Your Body is a Wonderland

So you all know I work for that little celebrity magazine that rhymes with Weeple. What you don’t know, perhaps, is the precise lengths Weeple reporters must sometime go to for a good scoop. Now before you get your panties in a wad, I didn’t get said scoop last night, but I’ll relay to you the order of events anyhow.

On my way back to San Francisco Friday, one of my editors called me urgently, asking if I could attend a John Mayer concert in Sac on Friday and one in Mountain View (home to Google!) on Saturday. They wanted the obvious: Jennifer Aniston sightings. Clearly, that night was out as I was chilling in Vegas en route, but I spent the next few hours on the phone with my publicist friends trying to track down where he was staying (score), as well as find a scalped ticket online (double score, thanks StubHub!). This was perhaps more trouble than it may initially seem, but hours of searching online and stressing that oh no! I couldn’t find a ticket up front! were in vain because in the end I scored a seat in the front section for a mere $279 (seriously, people pay these prices to go listen to John Mayer??). Though I’d never sat so close at such a massive concert before. I could practically see his nose hairs from where I was sitting.

Now, I was a Mayer fan back in the day, in the peak of his awesomeness, say 2001-2004 maybe. I even saw him at Exit In in Nashville in 2001 when he was but a mere man who strummed on his guitar solo, before he’d gone mainstream, before he graced the cover of magazines like Weeple on a regular basis. But I haven’t been a fan in years, his last album just didn’t do it for me. I even met him in 2007 at the Time 100 gala and wasn’t impressed to say the least (he’s not the most outgoing and approachable of individuals). However, I’m mildly obsessed with Colbie Caillat’s album, and she was opening for him, so that did excite me. Though, girlfriend, what is up with this outfit? And I couldn’t help but think she strongly resembled LeeLee Sobieski, who has to be one of my least favorite actresses to ever have graced a Josh Hartnett movie.

I’ve never really thought John was hot–his shaggy hair always looked like it needed a brush run through it, his limbs are far too long and awkward for his body giving him the grace of an orangutan, not to mention he’s a total womanizer (Jessica Simpson, Cameron Diaz, Jen Aniston all in a few short months? PUH-LEASE!)–but he was a sporting a short, new ‘do last night, and there’s something about his raspy speaking voice (oh and um, maybe the fact that he can sing like no other) that kinda made me like him again. Plus, he sang Free Fallin’, which was probably one of the better covers I’ve ever heard of the number.

John Mayer singing Free Fallin’ from krysleigh on Vimeo.

Though he still has this disturbing propensity to hump the guitar as he plays.

The best part of the whole night? I got SVV to go with me! We haven’t seen each other in 12 days, per my usual crazy travel schedule, and now my mom and sis are in town and we’re heading out to Yosemite, Mammoth Lakes and Tahoe for the week, and I could tell he wasn’t crazy about the idea of seeing JM in concert–um, Scott’s more a punk rock and electronica kinda guy, not a whiny soft pop lover by any means–but he obliged, which was great, because four eyes on the lookout for Jen are better than two. He even brought his binoculars and kept sentry for the likes of JA. Prior to our arrival, SVV announced: “I’m going to form a hypothesis. I bet there will be three types of people at this concert: teeny-bopper girls with their dads in tow, avid gay guys fans and gay guys going as a favor to their gal pals.” He wasn’t wrong. But even SVV ended up having a good time. Not to mention, unlike outdoor amphitheatres I’d been to in the past, Shoreline let us bring in a cooler, meaning booze (for him) and granola bars and pudding cups (for me). I’m such a bad ass, this I know.

Back in Stalking Ville, I’d spent several hours earlier that day trying to track him at the Four Seasons in Palo Alto. Success! I had “a source”–yes, all “sources” quoted in celeb magazines actually do exist; we don’t make this stuff up–there who confirmed his arrival, but no one had seen JA. So SVV and I headed to the Four Seasons for a drink post-concert, but no JA or JM sightings. We lost hope around midnight and turned in. It was all far more low key than when I worked for In Touch three years ago and they flew me to Knoxville for the Dukes of Hazzard premiere. They also sent a very experienced photographer from London, who was well-versed in being a pap, and most of our time in Knoxville was like a high-speed chase–racing to the airport, from the airport, to the hotel we thought they’d be staying at, to the premiere. I felt like I should be rocking big sunglasses and tint
ed windows. When we discovered where Jessica Simpson and Sean William Scott were staying (Johnny Knoxville, or Phillip John Clapp as is his real name, was staying with the fam), I had to stake out the lobby all day long.

As my luck would have it, after I’d been trying to blend in with the scenery and spent hours typing away on my computer and reading a book downstairs, my new dress–a Gap outlet purchase, the last I ever made–split all the way down the back along the zipper, leaving most of me exposed. I just couldn’t have Stifler meeting me like this, not a first impression at least! I ran out to the rental car, where I was concealing my luggage (I stupidly booked a room in the Hilton nearby, not knowing where they’d be staying), quickly changed clothes and made my way back to my post. At that very time, Jessica and Seann had come in, mingled with the starstruck cheerleaders staying at the hotel, made a quick trip to the bar and gone up to their rooms. As I’ve said before, I’ve always had impeccable timing.

I did get to talk to them at the premiere later that night, and somehow finagled my way into Sapphire Lounge, where they were drinking post-party–though the 10-foot-tall bodyguard kept me at bay–but if anything, that experience taught me to test drive my wardrobe before partaking in high-speed chases, or really, any celebrity assignment.