so bad it's awesome
Part One:
So I have recently decided that I would like to submit a formal request (perhaps in application form?) to become John Mayer's beloved spouse. Legally, would of course be preferable, but in cases such as this, I suppose one really can't be too picky, so I'll take what I can get.
(But also, it'd just be fun to insist on hyphenating, so that my name would then become Elisa H. Miller-Mayer. Abbreviated as EHMM. Which kind of looks like how the sound of someone clearing their throat might be spelled. Or maybe it's the Canadian version of the non-commital 'mm' sound?)
In any case. John Mayer. Why am I pondering proposal? Well, if the music (previous and current incarnations of it) isn't enough (and it should be, really), I give you this: John Mayer's MySpace Blog
Read the entries. All of them. But especially the most recent one, titled 'Dear A Pear'. (Really, honestly, read them all. It's worth it, I promise.) If you still cannot understand, then I fear all hope is lost.
And because I feel the need to, I shall post highlights from my favorites of said entries. I hope you enjoy them; I know I certainly did. :-D
Am cutting them, for aesthetic purposes concerning the apparent length of this entry. Because size really does matter.
Har. I'm so punny.
11-10-05 Just Got TRY!:
It's only the fourth time in my life this has happened to me, and it's a thrill every time. Your record gets delivered, shrink wrap and all. It's quite a moment, I assure you. I shared this one with my doorman, who had never seen an artist open a box with spanking new CD and vinyl copies of his album. It's like Christmas morning, but without the impossibly high hopes.
Once in the elevator, I began to inspect the artwork. Dot pitch looks good, that vintage print effect works wonders, everything checks out. But there was one thing I had to know for sure about the CD. Something I've been on pins and needles since the masters were turned in.
Is the CD listen protected?
Lots of CDs use the new Listen Protection Technology, a proprietary encoding algorithm that prevents music fans from enjoying CDs anywhere humans are normally compelled to listen to music. It's a fabulous idea that will save the music industry for all involved. By the fans not being able to access any of the data on the CD, that data cannot be copied. It's simple logic, actually. At any rate, I am beyond pleased to learn that the CD is not listen protected. Here are some places you may enjoy listening to this disc.
on your computer
on your iPod
in your car
working out (I swear, this one works)
open MRI (check with your doctor)
Panda Express
Olivia Newton John's basement
a stakeout
The list is endless.
11-11-05 The Not Secret Secret Mexican Restaurant:
In my city there is a Mexican restaurant you couldn't find if you went looking for it. It's a secret restaurant. Yah, you heard me. Like a cock fight, but with tacos.
It's called La Esquina, and it-wait, you've heard of it? You can't have! The secret was told to me in confidence by a friend and I was only telling you because we have that kind of---yes, that's the restaurant. Right, the sign that says "employees only". Really? Huh. I thought I was in the group. What was the restaurant you were going to tell me about? Oh, that was gonna be the one? Wow.
The secret restaurant in New York is not secret. Just thought you should know. If all secrets were this airtight I'd be building my own iPod Macro (over 12' tall!) with the schematics posted on the internet. Is your life so rarified that you have to consume carne asada with people who sold themselves out to the doorman just to get a peek at the other lovers of cuisine yet to be neutered by a Zagat's review?
Is there a knowing glance that's shared between two patrons of La Esquina the following morning, as they pass each other in the hallway while pushing mail carts in opposite directions, both men sporting a telling array of mole sauce on their tie?
11-14-05 Idling:
I'm not good at being home. I used to be. I used to be such a homebody that I remember the first time I ever went on a "sleepover" tour as I called it. Until that time, I was driving all times of the night just to get back to my own bed, even if the sky was just starting to turn pinkish blue and the first rays of the sun were screaming off of the Waffle House's windows.
It took me two years to accept being on the road. Nobody's really born for it. They may say they were, but I'm willing to bet that something disappointing happened to them that bound itself to the idea of being home (I could be wrong about that.) I finally started to accept it as something to be enjoyed - sometimes you need someone to instruct you to have fun - and it's been a blast ever since.
Of course, now that I can land in most any city in the US and find some familiar comfort in it, I have to relearn what used to come naturally, which was staying in one spot for a period of time. Not a bad concept, domesticity, but in my line of work, being home means being "off", which inevitably leads to staying up all night and sleeping all day, a kind of circadian flat spin...
So I'm taking up recreation as its own hobby. Don't get me wrong, I love being home, and I'm committed to mastering both modes of thinking and living. I decided to take up video games, thinking I had it in me to kill hour after hour in front of the XBOX, but I just don't anymore. Video games really disappoint me lately. What a bizarre learning curve they have now. I wanted to pick up a controller to have some mindless fun, not to take a 45 minute tutorial. "Let's see if you've got the moves, Charlie!" someone says as the letterboxing effect slides off screen and you see your character from behind, in that idle stance, throbbing and bobbing so as to suggest "this is the part you can play!" Then you have to read all these little instructions that give the impression that they'll come in handy later on, like you want to remember that R L,L,L and up allows you to shock your enemy's pool, or down, down and in on the thumbstick will send you into "bemused arousal" mode. So enough of that. Just let me play the damn game already.
So that's not going to work for me.
I'll be back to work in a few days anyway. Looking forward to getting my Voltron on with Steve and Pino and playing again. This is going to be the most fun I've ever had in the promo grind ("promo grind" can be engaged by holding down X,Y, and thumbstick-left.) We're playing Good Morning America the Tuesday the CD comes out, which is basically like playing "Good Night, John Mayer."
11-15-05 Size:
This entry has pictures in it, so I'm just posting a direct link to it, so you can enjoy JM's absolute nerdy randomness.
11-16-05 Dear Cherry Tomatoes:
Dear Cherry Tomatoes,
We're cool now.
I know we didn't get on real well in the past, and I think the blame has fallen somewhere between us both. You're distinct!! You really come on strong there at the beginning with that first bite. You're like, "bang! tomato!" and some people get a little taken aback by that. I know I was. I also think I was a bit misled by the name "cherry tomato". That's a tall order, referencing a delicious fruit in your name like that. I don't know if any vegetable could compare themselves to cherries and get away with it.
I've had a hard time stabbing you with my fork. Sometimes I'd have to push down six or seven times before I got hold of you, what with your being covered in slick salad dressing, and round. Sometimes I just don't feel like playing. And maybe that's my fault.
Lately, though, I've been warming up to you. I've gotten older, my tastes more refined as a result. You've been respecting yourself, showing up in perfect symmetry ensconced in the corners of my grilled chicken salad. You carry yourself differently now. I'll admit it, I think that's kind of attractive. Makes people want to be around you.
I'm not saying we should just get together, but I think it would be cool to have you on more meals and maybe see where this goes. I don't want to forget about the past, but I also don't want to harp on it. It is what it is.
Let's take things slow.
Love,
John
P.S. Dear olives,
I still f**king hate you.
12-04-05 Blast From The Past:
Great day in the studio today. An old friend by the name of Ronnie Givens stopped by to play an organ solo. We were in a band you might remember, called Deputy. Well, you older readers might. For those who don't know the band, we were together from 1973 to 1976. It was a crazy 3 years. In that time we released over 16 gold albums. They didn't sell 500,000 copies. They didn't even come close. The albums and covers themselves were gold. They were all titled the same, "Time To Get Literal." We parted ways after our bass player Marty Valiant lost his battle with racism. I piddled about between several bands in the early '80s like Golddd, Trenchcoat and the moderately successful Palindromemordnilap. I gave it all up after that, thinking the world didn't care about rock guitar players anymore. I resurfaced in 1998, having eschewed the big electric sound in exchange for an acoustic guitar, and I have a feeling you know the rest.
Anyway, it just brought back a lot. Ronnie reached into his bolero saddlebag and produced a large blue photo album; mostly full of old pictures of us eating in the shower. Then his good hand flipped to a page with this pic on it. I asked to scan it so I could show you, and he was kind enough to let me share it with you.
This is a shot of me recording the solo for a song called "Water For the Wicked". I was rail thin, and somewhat sickly back then. Ladies loved me. Here it is. Thanks, Ronnie. Good to play with you again.
12-11-05 Anxiety Dream:Eddie's Attic Edition:
So there I am, in front of a computer with shoddy internet service, trying to find the track listing to my CDs on Amazon or something like it. I have a yellow legal pad, the bulk of which is hanging over the cardboard backing, littered with other people's notes and drawings. But I steal a page and begin to write song titles. I choose Victoria, Man on the Side, Love Soon...that's as much as I remember. Then I recall writing down Clarity, and was thinking of adding Bigger Than My Body, knowing I would have had to relearn it in the 2 minutes before show time. Anyway, by the end of the set, I had too many songs. Way too many. So I checked back over the list and realized that somebody had added phony titles. So now I have to erase the ones that were added, which leads me to begin a new page instead.
What follows is a riveting whodunit that must have gone on for 12 seconds (they say we don't dream that long, so I'm adjusting it to reality time.) Every time I would begin a new set list, I would turn to look at something and reset my gaze to find someone had written a wiseass message on the page. Nobody claimed to have seen anything when I pressed them about it. After I angrily fired show opener Nick Lachey, he calmly suggested we "step out for some apple juice", which turned out to be Cinncinati slang for "let's take this thing outside." We did just that, but only I returned. Something involving a motorcycle and lots of flames. That was where the dream's production budget skyrocketed.
Then, one by one, I narrowed down who it was by beating the shit out of people. Chad was there, but he claimed to have never seen who it was. Once everyone but Chad was removed from the room (or just plain dead) I closed my eyes. "I can't believe I'm doing this," I thought to myself. "This is Chad, and here I am testing him."
Sure enough, when I opened them, I caught the residual blur of his cocking his hand back to his side. There was the writing. It was Chad all along. He was laughing at me like "Don't hit me! It was good! You gotta give me that!"
I didn't hit Chad. I couldn't hit Chad. But Chad, if you're reading this, that's really fucked up. Just yesterday you asked me if I needed help bringing a Christmas tree into my apartment, which I thought was so cool of you. And there you were, stressing me out before show time. Please call me today so we can make things right. I don't want to have to step out for some apple juice with you.
01-18-06 Dear A Pear:
Dear A Pear,
I have some things I'd like to get off my chest. This applies mostly to the Bosc, but I say to Anjou, Bartlett and Comice, you too should take note, as some of the following points apply to you as well.
You're not a sporty fruit. You don't shine. You look like you may have at one point, as if the salty sea winds have dulled your once regal luster to a now lifeless patina. You are never featured on slot machines, and your inclusion in salads sends a strong message; that this dish is going to be funky, and will almost definitely include walnuts. I never want to eat you after a game of touch football.
You are the Springsteen of fruits. You've never sold out. Never went seedless, never came smaller. There's no pear nano. Nobody ever really figured your flavor out for candy replication. Sure, Jelly Belly has tried, but it's not even close, and looks too much like the watermelon one. When you are juiced, your only purpose is to back up more expensive and exciting extracts. And still you never complain.
Your bulbous shape and coarse skin make you very difficult to eat without a knife. I have tried on occasion, and the only outcome is a very sore inside of my upper lip. You are secretive. What aren't you telling us that you might know? Do you know marijuana? If there were one fruit that was sent to Earth from another planet to study us humans, it would be you. (Wink.)
You are the stillest of all fruits. Your heavy base says "I'm staying right here!" and you don't roll very well. I think this is why you are always featured in paintings of still life. You keep everything really, really still. In fact, I wouldn't take a painting of fruit seriously if you weren't there as the father figure of the bowl. I would say to myself "how do I know those fruits didn't just come to a stop moments before the painting had begun?" And then I'd see the pear and just nod. And believe.
I've never heard anything desirable described as being "pear shaped". You are a two-dollar bill, an almost accidental inclusion into the mainstream culture of nature's bounty. But you don't make a big fuss, as if someone's bound to notice you and send you back to the crude, wooden table at which blood oranges and persimmons sit quietly. You got a real good head on your shoulders.
Don't go changing any day soon, a pear. I get you.
I just get you.
Frankenstein
And, a completely random bit from his Dec. 23 entry:
And to my gorgeous wife, Denise, who has stood by me this entire time, our beautiful children, Mother Nature Mayer and my little man, Camel Invador Mayer, Daddy loves you.
I always go a paragraph too long. My calling card.
Now do you see why I want to marry this man?
++++
Part 2:
That last bit I quoted from inspired the following.
What exactly is it that possesses some people, particularly those of the celebrity persuasion, to give their children incredibly ridiculous names? I don't get it. Why do they do it? Do they honestly think their kids won't resent them for picking fantastically horrible names? I mean, it's bad enough when you have people using 'creative spelling' to make up 'new' names from common ones, like taking 'Felicia' and turning it into 'Phelyshia' or something. But then you have celebrities giving their children names like 'Apple' or 'Pilot Inspektor'. This goes beyond WTF.
I can't be the only person who believes that, for the good of humanity, we should seriously consider a new position at all hospital maternity wards - one wherein the employee's job is simply to oversee the naming of newborn babies and, when appropriate, step in to say, "For the love of all things holy, don't do that to an innocent baby!" (Maybe they can be allowed to do something else to help get the point across. Like, I dunno, flicking them in the eye.)
I mean, seriously. Is it really necessary to name your child something like Jermajesty? I question whether or not names like that are even humane.
So, in tribute to this trend, I give you the Top 5 Most Awesomely Bad Childrens Names meme. The rules? You post 5 of the absolute most ridiculous names you can come up with (first name only or first and middle, totally up to you - or hell first name, 2nd, 3rd, etc...have fun.). Invite your readers to comment with their pick for the winner of your creations. I tag all of you.
Top 5 Most Awesomely Bad Childrens Names
5. Pumpernickel Shortbread
4. Asif Icare
3. Wrychous Dai Myman
2. Chevford Jeephonda (For those car lovers out there. The 'p' is silent.)
1. Derrelickt
++++
Part 3:
This is totally random, but several days ago, I saw several pictures of various items that Hanson had autographed for fans. And I just have to say, Taylor, what the fuck are you doing? I know celebrity autographs are kind of supposed to be completely bizarre and illegible, but wow.
Taylor's autograph these days is tantamount to what Ezra's artwork probably looks like right now. I wonder if that's it - he's been influenced by his son's scribbles. But seriously. The only real distinguishable letter in his autograph anymore is the 'T'. After that, it's just a big mess. It begs for someone to say something after receiving an autograph from him.
"Thanks...T-squiggle-asterisk-swish. Should I call you Squig for short?"
Knowing Taylor, though, he wouldn't get it, but as long as Zac was within earshot, I think you'd at least get a laugh out of him.
I wonder if there's a correlation between Taylor's autograph and the way that Taylor seems to have invented his own language when he sings. (When I finally got my hands on official lyrics for 'Strong Enough To Break', I was astounded to find out that it's "so I can anchor my pain" and not "wakaneekamapay". How do you do that, Taylor? Inquiring minds want to know.)