking on a chicken bone?” But then, right at that moment, John started playing “Dear Marie,” which is my favorite song. It was like he was sending me a message, saying, “Don’t worry about the haters. That guy is probably jealous or vegan. You do you, boo.” That’s when I knew that he’d tailored the entire concert to fit my emotional needs. What has your soulmate done for you today?
  2. On a recent evening, I fell into a deep, dark internet hole. I found myself on John’s Twitter account, which is how I found a tweet from him, in which he proclaimed his love for mediocre movies from the late ‘90s, to the early 2000s. He may have been being “ironic” (it’s hard to sense tone over Twitter), but I’m sure this tweet came from a place of truth. Norah Ephron rom-coms spanning the entire ‘90s decade comprise my favorite genre of film, and so I’m sure we’d have a lot to talk about. Maybe he loves Tom Hanks as much as I do? A girl can dream.
  3. In an interview with Ellen DeGeneres, John said that he’s a fan of The Bachelor, but that he can only sit through the season premiere because two hours per week is a lot of “buy-in” time for the average viewer. This is something with which I completely agree. What else could I do with two hours? Let’s see: learn how to ride a moped; research sharks; invest in multiple IKEA lamps and then see which one breaks first; train a pony to deliver me snacks on its back; domesticate a long-haired latte artist. The list continues…I think John and I are on the same page with this one. Give me just one hour of women crying and pretending to eat recreational fruit bowls, and I’ll be forever grateful.
  4. John recently said that the drawing of the woman on one of the the front covers of his new album is “her” – his ideal woman – a combination of past, (hopefully not present), and future lovers:

search for everything

Now, I’m not saying she looks like me, but I’m also not going to argue with the fact that she has long, wavy hair, and I also have long, wavy hair. She also seems to have feathers floating around her head, which either symbolizes her “free spirit” personality, or the fact that she likes chicken. Either way, I’m down.

  1. John is known for getting himself into trouble with the press. While this hasn’t ever happened to me, I did once draw a butt crack on a computer during “computer class” (back when Microsoft Word was like, the futuristic spaceship of its time), and got in trouble with my teacher, after I announced – not very quietly – to my friend, Brandon, that I’d “drawn a butt crack on the computer.” Getting in trouble for spur-of-the-moment self-expression is shocking and upsetting. I’m still trying to get over my reputation as “butt crack girl.” I think we could relate on this level.

So these are the signs from the universe. Now, you might be wondering about the practicalities of it all. It’s sweet of you to worry. Here’s a list of possible concerns and their solutions:

  1. Sure, John is ten-plus-six years older than I. But here’s the thing: after I got busted for drawing that butt crack, I had to mature very quickly. You can’t be a six-year-old “butt crack girl” and look and act like a six-year-old. Even now, guys come up to me in bars and ask me how old I am. This can only mean that I look too old to be in a bar. Which means I’m probably just old enough to be living in Montana with John and his dogs. Plus, it’s not like I can claim I “grew up on John’s music,” because, as I mentioned earlier, I wasn’t allowed to watch his music videos. (Also, Amal and George don’t seem to have any issues.)
  2. “But he’s a world-famous musician! How will you ever get his attention?” It just so happens that I’m going to the Grateful Dead concert at Fenway Park in June, at which John will be playing guitar. Fenway is an intimate, outdoor venue, so when I fly the blimp over Fenway that says, “Dear John, look to your left, no, your other left, by the sausage stand,” he’ll surely see it. I’ll be waiting there for him with a sausage and a soft serve ice cream in a Red Sox souvenir hat because celebrities: they’re just like us – they eat souvenir ice creams!
  3. If the above plan fails, I will just resort to old-fashioned techniques, like moving to Los Angeles and attending hip co-ed parties and hoping to meet him. This approach could go on for years, but there’s something sweet about 70-year-old men raising infants.
  4. “But he’s a womanizer! He’s dated so many famous women! It would never work!” Honestly, if I had as many good-looking ex-boyfriends as John has ex-girlfriends, I’d buy myself a huge molten lava cake, put on some sweats, get a crown, and declare myself Queen of the World. Life moves quickly, and we all have baggage. I know I do. There are literally six Trader Joe’s bags next to me right now, which I’ve yet to unpack and put away. I’m not saying John and I have to be bound together for all time! Please, I’ve got so much living to do. I’m just saying that he has to fall madly in love with me and then can’t feel attracted to any other woman for the rest of time.

Any questions? I think I’ve pretty much covered everything. John is witty, wavy-haired, and creatively talented, which are really all of my requirements.

They say to “write what you know,” but I, clearly, prefer to write about those whom I don’t know, and then hope that they magically discover me.

I’ve also written more about this fantastical love story than I’ve written for any of my final projects and papers that are due in the following weeks…so I guess I lied, and this crush really is impacting me academically.

Bottom line: I need out of this fictitious romance, ASAP. I need a break. It’s been mentally exhausting, knowing that I’m meant to be with someone who’s currently making Japanese-themed music videos to accompany jazz-hybrid music about an *cough cough* ex-pop star girlfriend. He doesn’t have time for me.

So here’s my message for John: you’ve totally ruined this week for me, but I forgive you. Let’s take a break – I think we could both use one. I’ll be at Fenway in June, so let’s go on a date. I think (know) we might be (are, beyond a shadow of a doubt) soulmates. And if you take me on a date and disagree, I’ll give you my souvenir ice cream hat and we’ll call it even.

(Also, I’m moving to LA in the fall, so that’s also totally a possibility. No pressure. Just saying. I’ll be there. Waiting. Just kidding. I don’t wait. But you should. OK. Bye.)

 

 

 

 

Pic 2

 

 

 

Advertisements

Sangria and Beach Chairs

22 Aug

Tailgating – like belly dancing or synchronized swimming – is not for everyone. I learned this when I went with my mom and sisters to the John Mayer concert this past weekend.

When my mom said, emphatically, “Let’s tailgate before the concert!” I immediately started typing “mid-life crisis” into Google. My mom – before this weekend, anyway – had never been one for activities involving any combination of trucks, grills, and kegs. So naturally I was confused by her suggestion.

Really?” I asked. “You want to tailgate? I thought you always said tailgating was for ‘Bruce Springsteen fanatics who never quite made it off their parents’ couches’?”

*My mom wants me to clarify that she never really said this and that I added it for “comedic flourish.”*

*Also, I would like to clarify that I am a fan of Bruce Springsteen and I don’t sleep on my parents’ couch. I have my own bed, thank you very much…*

Springsteen aside, I was shocked by her suggestion. But I was also intrigued because I thought that maybe if we made the big effort to tailgate, my mom might cave and let me drink an alcoholic beverage. And that would be AWESOME. So I said yes. 

The first step of our tailgating experience involved deciding between regular parking and Premier Parking (ooh, ahh). We decided to order $40 Premier Parking tickets because I reasoned that the Premier lot “just seemed like the swankier option.”  I envisioned us grilling on a golden grill and sitting in bejeweled lawn chairs as we drank fine champagne out of crystal goblets. (Because $40 is the only difference between tailgating and a medieval feast…)

Our next tailgating decision involved food and drink.

The drink conversation between my mom and me went like this: should we drink beer? No, beer makes us feel bloated. Okay, so maybe we’ll bring a screw-top bottle of wine and a couple of cups, but then only drink half of the bottle because we don’t want to drink too much before the concert? No, that seems too risky because we’ll definitely finish the bottle and then we probably won’t even make it to the concert. Plus, have you ever heard anyone say “Rock on, dude, let’s chug some Pinot!”? Nope. Okay, so we’ll risk the bloating and bring  beer…and we’ll throw in some red Solo cups to give us that frat party edge.

Beer, how original.

For food, we decided to get takeout from Chipotle. The four of us ordering food at Chipotle is kind of like four guys deciding on their March Madness brackets while standing in front of a line of people who are starving for assorted meats and salsas; it’s complicated and stressful and everyone’s just trying to figure out the difference between a Burrito Bowl with lettuce and a salad with burrito fixings.

*My sister would like me to point out that both guys and girls participate in March Madness… just because I am a girl who doesn’t participate in March Madness bracket-making doesn’t mean that all girls don’t participate.*

*Also, I would like to point out that the two scenarios that I just compared are really nothing alike, but you should just go with it because how often do I have basketball brackets on the brain and willingly use them in an analogy?*

Once we had our GIANT bag of Chipotle take-out, we drove to the Comcast Center, where, thanks to the Premier Parking passes, we had the awesome perk of being directed by a twelve-year-old kid to a tiny parking spot next to the porta potties… for which the line was ridiculously long. Come on, people, just because it’s in the VIP lot doesn’t mean it’s sanitary…

My mom pulling into this parking space provided some serious entertainment for these porta potty fanatics. The twelve-year-old parking guide seemed to think that if we just got a tiny bit closer to the giant SUV on the left then we would be happy customers and he would win an Employee of the Month award. Unfortunately for us, this meant pulling in and out of the spot and nearly hitting every single crop-top wearing teeny bopper that decided to skip behind and in front of our moving vehicle. Luckily, all of our windows were open, so everyone could hear when my sister yelled, “Grow a brain and get out of the way, biddies!”

I could be wrong, but I don’t think you’re supposed to yell at your fellow tailgaters. I think – given the fact that everyone’s cars are parked so close together – you’re actually supposed to make friends with the people around you. We didn’t quite get there.

We also didn’t really look as cool as we thought we would. The people around us were not sitting in beach chairs, but really official-looking “spectator” chairs. They weren’t eating takeout Chipotle but plates of assorted cheeses and cured meats. (Seriously, so much prosciutto and sausage. What happened to hamburgers and hot dogs? I didn’t see a single grill). And, to make matters worse, the people next to us were drinking SANGRIA. Not beer, but a FRUITY WINE BEVERAGE. 

If the Premier lot of tailgaters had been high school, we would have been wearing suspenders and snorting nasal spray.

Let’s not mention this to Bruce Springsteen.

 

%d bloggers like this: