It Takes All Kinds

a Few Stories and Profiles by Erik Hedegaard
mainly from inside the pages of Rolling Stone
(with additional commentary and folderol provided by the author aka Charlie, sometimes)

John Mayer Is Out of His Mind, Maybe

Posted on | June 3, 2012 | No Comments



JOHN MAYER GOES OUT TO A club, any club, he feels bad about it if some
big host man makes someone get up from the banquette and take their Grey
Goose elsewhere so the skinny rock star with the weirdly elevated hair
can sit down. It doesn’t exactly thrill him, either, when he’s got to
take a leak, and the line is long, and now the big man guarding the
bathroom is making some dude hop on both feet so that Mr. Your Body Is a
Wonderland can cut in and go first. It’s embarrassing. But you know what
he says is even worse? He sees a girl, any girl, and makes his move.
He’s a little tipsy. They end up in a room. Good things start happening.
But then suddenly the girl’s up on her feet and walking out. Mayer says
this has happened to him more than once, so he knows what she’s
thinking: “Wait till I tell my friends I turned down John Mayer!” And it
doesn’t stop there. She turns to him, this girl he had longed for,
however briefly, felt a connection with, felt hope. “Hey,” she says,
“before I go, can I have your autograph?”

Some time after the latest awful episode, he’s downing a few
Old-Fashioneds at a Los Angeles beautiful-people watering hole.
Resplendent in a black-leather slant-zip jacket, obscure Japanese kicks
and insanely expensive vintage Rolex, he’s charging forward in his
typical hyperbolic Mayerian way, saying stuff like “Blowing me off is
the new sucking me off!” and “This is the death of rock & roll!” Suggest
that maybe he’s exaggerating, and he takes deep umbrage, jackknifing his
long body forward. “No, man, and after that happens eight, nine times,
I’d rather just go home and RedTube, good night. I’m serious.”

And he looks serious, too. So maybe that really is his situation,
despite who he is. Sure, lots of people don’t like him and his music,
too poppy, too sensitive, his head is too big, he uses the word “meta”
too often. But his guitar chops, especially in the bluesy area, are
unquestionably great, and he can count Eric Clapton among his admirers.
Since 2001, he’s released four studio albums, starting with Room for
Squares, that have all been big successes, with hit songs like “Your
Body Is a Wonderland,” “Daughters” and “Waiting on the World to Change.”
And while his newest record, Battle Studies, isn’t up to his previous
one, Continuum (an assessment even Mayer agrees with: “I know that I’m
supposed to say that my newest is the best one. Bullshit. Continuum is
my best one. And I think you gain more than you lose by saying that”),
it debuted at Number One. In fact, commercially, Mayer has never come
close to failing. He’s a golden boy (whose label, Columbia, had the good
sense to sign him to a 10-year Fort Knox-size deal in 2008).

Meanwhile, for better or worse, he’s become a kind of inescapable
pop-culture staple. He’s huge on Twitter, where he is an acknowledged
modern-day master of the lowbrow bon mot, having amassed a fan base of
2,919,691 souls who hang on his every “My mouth is the Don King of my
penis” and “I thought I had to fart but it turned out it was just a
poop.” He’s everywhere in the gossip press, often in connection with
celebrity ex-girlfriends, the last being Jennifer Aniston, who followed
Minka Kelly, who followed Jessica Simpson, etc. And every time he sees a
paparazzi, he can’t help himself, he’s got to act out; just the other
day, he and his friend the well-known lesbian Samantha Ronson engaged in
a bit of hot up-against-the-wall-oral-sex silliness for the cameras.
Really good stuff.

But here he sits tonight, leather jacket pulled in tight against an
early-evening chill, big soulful puppy-dog eyes looking more pensive
than usual. Momentarily, he stands up to try to get a propane porch
heater started. It frustrates him. He clicks away, no luck, turns, sits
down, gets up, tries once more, no luck, gets someone else to do it,
eyeballs some girls at a nearby table, says nothing to them (“When it’s
time, my mouth will just start going”), returns to his drink. Soon
enough, he starts in on that one area of his life that he is most
consumed by and least happy with.

He thinks about it constantly. He talks about it endlessly. He wants a
girlfriend, a real life-partner girlfriend. It’s been a long time. And
it’s just not happening.

“All I want to do now is fuck the girls I’ve already fucked, because I
can’t fathom explaining myself to somebody who can’t believe I’d be
interested in them, and they’re going, ‘But you’re John Mayer!’ So I’m
going backwards to move forward. I’m too freaked out to meet anybody else.”

He puts down his drink.

“What do you think?” he says. “Do you think it’s going to take meeting
someone who I admire more than I admire myself? But isn’t it also about
a beautiful vagina? Aren’t we talking about a matrix of a couple of
different things here? Like, you need to have them be able to go
toe-to-toe with you intellectually. But don’t they also have to have a
vagina you could pitch a tent on and just camp out on for, like, a
weekend? Doesn’t that have to be there, too? The Joshua Tree of vaginas?”

And so the search continues. He knows she is out there. And he will not
stop until he finds her, and her Joshua Tree of vaginas.

IT’S 4 A.M. AT HIS PLACE IN CALA-basas, 30 miles northwest of L.A.,
which he rented to record Battle Studies in. On any given night, he’s
still awake. He’s maybe watched a little 30 Rock, South Park or Family
Guy, his favorite TV shows. He’s smoked a little weed, gotten a nice
little buzz working, hit the send button on a few Twitters and lost
himself in Modern Warfare 2. All cozy in sweatpants and a hoodie, he
usually turns in now; if he hasn’t by 7 a.m., it’s time for a Xanax or
an Ambien. When he gets up, usually around noon, he drinks some coffee,
eats breakfast, brushes his teeth, hits the shower and stands in front
of a great big closet (he spent about $200,000 on clothes last year)
asking himself one of life’s more important questions: “Who the fuck do
I want to be today?”

His choices, he says, generally boil down to “urban technical, Japanese
schoolboy, white Jay-Z or skinny, sleek rock guy.” He hasn’t done
Japanese schoolboy in a while but today slips into skinny, sleek rock
guy, in black cargo pants and a pair of white Mastermind sneakers. As
the day wears on, he might call his shrink, which he does on “an
as-needed basis.” He might practice the Israeli fighting art of Krav
Maga, which he got totally into after breaking up with a girl and
deciding to “get good at something she doesn’t know about.” He might
call his friend Bob, a fellow vintage-watch nut, to discuss their
collections. Mayer’s is worth at least $20 million; he can recite his
holdings by heart; he knows all the numbers; he once stumbled across a
rare Rolex dial variant, which is now known as “the Mayer dial.” An
obsessive, he has also collected sneakers, ladies’ handbags, cameras,
lots of stuff. He owns a bulletproof vest — “I looked up California
penal code 12022.2, subsection B. In this state, I’m legally allowed to
wear it” — and wants to own an M4A1 assault rifle, “just to go, ‘Look
what I have that no one else has.'” He once got magician David Blaine to
teach him how to hold his breath and then did so for four minutes, 17
seconds, no tricks involved, which says a lot about the kind of guy he
is: tenacious, nutty and blue-in-the-face sometimes.

Later on, in a restaurant or club, he will have to take a leak and head
straight for a stall. (“I’ve got to go to the stall. I can’t get a good
flow going when I’m out in the world. But then, of course, you run the
risk of people thinking you shit all the time.” He endures.) In the
evening, he favors single-malt Lagavulin scotch (and drinks about a
bottle of it a week), but only in L. A. In New York, where he owns a
home, he doesn’t drink that much. It has to do with the hangover. “On
the West Coast in the morning, it’s like Bob Dylan with a coffee; on the
East Coast, it’s socialites getting penicillin shots,” he says
obliquely. “I can’t drink in New York.”

Along the way, he tries to explain himself and his various
predilections. His love of poop Twitters, for instance. “I mean, in the
wake of some completely fabricated story in Star, you’d be surprised
what a good poop joke can do for you. When I send a poop joke out on
Twitter, every single time, people write back, ‘LOL, that’s why I love
you. You’re not like every other bullshit celebrity.’ It shows an artist
detaching from the matrix of trying to micromanage per-fection. It’s
about not caring. So, it’s not really about poop at all.”

This is pure Mayer talk. Nothing is what it seems. He operates in layers
of meaning, where a poop joke is so much more than a poop joke. “He’s a
student of cause and effect,” says Chad Franscoviak, Mayer’s sound
engineer and sometime roommate for the past 10 years. “And he’d be a
phenomenal chess player, because he knows all the moves so many steps
ahead. That’s just how he operates.”

“I am the new generation of masturbator,” Mayer says later on, out of
the blue, apropos of nothing, really. “I’ve seen it all. Before I make
coffee, I’ve seen more butt holes than a proctologist does in a week.”

Does this new generation of masturbator masturbate every day?

“I don’t like that question, because it seeks to make me sound strange
if I say

‘yes,’ but of course I do. I mean, I have masturbated myself out of
serious problems in my life. The phone doesn’t pick up because I’m
masturbating. And I have excused myself at the oddest times so as to not
make mistakes. If Tiger Woods only knew when to jerk off. It has a true
market value, like gold bullion. First of all, I don’t jerk off because
I’m horny. I’m sort of half-chick. It’s like District 9-I can fire alien
weapons. I can insert a tampon. No, I do it because I want to take a
brain bath. It’s like a hot whirlpool for my brain, in a brain space
that is 100 percent agreeable with itself.”

After that, he continues in like manner, revealing another one of his
situations. He’s in love with the sound of his own voice, always saying
things like, “Let me break it down for you,” and then laying into it
with revelatory verbal fireworks of the kind that constantly threaten to
blow him to smithereens. He can’t help himself, he’s got to say what’s
on his mind, despite the consequences, which often get played out in the
tabloids and on trash TV, such as the time during a stand-up-comedy gig
when he said he never got to have sex with early girlfriend Jennifer
Love Hewitt because of a bout of food poisoning.

“I sometimes wonder what the fuck I’m doing,” he says. “I have these
accidents, these mistakes, these self-inflicted wounds, and then I tear
my head to shreds about it for days. I’ll read a little something and
die a thousand times in my own mind, visualizing the death of my career
or respect for me and my music. I almost go blind. But then two weeks
ago, it occurred to me, ‘John’ — if I can use my own name with myself-
‘The only reason you’re going through these trials is because you’re
brave-enough to say, “I don’t want to detach. I don’t want to go live in
a gated community.”‘ So, I will continue to make these worldwide dignity
mistakes as often as it takes to not make them anymore.”

HOW MAYER GOT TO BE like this is kind of a mystery. He grew up in the
leafy Connecticut town of Fairfield, the middle son of level-headed
professional educators. His mom, Margaret, was an English teacher; his
dad, Richard, some 20 years his mom’s senior, was a high school
principal, and Mayer wasn’t anything like them. A class clown in his
early years, Mayer had taken up the guitar by his midteens and had begun
shutting himself off in his room to the exclusion of everything else.
It’s all he did and all he wanted to do — “kill it, kill it, kill it,”
with that guitar. He plastered his room with posters of Stevie Ray
Vaughan, B.B. King, Jimi Hendrix. While the other kids were listening to
Nirvana, Mayer was deep into reading the Buddy Guy biography Damn Right,
I’ve Got the Blues and cutting out the photos when he was done.

“He kept to himself quite a bit back then, and he was pretty quiet in
school but hilarious once we got outside,” says Fairfield-raised tennis
pro James Blake, who’s known Mayer since they were seven. “He seemed
pretty disinterested in what was going on in school.”

For several years, Mayer took guitar lessons from Al Ferrante, owner of
the Fairfield Guitar Center. “He came in holding a Stevie Ray Vaughan
album, said, ‘I want to learn this stuff,’ and in short order he was
wailing away,” says Ferrante, “way beyond anybody else.” To his friends,
Mayer’s talent was obvious. “He could play the guitar and drum at the
same time,” recalls Joe Beleznay, who played rhythm guitar in Mayer’s
high school band, Villanova Junction (named after the Hendrix song).
“He’d sit behind the drum set, get the bass drum going, then on the down
strum of his guitar he’d hit the snare. It was crazy, inventive shit. He
just had it.” Says Blake, “With girls, I wouldn’t say he had the same
kind of success he’s had now, but he didn’t put in the same kind of
effort. His focus was on that guitar.” At some point, however, this
single-minded devotion to music so freaked his parents out that they
sent him to shrinks to see if something was wrong (he was given a clean
bill of health). Meanwhile, the kid had his own worries. For one, his
parents fought a lot, which he says led him to “disappear and create my
own world I could believe in.” Also, he’d begun to suffer from anxiety
attacks and feared ending up in a mental institution. “Growing up,”
Mayer says, “that was the big fear.” Says his pal Beleznay, “I would get
anxiety attacks too, and we would talk each other down. It was heart
palpitations, shortness of breath, coldness and shivers, strange stuff,
and we’d be like, ‘You’re totally fine. You’re not having a heart
attack.’ His mind works at such speed that I think he would sort of
second-guess his sanity at times.”

In his senior year, Mayer decided he was going to skip traditional
higher education and become a musician. “I tried to talk him out of it,”
says Blake, “but then he told me that he didn’t care if he was sleeping
on a pool table in a dirty bar, he just wanted to play music.” When he
told his parents the same thing, all hell broke loose. Their reaction
was so strong that even today Mayer wraps himself up in his arms while
talking about them and says, “Look at my body language. My goodness.”

After graduation, he attended Berklee College of Music in Boston — while
there, his father had a change of heart and sent “him a note that read,
“Remember me when you go platinum” — but Mayer dropped out after a year
and moved to Atlanta, to join its thriving singer-songwriter scene. He
started off playing Monday’s open-mike night upstairs at Eddie’s Attic
and soon became a regular performer there, as well as a part-time
doorman. “He was very talented and extremely determined — as determined
as anybody I’ve ever met,” recalls Eddie’s Attic founder Eddie Owen. “He
thought it was going to happen for him, and by God he did everything he
could to make it happen.”

Even so, he could still be a shut-in. He had terrible acne and often
canceled dates because of it. Eventually, he suffered a kind of
breakdown — “an anxiety bender,” he once called it — out of which came a
new Mayer, the freewheeling social-animal Mayer, the Mayer we know
today. In 2000, a gig at the South by Southwest music festival in Austin
led to meetings with several record labels, during which he behaved in
typical strong-willed Mayerian fashion.

“As a kid, he picks up a guitar and isolates himself because he’s so
overtaken by passion for the instrument or because he’s not comfortable
socially and is an outsider,” says Michael McDonald, his manager and
friend for the past 10 years. “And then at home, his pursuit isn’t
supported. But what happened was he became his own biggest advocate.
When he went to those meetings, he would tell people how he wanted it to
be, and if they offered alternatives, he walked away.”

Eventually, Mayer signed with Aware/ Columbia. Shortly thereafter, Room
for Squares was released, “Your Body Is a Wonderland” became a hit, as
did “Daughters,” from his second album, Heavier Things, and everyone was
happy, especially the label, which was hotly anticipating a third record
full of similar radio-ready tunes. Instead, in 2005, Mayer presented it
with the cool blues of the John Mayer Trio. Says McDonald, “They were
like, ‘Oh, fuck. Can we please make it an EP?’ But John’s got a course
charted that he doesn’t share, and the Trio, to him, was an answer to
‘Wonderland’ and ‘Daughters’ — not a rebellion against but an answer to.”

The Trio’s live record, Try!, didn’t do as well as Mayer’s other albums,
but that was hardly the point. The point is, he will showcase his
talents on his own schedule.

And so forward he moves, on a journey that seems to have gone by with
wondrous ease, except, of course, for the acne, and the shut-in
business, and the worries about a mental institution, and the anxiety
bender — all of which, sum in toto, are probably responsible for the way
he is today, this willy-nilly scattered metaminded eccentric who seems
next-door normal only on his records. He recently told MTV, “You get
kicked in the heart by someone who’s aware of it or not, and you get
sent alone into a room, and if you have a little bit of intellect, a
little bit of talent and a lot of loneliness, you’ll probably make it.”

Now that Mayer has left the cloistered seclusion of his room, however,
what he seems to want more than anything is to make up for his
loneliness by courting mass attention. It’s what his public life is
about. It’s why he decided to make records like Battle Studies that
back-seat his scorching blues guitar in favor of pop-happy lyrics and
commercial melodies, the Trio album notwithstanding, and why he even
sings songs at all. As far back as 2002, he was saying things like “I
scientifically engineer my music to be as accessible as possible,” just
as today he says, “I love being a famous musician. I love being the
center of attention. I believe in judging the quality of a song by how
much of a hit it sounds like.” At least he’s honest. But the ultimate
effect is to make Mayer the singer-songwriter and Mayer the man about
town sometimes seem disconnected, like they don’t even belong in the
same body. He says he’s going to shake things up on his next record. “I
want the next one to be gritty, real gritty,” he says. “The no-ballad
gritty one.” But then he laughs and says, “One ballad.” And then he
laughs again and says, “I’ve got a built-in failure attenuator.” He
gives, he takes away, he’s got his course charted, he’s a blues killer,
he’s a pop superstar, he seems so open, he seems so shut, he is a master
of disguise.

Last year, his folks finally got divorced, after which Mayer moved his
dad, now 82 years old, out to California, to an independent-living
facility, where he could see him more often and help take care of him.
Mayer won’t talk about it, though, what it means to be so close to his
father at this stage of his dad’s life. Nor will he let you talk to his
dad, or his mom, or his brothers, like they might reveal some strange
truth. In fact, Mayer is cagey about his Fairfield years. He can talk
about the most intimate details of his personal life, but about his
childhood, and the forces that shaped him, he remains steadfastly mum.
But maybe that’s the way it should be. Perhaps it’s best to rise above
the gnawing tabloidlike need to have all mysteries revealed.

Mayer does say that ever since the divorce, he has felt slightly adrift.
“I was in L.A., making the record, when it happened. You get orphaned. I
never went home. I never went back to the home I grew up in. I never
went and saw it again. It happened. My house is gone.” Among other
things, it’s the house where, at the age of 14, he fell in love with the
girl who would inspire “Your Body Is a Wonderland” and without whom he
would not be where he is today. He recently got an e-mail from her. “It
was a beautiful e-mail about what it’s like to hear me on the radio,” he
says. “She said she smiled. I started crying as I wrote her back. This
woman is precious. She can vouch for me not as a celebrity. She carries
with her information of this 14-year-old boy she knew. She knows the
truth. She hadn’t written me in a long time. I think she was trying to
forget me because she has a husband and kids.” That’s one possibility.
But there’s another possibility: that Mayer is the one who continues to
pine, either for her or the idea of her and their shared innocence, his
pre-celebrity existence, and he can’t bring himself to say so.

OVER THE YEARS, LOTS OF musicians have weighed in on Mayer’s talents.
Said Fall Out Boy’s Patrick Stump, “Mayer is single-handedly making the
Stratocaster cool again!” Said Buddy Guy,” Every once in a while, a
young man comes along to make sure the blues can survive.” Said a
puzzled Ozzy Osbourne, ” ‘Continuum: Music by John Mayer,’ whoever that
is. ‘Continuum.’ I couldn’t understand what that word meant.” Said Jason
Mraz, after seeing Mayer kill at the Viper Room, “He didn’t play no
‘Body Is a Wonderland.’ He was playing for his love of music. He was
Jimi Hendrix and Buddy Guy and Stevie Vaughan all rolled up into one big
reincarnation burrito.”

In 2006, Mayer spent 10 days working on songs with Eric Clapton at
Clapton’s estate, where Mayer seemed to have reverted to some of his
childhood ways. “He treated our days together as work,” says Clapton,
“and I tried to point out to him the importance of music being the truth
— and to get him to come out of the bedroom. There are a lot of bedroom
guitar players. And John was in and out of that. I wasn’t sure if John
was aware of the power of playing with other people, though I think he
is now.” He goes on, “I think he becomes too caught up in being clever.
It seems to me his gift happens in spite of him. He’s a prime saboteur.
And he will do himself in, if everyone lets him. But his gift is in good

And while all of that is very interesting, it’s not really what people
reading tabloids care about. All they care about is “Who is Mayer going
out with now?”

Jessica Simpson was his first big tabloid-heavy romance. They got
together in mid-2006 and went public at Christina Aguilera’s New Year’s
Eve party and then they got swarmed. At first Mayer didn’t think he
could handle all the media heat — “I got so many tension headaches from
magazine covers that it felt like a threat” — but stuck it out with her
for just shy of a year. Then there’s his latest, Jennifer An-iston, and
it was the purest kind of celebrity relationship, almost every minute of
it documented in one way or another. When it ended, Mayer held an
impromptu press conference outside his New York gym in which he planned
to flay himself alive for breaking up with Aniston — “I’m the asshole. I
burned the American flag. I basically murdered an ideal.” Instead, he
came off like a jerk only interested in taking credit for the breakup.
“I’ve never really gotten over it,” he says. “It was one of the worst
times of my life.”

He still thinks about Aniston a lot, and in conversation her name pops
up often.

“I met a girl one time in Vegas, her name was Dimples, and the ‘S’ in
Dimples was a dollar sign,” he’s saying early one evening sitting
outside at the Chateau Marmont hotel. “I have this weird feeling, a
pride thing, for the people I’ve had relationships with. I still feel
like I’m with them, in the sense that if I fucked Dimples, what does
that say about someone like Jen? I feel like it’s all connected. How
could I ever cosmically relate these two people? What would I be saying
to Jen, who I think is fucking fantastic, if I said to her, ‘I don’t
dislike you. In fact, I like you extremely well. But I have to back out
of this because it doesn’t arc over the horizon. This is not where I see
myself for the rest of my life, this is not my ideal destiny,’ and then
I see myself fucking Dimples? What does that say for my case?”

Then again, there is what he did last summer. At a hotel in Vegas, he
saw some girls by the pool, one thing led to another, and they all wound
up in bed together. “And you know what? It wasn’t smarmy. It was
awesome. And then, after that, when I went out that night, I had the
greatest time ever, because I was depleted, had no libido left, didn’t
have to do any of those crazy Blue Steel looks. It was unbelievable.”

A waiter shows up. Mayer orders chicken. But then he realizes he ate
chicken yesterday. “Fuck the chicken,” he says and calls out for
spaghetti Bolognese.

“I’ll be honest with you,” he says then. “All this weird shit about me?
All this strangeness? I wouldn’t have a music career without it. But I
am at odds with myself. I have some presence of psychological damage
from the past 36 months. I have not had a woman appear in my dreams
sexually without a paparazzi in the dream too. I can’t even have a wet
dream without having to explain to someone who’s grinding on me, ‘We
can’t do this right now, because there’s a guy over there taking
pictures.'” He groans. “I don’t know how much further I can do this
before I’m a dead body on the side of the road. I mean, either I’m a
total fucking nut case who can explain himself, or I’m really not crazy
and I can explain myself. I don’t know yet. But I’ll be happy when I
close out this life-partner thing. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt
attached. Think of how much mental capacity I’m using to meet the right
person so I can stop giving a fuck about it.”

He’s on a real roll right now, caught up again in the workings of his
own mind. At times like these, it’s impossible to get a word in
edgewise. It seems dangerous to even try. It’s best just to let him go
on, reserve judgment, realize that, above all else, he means well and is
simply, in the end, only trying to find his way, as best he can.

“I don’t care about anything other than energy,” he goes on. “That’s why
people think, ‘Is he bi? Is he that?’ I’ve never slept with a man. But I
get it. I’ve seen pictures of men on the Internet that are sexier than
pictures of most women.”

Has he ever felt it stir?

“Sure. Abso-fucking-lutely. You know when I didn’t feel it stir? When I
actually stood next to a real dude. When I walk in the locker room at
the gym, I’m 100 percent straight as an arrow. But, look, because of all
the porn I’ve watched, I’m now enamored with what I call ‘the third
kind.’ It’s not male, it’s not female. It’s a new creation by way of the
hundreds of blow-job films I’ve seen. There’s a new brand of dicks going
around right now. It’s a new dick. It’s a superdick. This superdick is
straight and one color, and it seeks to destroy the race of men before them.

“I have a hugely creative and visual relationship with things,” he
continues. “So what’s my job going to be? Finding somebody to be the
only person. Basically, what am I going to do with my imaginary
headless, hung dudes without a hair on them or anything masculine about
them? What am I going to do with those dicks when it comes time to find
somebody? Do they go away? Do you find a woman who incorporates it? Do
you love this woman so much you no longer need it? I’m like in Avatar.
I’m a legless, dickless dude laying in a chamber, projecting myself in
all ways. I’m this legless asshole — ”

A few cute girls walk by. Mayer finally stops talking. He looks at them
but that’s all. “If I talk to them, I’m expressing an interest I’d be
betraying if I saw someone else that I wanted to talk to more. It’s too
early in the evening, and they’d be a sidecar. Anyway, here’s how
tonight’s going to go. After this, I’m going to go home, smoke weed, and
play Modern Warfare 2. It’s what I’m going to do all night.” But then he
tilts his nose into the air, says he’s good with scents and would bet
money that one of the girls is wearing a perfume called Child. “If
you’re wrong, you’re an idiot. If you’re right, you’re like James Bond.”

He turns to them. “Excuse me, can I be rude and ask you a question? Is
somebody here wearing Child?”


Then, a blonde: “I am,” she says. “Well done.”

So, tonight he’s like James Bond. Tomorrow, who knows?


By Erik Hedegaard

Photography by Mark Seliger

Erik Hedegaard profiled James Cameron in RS1094/1095.

Copyright of Rolling Stone is the property of Rolling Stone LLC and its
content may not be copied or emailed to multiple sites or posted to a
listserv without the copyright holder’s express written permission.
However, users may print, download, or email articles for individual use.


Leave a Reply

Use Search to Find Stories

Christopher Walken*
Bruce Dern
Woody Harrelson*
Charlie Sheen*
The End Boys*
Robert Downey Jr*
The UFC's Dana White
John Bon Jovi**
Denis Leary
Matt Dillon
Arianna Huffington
Simon Cowell*
Chuck Pahluniuk
Justin Timberlake*
Mickey Rourke
Jesse James
Chloe Sevigny
American Pie Kids featuring Tara Reid's Hamburger!*
Mark Wahlberg
Scream II girls*
Shania Twain*
Michael Bay
The Rock*
Andy Dick
Tom Green
Bert Kreischer
Asia Argento*

Oddities & Ends

The Lobster Boy: an American Horror Story
Pro Bikini Contest Babes!
My Stupid Y2K Problem
Pro Bass Fishing New Agers
Nazi on Campus
Nikki Avalon
Me, Professional Gambler
The Grass Casters' Tale
Inside Pro Bodybuilding
Ross Jeffries, Speed Seducer
eBay Fries a Brain
World's Worst Investor
Asheville's Would-be Nudist Mayor

Use Search to Find Stories