Some stuff about college, but mostly stuff about John Mayer

Much like most people’s experiences, my freshman year of college was a confusing time.  Between dating a bobo (an extra super attractive bobo, but a bobo nonetheless), gaining all of the Freshman 15 and dwindling down my group of friends until only my soul mate was left (my Lady!), all I really wanted was to pass my classes, drink some cheap vodka and find and keep a roommate who didn't want to stab me in my sleep (true story: my first roommate slept with a pair of scissors under her pillow because of the people I hung out with…apparently all of my friends were members of Elvis’s Jailhouse Rock gang).

But this isn't about my struggles to find my place in the 2700-student, mostly Caucasian private suburban college.  Although a lot of struggling did take place, I ended my four years with a Lady, a Halbastram and a degree that impresses absolutely no one.

No, this is about how much John Mayer I listened to during that year and why the sound of his voice is now like the sound of nails on a chalkboard.  Or Adam Carolla’s voice on anything.

It started the spring before my freshman year.  I had done an overnight visit on campus, where I stayed with a freshman in her dorm (where major drama ensued*).  On the door of the person living directly across her was a John Mayer poster.  I thought, “he’s kind of cute” and used that as the springboard to purchasing his album and paying over $30 for that same poster on eBay (the early days of eBay, where you could still send paper money in exchange for your goods).

I listened to the album sporadically until I actually started college, at which point my bouts of isolation and depression could only be soothed by the calming whisper-singing of John Mayer.  And I think that whisper-singing business is why he could convince so many pairs of underwear to come off (that phrase goes many different ways…choose your own adventure): as Jerry Seinfeld once said, it doesn't matter what a woman is saying to you, as long as she’s saying it in that low sexy voice.  Same with Mr. Mayer: that comforting “Mr. Sensitive” style of singing wraps itself around every lonely woman and convinces her that he’s singing directly to them and that he’s the perfect guy that all of those regurgitated articles in Cosmo were talking about.  He feels what you’re feeling, he’s a great listener and, above all else, he’s fucking SENSITIVE!  And isn't that all the ladies want?

So I’d be lying in my depressing XL twin bottom bunk, headphones on, listening to Mr. Mayer whisper sweet nothings into my ear: songs about holidays, road trips, how he says things that he later regrets, that stupid song about my body being like an amusement park.

It was all so wonderful.

Even into my sophomore year, after I had met Halbastram, I still had those daydreams where I would meet John Mayer & oops! Somehow my clothes came off…might as well have some sex.

My fantasies weren't complicated.  I grew up with static-y Skinemax: I’m not fighting through the blurred & scrambled screen just to see some talking.  That’s what the crystal-clear HBO is for.  If I’m on Skinemax, we know what I’m looking for.  Same with my John Mayer fantasies: I don’t want you to sing for me- I have the CDs for that.  We don’t have anything to talk about- that’s what my therapist is for.  I’m here for the goods.

And then he opened his stupid mouth and ruined everything.

Now…I’m not saying that his “David Duke penis” line offended me- he’s entitled to be attracted to whoever he wants.  Sure, it puts a damper on all of my previous fantasies because they've become meaningless: if I had to do a gritty reboot of them, he’d have Michael Richards stop me at the door and tell me exactly why this isn't going to happen.  Anyway, by the time he’d made his dick-preferences known, I’d already discovered Jake Gyllenhaal and moved on to pouty-er pastures.

Naturally, my beef was with the phrasing.  There are 101 ways to say that you prefer to bone women of a particular ethnicity without sounding like a douchecock.  The man who wrote the song comparing a woman’s body to Six Flags did not hit that mark.  He somehow found #102, which is Douchcock Territory.  Perhaps he figured he was being clever, witty, and poetic.  After all, the man writes songs for a living: words should be his thing.

Words absolutely failed him that day.  And it was like the table being bumped at the party and the record screeching to a halt.  And something in me just clicked.  Somehow, his music just stopped working for me.  Maybe it was because the fantasies no longer made sense, so I couldn't fall back into dreamland when I listened to his music.  Maybe I was completely turned off by his shitty turn-of-the-phrase.  Maybe I just finally realized that John Mayer was a bit of a man whore anyway and hey, look at Jake Gyllenhaal & those perfect lips.

Whatever it was, now, whenever I listen to “Room for Squares” I go through three rapid stages: 1) nostalgia for freshman year; 2) remembering old fantasies; 3) “I wonder if he actually calls his penis ‘Mr. Duke’ when he whips it out …”

*Bonus story: when I stayed overnight at the college that one time, the girl who was hosting me was having a little trouble with her boyfriend.  Wait, did I say a little?  Because what I witnessed turned into a full-blown episode of ‘Maury.’  While we were getting dinner in the cafeteria, she saw her boyfriend dining with another girl.  Not necessarily anything amorous.  He just happened to be eating at the same table as another female.  While we were eating (or attempting to), my host’s roommate kept egging her on, telling her that she needed to confront him.  For what, I don’t know.  Like I said, he wasn't doing anything.  Apparently eating at a coed table is not ok when you’re dating.  Or something. 

Anyway, the rest of the dinner was pretty rushed as she wanted to confront him right away.  She didn't even seem to notice that I saw still there: she was out for blood.  So when she saw he was leaving, we hurriedly tossed our food, grabbed ice cream and followed him.  Seeing that action was not being taken swiftly, the roommate threw my host’s ice cream on the sidewalk and made her confront him right on Chicago Ave., which just happens to be a very busy street in downtown Naperville.  At rush hour.  For the entire world to see.  At this point, the bf was no longer with the girl he was dining with- they parted ways in the cafeteria.  Had she talked to him there, we could have avoided what came next. 

She storms up to him, and demands to know who he was dining with.  He tried to explain that she was a friend from some class, but then came the Maury antics: “some friend?  I never met her.  What class?  You can’t have dinner with me but you’re having dinner with her?  She didn't have anyone else to eat with?  I know when you’re lying to me.”  Bam, bam, bam!  He couldn't get a word in edge-wise.  When he tried to just walk away, it was at this point that she slapped his ice cream cone out of his hand (it really was a beautiful day for ice cream- if no one slapped it to the ground). 

Having accomplished this one little victory (I guess?) she turned and stormed away, with me and the roommate trailing behind her.  The rest of the night was spent in her dorm room, where she bitched about the boyfriend for the entire night until I finally fell asleep.  Early the next morning, I quietly slipped out to my mother’s car and went home, completely confused about what it was I was supposed to take away from that visit: boys are scum?  Roommates are instigators?  No one likes to actually eat ice cream, but rather they prefer to feed ice cream to the ants?  This is the 1950s and boys and girls can’t co-mingle at the dinner table? 

College is weird.