Mayer of Simpleton

Although his claim to be the possessor of a "hood pass" and his gratuitous dropping of the n-word is ridiculous, and his music seems to be written with the sole mission of getting sorority girls wet (not that that's a bad thing, mind you, just not terribly interesting musically), I have to give grudging props to pr0n addict John Mayer's confession, even if I'm not sure if I really believe it. He's trying just a little too hard, maybe.

Is anyone still reading Playboy these days? They have always had very good interviews, but these days, the Onion AV Club has great interviews as well, even if they don't have airbrushed lap-dancers on the next page, dammit. It just seems like the sweet spot Playboy once had between upwardly mobile dickheads and pseudo-intellectual puds has been rendered extinct by the easy availability of good writing and high-quality spank material, and for free at that.

Mayer also took the opportunity to confess his love of porn, telling the publication, "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. 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."

Well, this adds a dimension to Your Body is a Wonderland, I suppose, but "new synaptic pathway"? Visual stimulation is one of the oldest synaptic pathways, obviously. It's just that technology has made it easier by an order of magnitude every few years for the past decade or so. And again, this has pushed all stroke mags -- but especially high-end ones like Playboy -- to the brink of irrelevance, not to mention bankruptcy. They're pushing buggy whips in an era of hover-cars, there's just no getting around it.

I feel for the new generation, I really do. If I were 18 years old right now, one of two things would happen -- either I'd take advantage of the amazing production and distribution capabilities and get some music going, or I'd hole up with a month's supply of beef jerky, Mountain Dew, and paper towels, and they'd have to send in a search party after a while. (TMI, I know, but we were all that age once.) It's strangely comforting to know that, despite all the high-profile tail he gets, Mayer still has to rub one out with surprising frequency. If he gets married, he could be the Tiger Woods of cheesy music.