An Open Letter to John Mayer

A couple of weeks ago, I had a craving for a vanilla latte. It happens from time to time. And it led me to the Starbucks drive-through, where hip, friendly barista Eric prepared the desired latte. During the preparation, however, a somewhat bizarre incident occurred. A skinny kid with orange, curly hair - presumably another barista, although I can't really be certain - popped into the window, handed over a postcard, and said, "Here's something on John Mayer, and, uh, how cool he is." Then this mysterious messenger, possibly some sort of elf employed by pop stars to regularly solicit coffee shop customers, disappeared again, without a trace.

It was an awkward bit of promotion in the first place, and doubly ineffectual considering who the recipient was - namely, me. Because I am not a John Mayer fan. I know you're all gasping and clutching pearls at that revelation, because you were certain the Slayer playlist was just a front for illicit John Mayer fandom. But, no, in all honesty, I really don't like the stuff. It bores the hell out of me, frankly. But despite that, or ironically because of it, I have my own John Mayer story to tell. And here it is.

I saw John Mayer in concert once, a few years back. I went with a friend who is a fan and needed a companion, and well, I'll obviously go to see just about anything. I honestly enjoyed the first opening act, singer/songwriter Martin Sexton (the second act, Guster, is easily the most annoying and untalented band I have ever personally encountered and if I ever get around to becoming that rock vigilante and destroying every weak, whiny, fluffy-haired excuse for a band the world over, they're at the top of the list). And then the Mayer. Who, contrary to my punk-snob expectations, didn't suck. In fact, I was very impressed by John Mayer himself. That boy can play guitar. The best parts of his show were easily the times when he went off on his own with just his electric guitar, into these great bluesy riffs, including a great song with aforementioned Sexton. To this day, if I had the opportunity to see him in some little basement blues club while he just played guitar, I would totally be there. As long as he promised none of that singing Top 40 hits stuff.

The worst part of his show was the audience, largely teenagers who knew the songs played on MTV and couldn't care less about hearing anything else. You could completely tell when they lost interest in what Mayer was playing by the audible rising buzz of conversation, which was how they filled the time until he played something else they could sing along to. After spending fifty percent of the show in the middle of that, I finally disengaged myself from the crowd, found a bench outside the tent, and enjoyed the Cleveland summer evening.

And so ends the first phase of my John Mayer tale. Still wasn't a fan, but gave him props when the subject came up. Which it hardly ever did. (Too busy getting drunk at Slayer and Misfits shows.) I didn't think much about the matter until recently, after the odd Starbucks promotion incident. I decided to do some Googling, which turned up John Mayer's blog.

And what do you know? He's pretty funny. He writes about zombies. And his numerous posts dedicated to different guitars and musical equipment smacks of a charming geek nature. Plus, the more I think about it, he's only four years older than I am, and obviously incredibly successful doing what he loves, and I respect that. All of which makes me realize it's about time to write an open letter of truce - nay, appreciation - to one John Mayer.

Dear John Mayer,

Sorry about leaving your show that one time. Now I think you're a pretty cool guy. Not like you care that much, but, you know. Just saying.

Good luck with everything. If you're ever bored in Ohio sometime (which, if you're ever in Ohio you probably will be, it's kind of what we do here), I'll buy you a beer. Maybe we can go visit the weird barista guy at Starbucks. He thinks you're really cool too.

Lots of love,
Jen

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