Welcome to “Superstar RADvice,” our new advice column written by a superstar. This week singer-songwriter and chronic masturbator John Mayer will be taking your questions—let’s get to ‘em.
I’m a performing artist who can’t help putting my foot in my mouth almost every time I’m in front of the cameras or the microphones. I don’t always mean to say dumb things, but sometimes it just happens. It’s a real problem. What should I do?
- K. West
Dude, I totally hear you. Sometimes you’re on the red carpet, or hanging out with a reporter in your multi-million-dollar L.A. mansion. Maybe you’ve had a few drinks, you think you’re a lot funnier or more clever or insightful than you really are, and then ... oops—one or two or 37 things slip out that you regret right away, or when you see it on TV or read it in a magazine later. Here’s what you gotta do: Embrace that shit! Ramp it up. Don’t be boring. I mean, I started out as a blues guitarist, but who really wants another young white-boy blues musician? Jonny Lang, Kenny Wayne Shepherd—when you find out what cruise ships they’re playing these days, let me know. So I decided to become a pop musician, and I scored some hits. I was doing all right, and then I decided to start with the really ridiculous, over-the-top shit in public, and whaddaya know, I became a fucking superstar! That’s how you do it. That’s what America wants! They want you to do crazy, stupid shit to give them something to talk about. And when you go a little too far, they want you to apologize. Maybe cry a little bit. Be sincere. Then keep your mouth shut for a little while; lay low. Then do it all over again! It’s a time-tested, proven formula for success. Remember: out of sight, out of mind.
An ex-lover of mine recently described me as “sexual napalm.” What does that even mean? That I wouldn’t give him a handjob? Should I be offended, or what?
- J. Simpson
To paraphrase Kilgore in Apocalypse Now , I love the smell of sexual napalm in the morning. On the bedsheets. It smells like ... victory. Actually, no, it smells like a combination of old sweat, chlorine and a roll of pennies. Sometimes worse, depending on your partner’s level of hygiene. Believe me, with the amount of tail I’ve pulled in, I’ve smelled it all, combinations I never even thought imaginable. Like, why do the sheets smell like a double Baconator, a Mr. Sketch cinnamon magic marker and a compost pile? Anyway, your ex was probably referring to the overpowering, incendiary nature of napalm, which has historically been used to kill a shit-ton of people during war. Whatever you’re doing in bed, just keep on doing it.
I’m so conflicted—I’ve got a Grand Wizard of the Klan’s heart, but a fuckin’ Benetton cock. I’ll bang anything that moves. Does that still mean I’m a racist?
- D. Duke
Yes. It also means that, on top of your ignorance, you’re a hypocrite and a fraud. It’s all about what’s in your heart, not what’s in your pants, even though many (like Gene Simmons) will say men are ruled by their cocks and not their hearts. Or their brains. See, if your KKK/Benetton premise was reversed, you wouldn’t necessarily be a racist. Just a totally insensitive, demeaning moron who doesn’t know how to express his sexual preferences without coming across like a dickhead racist. I think the general rule of thumb here—besides not actually being a white supremacist—is to not refer to any part of your body in white supremacy terms. Your body is a wonderland, not an instrument of hatred. Or stupidity.
Sun., Feb. 21, 7pm. $51-$76. With Michael Franti + Spearhead. Wachovia Center, 3601 S. Broad St. 800.298.4200. wachoviacenter.com
Others of us just aren’t as blessed—they’re desperate, no-talent hacks who look more and more like Fergie the more plastic surgery they get.
Hostage Calm is cool with the chaos