If you want to see the poster child for the death of us, look no further than John Mayer.
Look no further than this blabbermouthed archetype of the self-absorbed schmuck, devoted to "self-soothing" above all else and incapable of finding a woman half as neato-keen as himself.
John Mayer is how the world will end -- living in its own demented head, drinking single-malt scotch and ending up late for the apocalypse because it was otherwise occupied whacking off to The Playboy Channel.
Really. I'm not kidding here.
IF YOU don't believe me, the sad evidence is in Mayer's Playboy interview. Weep for yourselves, not the supercilious superstar, because this 32-year-old adolescent is far from one of a kind in the America of 2010.
It's a good thing there's words in there, I guess, because I'm sure the nekkid pictures in Hugh Hefner's soft-core mag aren't nearly "hot" enough for the self-lovin' singing sensation:
IT SUCKS to be you, ladies. There's no way you're going to compete with Photoshop, an airbrush . . . and John Mayer's right hand. I wonder if he's given it a name -- Jennifer? Jessica?
MAYER: I’m a self-soother. The Internet, DVR, Netflix, Twitter—all these things are moments in time throughout your day when you’re able to soothe yourself. We have an autonomy of comfort and pleasure. By the way, pornography? It’s a new synaptic pathway. You wake up in the morning, open a thumbnail page, and it leads to a Pandora’s box of visuals. There have probably been days when I saw 300 vaginas before I got out of bed.
PLAYBOY: What’s your point about porn and relationships?
MAYER: Internet pornography has absolutely changed my generation’s expectations. How could you be constantly synthesizing an orgasm based on dozens of shots? You’re looking for the one photo out of 100 you swear is going to be the one you finish to, and you still don’t finish. Twenty seconds ago you thought that photo was the hottest thing you ever saw, but you throw it back and continue your shot hunt and continue to make yourself late for work. How does that not affect the psychology of having a relationship with somebody? It’s got to.
PLAYBOY: You seem very fond of pornography.
MAYER: When I watch porn, if it’s not hot enough, I’ll make up backstories in my mind. My biggest dream is to write pornography.
PLAYBOY: How did you become a self-soother?
MAYER: I grew up in my own head. As soon as I lose that control, once I have to deal with someone else’s desires, I cut and run. I’m pretty culpable about being hard to live with. I have had a good run of imagining things into reality. I’ve got a huge streak of successes based on my own inventions. If you tell me I’m wrong or that I’m overthinking something, well, overthinking has given me everything in my career. I have a hard time not looking at anxiety disorder as being like an ATM. I can invent things really well. I mean, I have unbelievable orgasms alone. They’re always the best. They always end the way I want them to end. And I have such an ability to make believe, I can almost project something onto my wall, watch it and get off to it: sexually, musically, it doesn’t matter. When I meet somebody, I’m in a situation in which I can’t run it because another person is involved. That means letting someone else talk, not waiting for them to remind you of something interesting you had in mind.
PLAYBOY: Masturbation for you is as good as sex?
MAYER: Absolutely, because during sex, I’m just going to run a filmstrip. I’m still masturbating. That’s what you do when you’re 30, 31, 32. This is my problem now: Rather than meet somebody new, I would rather go home and replay the amazing experiences I’ve already had.
PLAYBOY: You’d rather jerk off to an ex-girlfriend than meet someone new?
MAYER: Yeah. What that explains is that I’m more comfortable in my imagination than I am in actual human discovery. The best days of my life are when I’ve dreamed about a sexual encounter with someone I’ve already been with. When that happens, I cannot lay off myself.
And speaking of Jennifer. . . .
PLAYBOY: What does the word womanizer mean to you?I SUPPOSE you can go to the Playboy site and read the whole thing but, frankly, you should feel like you've been slimed reading just this much of it. And these are the excerpts I figured I could lift and still come away feeling only moderately guilty.
MAYER: Well, wouldn’t a womanizer have dated more than two girls in two years?
PLAYBOY: You and Aniston got back together and broke up again in 2009. How many women did you sleep with in the eight months after the breakup?
MAYER: I’m going to say four or five. No more.
PLAYBOY: That’s a reasonable number.
MAYER: But even if I said 12, that’s a reasonable number. So is 15. Here’s the thing: I get less ass now than I did when I was in a local band. Because now I don’t like jumping through hoops. It’s been so long since I’ve taken a random girl home. I don’t want to have to submit myself for approval. I don’t want to audition. I’d rather come home and edge my s*** out for 90 minutes. At this point, before I can have sex I need to know somebody. Unless she’s a 14 out of 10.
PLAYBOY: You have been very up front about your fondness for masturbation.
MAYER: It’s like a vacation — my brain gets to go free. It’s a walk in the park for my brain. Pull the shades and let your mind go without having to answer for it.
PLAYBOY: The way you talk about being 32 sounds as though you were too immature for Aniston.
MAYER: No, the actual day-to-day was fantastic. I have to explain this so people don’t say, “Sure, you’re 32, and you want to f*** other chicks.” If you say I’m not adult and stable, it sounds as though I’m someone who’s watching football and playing Xbox. I have this bond with infinite possibility — when I go out to dinner, I bring another shirt, a flashlight, a knife, a hard drive, a camera. It’s not like I wanted to be with somebody else. I want to be with myself, still, and lie in bed only with the infinite unknown. That’s 32, man.
Let's just say there are depths to Mr. Mayer's depravity. And to our own depraved alienation as we bask in the auto-beatific vision of our "infinite unknown."
Alone. Utterly, despairingly alone.
I have witnessed The End. It sounds like a John Mayer song.