Washed Weekly: Fyre Fest II & Old Man Pajamas
Immerse in the elements.
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When Coach Had Jokes
by Dave
No one will remember this, but there used to be an alarm clock speaker that you could pop your iPod onto. It is laughable now, but it was pretty killer during my junior year of college. The Gen Z mind simply cannot comprehend this. Every Tuesday at 7:30 a.m., I’d roll out of bed as “Many Men” played at an obnoxiously high volume. I had to get my mind right for my standing 8 a.m. tee time at Aquarena Springs nine-hole golf course.
Once a week for one hour of credit, I’d roll out of bed and drive five minutes down the road to play the most half-ass golf you could possibly imagine. The parking lot was situated directly next to the fourth hole tee box, and most of the class would play three holes and bail. If things were going poorly, or if I had gone too hard at Joe’s Crab Shack for Monday Night Football and dollar pitchers the night before, I would call it a day. What a moron I was. Playing golf for actual course credit? I can barely find the time for one round a month now. Take me baaaack.
One morning, I arrived unusually early to the course. There was no driving range, so warming up normally consisted of buying a Crunchy Peanut Butter Clif bar, a Red Bull, and taking a few cuts on the first tee. I parked and walked into the clubhouse to sign in. Standing next to the course pro and behind the counter was the men’s golf coach. He “taught” the class. If you think the students did not give a damn about the class, Coach was right there with us. I probably saw him three times that semester.
I grabbed the clipboard and looked for my name. David Ruff. As I scribbled my vintage DCR signature, Coach leaned in to make a comment.
Ruff, huh? You know, that’s one of the few words my dog will say.
They erupted with laughter. You’d think Katt Williams was there doing a surprise set. As they looked at me for a response, all I could do was muster a failed smile, a painfully forced chuckle followed by a sigh, and a “Yeppp.” Growing up with the last name Ruff, I’ve heard this line of humor hundreds of times. The branch that this comedic fruit was growing on touched the ground. Had I just been roasted? I guess? It was all good fun, but at 7:52 a.m., I’m not trying to have fun. I just wanted to play my three holes and go back to bed. I needed to be sharp for Poli Sci at noon.
That course is no longer there. I have no idea what replaced it, but I assume it’s more student housing or a mixed-use development with Panera Bread and Great Clips. Long live Aquarena Springs.
I’m Saving Up For This One Million Dollar Fyre Fest II Ticket
by Dillon
(And so should you.)
Fyre Fest II is tentatively set to begin on December 6, 2024 somewhere “in the Caribbean.” The exact location, I guess, is still to be determined. In fact, the artist lineup is also still to be determined. But that didn’t stop blindly faithful people from completely buying out the first batch of pre-sale tickets in less than a day, allegedly, according to Forbes.
The original Fyre Festival of course rose to infamy in 2017 when it was exposed in real time by festival goers as being a total, unmitigated train wreck. Pictures and videos began surfacing of living conditions that qualify as squalor and food unfit for prisoners at Gitmo.
Surely you remember this lunch that was provided:
Who doesn’t love a Kraft cheese sandwich on Mrs. Baird’s whole wheat with a side sad salad?
It was, for my money, the greatest week to be on Twitter in the platform’s existence. It felt like 80% of all Twitter users were not only aware of the Fyre Fest disaster, but they were actively dunking on it and, of course, Billy McFarland, the man behind the festival. It was billed as “an ultra-exclusive, VIP event” in paradise, but it more closely resembled a concentration camp for affluent brats.
Artists canceled, the clean water supply ran out, and festival goers tried to flee back to civilization only to realize they were stuck there. For the people there, it was hell on earth. For the rest of us, it was awesome.
Yeah so Billy Boy was named in a $100 million class-action lawsuit and was later sentenced to six years in prison after being convicted on two counts of wire fraud. Well, Billy is out now. He’s back, baby, and he’s looking for redemption with the announcement of Fyre Fest II.
Billy’s Twitter announcement breaks it down for us. Let’s take a look at the packages available for purchase, per their website:
Package 1: General Admission
$2,500
Package 2: VIP
$5,000
Package 3: Artist Pass
$50,000
Package 4: Prometheus
$1,022,057.06 (!!!)
And here’s what the Prometheus pass includes:
Um, I think I’ll pass on the first two options. I have better things to do than to share my oxygen and spend my time with common folk. The Artist Pass sounds fine, I think? Even though there is no explanation of the level of access you’d actually get on their website. Better play it safe and go with the big dawg. I just hope I get approved.
I don’t want Prometheus access to Fyre Fest II. I NEED Prometheus access to Fyre Fest II. When am I going to have another chance to be immersed in the elements of fire, earth, sky, AND sea? Literally never. This pass will open and “literally” build doors to an island escape that transcends the confines and dates of Fyre Fest II. Do you know what that means? Because I don’t. I’m going to find out, though.
Since we’re “literally” building doors, do I need to bring my tool belt? Hammer and nails and a table saw maybe? Will these items be provided?
Holy shit I’m so freaking excited.
Like Billy said, if you can’t afford to drop a million dollars on a festival ticket before knowing which musical artists will even show up, or where it’s going to actually be located, or what the lodging will look like, this thing just isn’t for you. And that’s okay! Surely there’s a poor people show or two you can catch locally.
Lavish lodging, fine dining, pristine facilities, face-to-faces with the greatest TBD musicians on the planet, earth-sea-sky-fire immersion – if Billy McFarland can’t make this happen and give us our money’s worth, literally no one can.
What could go wrong?
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I’m Addicted To Wearing Old Man Pajamas
by
I used to post my Sunday Scaries-driven Panic Room every weekend. While I’ve been a bit spotty lately on that front, it’s partially because my habits have remained the same.
It all begins with what I call my “sleep boxers.” In true Patagonia fashion, these capilene boxers have withstood the test of time. Navy blue, a somewhat stretched out elastic waistband, and enough night sweats under their belt that they’re probably begging me to get a Whoop band to sort things out.
From there, it’s a rotation of crewneck sweatshirts and long sleeve tees. My favorite Panic Room shirt was a washed out Comfort Colors tee with the Seaside logo on it. While I did feel far too white wearing it sometimes, it put my mind at ease in ways that only sandy beaches and Jimmy Buffett can. These days, it’s my Taylor Swift Eras Tour crew that I was lucky enough to snag.
But recently, there’s been a shift in vibes.
When I started Retail Therapy with Barrett in January of 2022, I knew we’d talk about one thing primarily: shopping. What I hadn’t considered at that time was how much free shit I’d get sent my way simply because we talked about it on-air. While we don’t talk about things to intentionally get them for free, we do get sneaky emails that make our days.
This holiday season, I got a shipment from Bonobos. Part of that shipment was a pair of walrus-patterned pajamas that eventually changed my life. Here’s a photo of me in them in Nashville:
Yes, I love them so much that I decided to pack them with me in my carry-on for a long weekend. No, I never expected to reach Old Man Status this quickly.
Growing up, I saw my dad wear various forms of pajamas that can only be classified as Old Man. Pajama pants with an old tee, matching PJ sets, nightgowns, the works. He’s a man of taste and style, so this sort of thing was normalized to me at a young age.
All that fabric? In bed? Under a bunch of other fabric that’s intended to keep you warm? Yeah, for a long time, I didn’t think pajamas of any sort would be in my wheelhouse. I was fine with my Patagonia sleeping boxers. I was at peace.
But these are different. They’re light. The pattern is ornate enough that I feel like an old money trust fund-receiving New Yorker. When I get in bed, it’s almost like they disappear in terms of feel. I can go the entire night without feeling like I’m suffocated — something I’ve never experienced before when wearing more than just some bottoms.
Does this make me old? Am I akin to Ebenezer Scrooge in terms of fashion? Have I simply reached a point in my life where pajamas make me feel like my dad? I’m fine with any answer anyone has to any of those questions. But I do fear that this will turn me into a pajama-purchasing fiend.
A quick look on Mr. Porter’s pajamas section yields $690 satin pajama pants, $3,790 silk-twill robes, and $400 silk tops. Am I really ready to dip my toe into the high-end world of men’s intimates? Am I already creating ways to spin this to my wife, mainly that the cost-per-wear is low because you wear them nearly every night?
Okay, okay, I need to stop. One pair is enough.
You know, until it’s not.
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