![]() Resplendent in a black-leather slant-zip jacket, obscure Japanese kicks and insanely expensive vintage Rolex, he’s charging forward in his typical hyperbolic Mayerian way, saying stuff like “Blowing me off is the new sucking me off!” and “This is the death of rock & roll!” Suggest that maybe he’s exaggerating, and he takes deep umbrage, jackknifing his long body forward. Some time after the latest awful episode, he’s downing a few Old-Fashioneds at a Los Angeles beautiful-people watering hole. “Hey,” she says, “before I go, can I have your autograph?” She turns to him, this girl he had longed for, however briefly, felt a connection with, felt hope. ![]() Mayer says this has happened to him more than once, so he knows what she’s thinking: “Wait till I tell my friends I turned down John Mayer!” And it doesn’t stop there. But then suddenly the girl’s up on her feet and walking out. But you know what he says is even worse? He sees a girl, any girl, and makes his move. ![]() Your Body Is a Wonderland can cut in and go first. It doesn’t exactly thrill him, either, when he’s got to take a leak, and the line is long, and now the big man guarding the bathroom is making some dude hop on both feet so that Mr. John Mayer goes out to a club, any club, he feels bad about it if some big host man makes someone get up from the banquette and take their Grey Goose elsewhere so the skinny rock star with the weirdly elevated hair can sit down.
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