Conspiracy Theory: Father John Misty XPNfest Meltdown Caused By... Ryan Adams?

It appears that the lasting memory of last weekend’s WXPN Xponential Fest will be this: Father John Misty’s very performative non-performance, which felt like nothing so much as a modern of update of Richie Tenenbaum’s meltdown on the tennis court. Although, even though that was a scene in a movie and Misty’s thing happened in the actual world, you could argue that the Baumer was more genuine.

Since this horseshit went down, well, wait. Before we get to the conspiracy theory, let us address the content of Misty’s remarks. It wasn’t that he was wrong about anger being a poor substitute for thoughtfulness even to the point of grave sadness (holy shit we just said it better in half of a  sentence than he did in 20 minutes), it was just that something was off about this. Yes, performers aren’t monkeys, they can say what they want, and they absolutely should, but we find, we have always found, Father John Misty to be deeply disingenuous. I mean, that’s his whole deal, right? 

Anway. Let’s walk through a scenario. Let’s say you’re Father John Misty (sorry). Let’s say you’ve been in a weird war with Ryan Adams over godfuckingknowswhat for months now (again, sorry). Let’s say you get booked at this XPN thing, it’s just a solo gig for you, and you arrive to realize, fuckin’ hell, Ryan Adams is headlining that same fest, the same night, in the much bigger venue! Again, you are Father John Misty (Jesus, I am so, so sorry), and this does not sit well with you at all. So what do you do?

You throw a fuckin’ tantrum, Father John Misty, that’s what the fuck you do! You pull your release to have your performance livestreamed (which he did in fact do, whereas all other participating artists in the fest allowed for streaming), you freak the fuck out, and then you take that freakout all the way on stage, where you get out of performing this fest by blathering on for however long about everything BUT the thing that is foremost in your mind: RYAN FUCKING ADAMS. 

Did this happen? Well, dude, we just don’t know. But it would explain a lot if it did. What would remain a mystery, what will go on, hopefully, to blessedly remain a mystery, is why anyone in this big, beautiful, crazy world would give one dried white turd about any of this. In fact, I have named that dried white turd.

Its name is Father John Misty.

As Convention Rolls On, Philadelphians Fight Back Against The Election's True Enemy: National Media

One might have well expected it: That the same hack national media that’s been repeating the “batteries at Santa Claus” urban legend for decades would find plenty to whine about when they arrived in Philadelphia, only to find… Philadelphia. Philadelphia, we say, where the unpleasantness of sporting events, Guns N’ Roses concerts and people from the suburbs are held at distant remove from the general populace! Philadelphia, where the subway is viewed as a utility and not a pleasantry! Philadelphia, where hell yes it’s hot in the summertime. 

But the media hasn’t quite seen it this way. And so, right now, as we speak, we’re showing them something else.

We are showing them, ladies and gentlemen, the motherfucking realness.

And on and on, like a cry to the heavens. Shine on, Philadelphia. For we are a people who are just, and right, and good.

Wawa Used The Word “Bae” In A Facebook Post And Lots Of White Males Had Feelings About That

Dateline — Philadelphia, July 25, 2016. Now is the summer of our discontent, as you all know, and as Hoagiefest recedes into memory, the garbagey breeze has blown in from Cleveland and with it, a hot wind of white male angst. How do they get their country back?, they’d like to know. Has the whole system gone insane? It has, it will continue, and it will infect even the things they hold dear, things as sacred as Wawa itself. 

It started out innocently enough, on July 14th, with the beloved regional accessory to America’s obesity epidemic posting the above on Facebook. They made a pun about bagels, the word “bae,” and “goals.” As puns go, it was cute enough. But members of Wawa’s faux-endangered white male constituency looked into this post and saw only more of the same damning evidence they see in all things these days. They saw their cultural influence melting like the glaciers they couldn’t agree were melting. They saw the de-evolution of their language, with apparently no shred of the cognitive dissonance that allows slang to keep languages alive. They saw the wicked eyes of Beyonce Knowles. And then, they made their voices known.

"Wawa, please don't degrade yourself like this. Youre better than that,” said a father of two in North Carolina.

"Use the word bae again Wawa and I swear it's no more hoagies for me,” threatened a man from the Digital Marketing & Personalization Team at Verizon in East Brunswick, New Jersey.

"Wawa... you might have lost my business because of the word ‘bae' please stop i love Wawa,” said a grown-ass man whose profile pic was Darth Vader along side the quote “Suck My Robot Balls,” which is something Darth Vader never said. 

To their eternal credit, Wawa has not entered the fray, peacefully allowing history to take its course. As of this writing, Hoagiefest is still being celebrated for all who wish to engage with it.


This Is The TV Commercial That Haunts Your Every Cab Ride


Every time a white girl tries to sing like Billie Holiday, God’s own sphincter contracts in a full-God-body (Gody?) cringe, and the universe lets go of a sigh that turns into a cough. I mean, we know this. What we cannot know is just how many cab rides in Philadelphia have produced how many full-Gody cringes, how many universal sigh-coughs that, hey universe, not for nothing, really oughta be looked at by a doctor or something. 

I speak, of course, of the above commercial for Verragio diamonds at Family Jewelers of Marlton, NJ. By my own very rough estimate, the spot has been running on the small ipad screen in the back of every taxi in Philadelphia, 24/7, for the better part of two years (though it feels like much longer). This is what is known: It is for a jeweler in Marlton, NJ, with an apparently boundless ad budget (or a very, very sweet hookup). This is what is not known: Whose awful music this is, and what long-term exposure to it may bring. In one test case (my own), triggered insanity is suggested.

If you have ridden in a cab during that time, there is a good chance you have seen the ad. And after the first few times, to recognize it is to put it on mute, as I have done, splunging my finger down frantically on countless germ-covered taxi cab touch screens. When, I ask the heavens, will it end? The heavens do not answer. The only reply that ever seems to come is the one issued when I’ve finally forgotten about it, only to enter a cab and have it play once more, the minute I shut the door. And then the experience begins anew.

What is so awful about it, you ask? What horrible crime, other than an assult of barfy CISgendered  pony fuckin’ fever marriage-industrial-complex garbage packed in concentrate, does this commercial commit? Well, here you may be right. This could be all about me — all about my grave intolerance of a certain type of appropriation, melded with rote, latter-day American heterosexual mating rituals. Yes. I am fully ready to say that this might be just about me. 

But I don’t think so.