Time for your weekly edition of the Defector Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. You can also read Drew over at SFGATE, and buy Drew’s books while you’re at it. Today, we're talking universal knife subsidies, noogies, desert island concerts, good doggies, and more.
PROGRAMMING NOTE: I’m out next week on Spring Break. That’s right, baby. Me and my boys are heading down to Cancun to crush some beers and mack on some fine ladies. And not necessarily in that order, muchacho!
I kid, of course. My family and I are off on a road trip all week, which was a good plan seeing as how air travel in this country is no longer possible. But fear not, we’ll have a guest host bagger ready for you folks, so email them your stupid questions and they’ll indulge you. Got all that? Sweet.
Your letters:
Ben:
I work in a small office with a door. Co-workers will often come in to grab a file, ask a question, whatever. They enter after only a perfunctory knock, almost simultaneous with opening the door. This has never been an issue. However, because I'm now officially middle aged (41), I have to watch my cholesterol by eating a lot of fiber. A lot of fiber means a lot of gas. Since I adjusted my diet, I'm constantly ripping farts. It's not like I never farted before, but previously it was infrequent enough. Now, anytime anyone comes in, there's a decent chance there's at least a lingering funk in the air. So what's the etiquette for farting in an office? Is it my personal space to stink up as I choose, like my bedroom at home? Or do I owe it to my co-workers to hold in these farts for bathroom trips?
Can you hold those farts in? Because I’m also in my 40s and on fiber supplements, and my farts are stealthier than Lupin. I move wrong and PFRRRT! Out one comes. No warning. And when I get up in the morning to piss, it sounds like the wind section of an orchestra warming up. Worst of all, I have no sense of smell, so I can’t tell what kind of stank I just put out there. I’m not sharting regularly or anything, but sometimes farts will slip contain and there’s nothing I can do about it. I could ask for sympathy from those I’ve just cluster-bombed, but who’s gonna offer it? If I drop ass in a crowded elevator, the guy next to me isn’t gonna be like, “You poor thing.” He’s gonna look at me like I’m the fucking wolfman.
So that’s the problem facing you and your office, Ben. It’s your office, but it’s not really yours. It belongs to your employer, or to whatever shady real estate conglomerate owns the building that leases office space to them. That’s why your coworkers shuffle in and out of your space with impunity. Now, their presumptuousness ought to make smelling your farts their problem. But no one who’s been carpet-bombed is gonna take that argument seriously. You dealt it, and therefore you are the one in the wrong. Even if you have the right to fart 200 times a day in your office, no one will respect that right. Especially if you ate at a Qdoba for lunch.
I once had my own office when I was only like 23. It was a windowless office with no furniture, save for a chair and desk. But I didn’t have to share it with anyone, and I could lock the door. A magical time, especially for anyone who was able to download Limewire onto their office PC. I did abominable things in that office, including farting with impunity. That’s because I was so young and cocky that I deemed the office to be my property, and not the ad agency’s. Anyone who entered should have known the risks involved.
I am no longer that young, which means I know that’s an unprofessional way to do your job. Being professional means being courteous to your colleagues as a matter of routine, which means curtailing your farts as best you can in their presence. You won’t always succeed—lord knows I haven’t—but at least you tried. That’s the difference between you being “Ben who farted that one time and it was real nasty,” and “Ben who never stops farting.” A subtle difference, but a vital one. You don’t want your farts to define you at work.
By the way, I work from home now. You might think this gives me full license to fart in my office, seeing as how I literally do own it. WRONG. The second my wife pokes her head into the take lab, the first thing I hear about is how bad the room smells. Even if I haven’t farted! Maybe I should stop making cheese fondue while blogging.
Michael:
How would American society change if everyone was forced to carry an eight-inch Bowie knife on them at all times, without exceptions?
I’d like to say that it could potentially help reduce gun ownership/gun violence, but that’s giving America WAYYYYYY too much credit. There’d still be a trillion guns lying around all over the place, only with a trillion makeshift bayonets now duct-taped to them.
So let’s think about some more plausible ramifications of the Universal Knife Subsidy (UKS). First of all, being a 10-year-old boy would be 500 times cooler. You could use your knife to play Five Finger Fillet during math class, brandish it in front of girls to show them you’re a sexy bad boy, and threaten any babysitter who won’t let you play video games past 9:00 p.m. For adults, they’d always have a useful tool on hand to cut up summer sausage, open Amazon packages, and slash the tires of ICE vehicles. All of that is also good.
Now, would there be downsides to UKS? Perhaps a few. Stabbings would increase by unknown amount, of course. Eagles fans would be even more unpleasant to be around. And joining a biker gang would feel 10 percent less rebellious. But I still see more good in this policy than bad. After all, most of those Eagles fans will end up stabbing one another instead of you and me. That’s a net positive.
In all seriousness, this country went to shit when Americans began treating weapons as luxury goods rather than essential tools. So no free knives. Sorry not sorry.
The Same Michael:
How far could you swim wearing a full set of catcher’s gear before drowning?
Ten yards. I can barely swim the length of a pool without stopping for a break these days. Weigh me down with drenched clothing and I’d be a dead man in short order…
EXCEPT that I know the survival float. They forced us to learn it at summer camp (a nice summer camp, not like a junior ROTC academy), and I never forgot it. If you’re stranded in the middle of a boundless ocean, the dumbest thing you can do is swim. You need to conserve every ounce of energy you can, so you make like a buoy and just bob around. Do the float for an extended period and you fall into a kind of rhythm that makes it feel like you’re half-asleep. Very meditative. You’ll still end up drowning and/or being eaten by a shark, but at least you won’t be tired. Anyway, that’s what I’d do if I were lost at sea with a chest protector on. No swimming, even if I spotted land in the distance. I know my limits, and they are many.
John:
How do you feel about adult men who insist on NOT using an obviously much simpler nickname? I find myself routinely interacting with people who prefer to go by Michael instead of Mike, Nathan instead of Nate, Jonathan instead of John etc. I find myself always assuming that any dude would prefer the quicker, snappier version of their name, so then I start an email with a "Greetings Ben," only to be told that they prefer "Benjamin". As I write this, it occurs to me that David Roth doesn't go by Dave (to my knowledge), so maybe I'm the asshole...
You’re probably the asshole, but I also silently blanch at having to fully spell out a handful of first names that have a long-standing nickname. Matthew Stafford is the most glaring example here. Kelly Stafford’s always telling people, “don’t call him Matt” which only makes me want to call him Matt all the more. Or Matty. Or Mattso. Or Shitboy. Don’t make me utter a whole other syllable. It’s rude.
Now that’s how my id thinks about it. But I’m a stickler for good manners in real life, so I do try to respect any and all first name requests and pronunciations. My Vikings friend Matthew Coller doesn’t go by Matt. I’ve found a workaround on this by simply calling him by his last name, but I’ll call him “Matthew” if I ever have to use his first name. Same goes for our David Roth, who says he’s “OK” with being called Dave but says it in that reluctant, Roth-ish way where you can tell he clearly prefers being called David. This is why I call him Roth, which is why half our podcast audience believes that I am addressing him by his first name, and that his first name is Rob. I should probably work on that issue.
Because your name is your own. As an adult, you have the right to correct people if they fuck it up. That’s especially true for anyone who has a name like Travis Etienne (pronounced AY-CHAN, not EE-TEE-EN), but it also goes for the Matthews and Benjamins of the world. You wouldn’t want people fucking up your name, so the golden rule dictates you extend them the same courtesy. It’s not the greatest sacrifice you’ll ever have to make.
He’ll still always be Matt Stafford to me, though.
Robert:
I work in the reference section of a public library, and sometimes when I shelf read (organize) the biographies/autobiographies, I like to imagine how the authors of the adjacent books would get along at a dinner party. So Drew, how do you think you’d do at dinner with Madonna, Bernie Madoff, Afghan physics researcher Sola Mahfouz, and Austrian composer Alma Mahler?
I get to have dinner with Madonna, and ask her all kinds of Madonna shit? That sounds like appointment eating for me, brother. Madonna was one of my dream profiles when I worked at GQ. I think my editor might have even put in an ask, which surely went ignored. This hypothetical dinner would let me cross that off my journalistic bucket list. Because I guarantee you that woman has some takes, some of which might even be coherent! Also, she’s seen everything and done everything, so I’d 100-percent bogart the seat next directly next to her and spend the next four hours asking her if Sean Penn is even worse than we all know him to be.
As for the other three: Sola Mahfouz is a quantum physicist, and therefore knows all the secrets of the universe. I’d ask her all about that, plus I’d ask her if she hates living in Boston as much as she ought to. Alma Mahler was married to Gustav Mahler, so I’d bother her with questions about him because my dad loved himself some Gustav Mahler. And then I’d pretend Bernie Madoff wasn’t there. Even if he asked me to pass the salt.
HALFTIME!
JJ:
You have the ability to go back in time and witness three concerts. Any three. Who are you seeing and when? Here's mine:
1. Live Aid. London. 1985. Queen and others who performed that same day. That crowd was insane.
2. Anytown USA. 1988. Def Leppard. Hysteria tour. Peak Lepp.
3. Elvis Comeback Special. 1968.
Well I actually did see Def Leppard in 1988 on the Hysteria tour, so I don’t have to pick that one. U JELLY? The Elvis comeback special is an excellent choice, though. There are countless legendary artists who came before my time, so I’m wildly tempted to pick basically any Elvis, Beatles, or Zeppelin concert. But that’s too chalky and boring, so I’m gonna try to find more interesting picks. Let me cut down the field by imposing a few rules on myself:
-No artists I’ve seen already
-No festival sets, because festivals are overcrowded, miserable, and usually have crap sound. This rules out Oasis at Knebworth, but so does the first rule
-No concerts that are famous mostly because someone got trampled/murdered/stabbed
-No country music
OK, no more playing Roger Goodell. Let’s make some picks:
- Any one of the four sets Talking Heads played in Hollywood while shooting Stop Making Sense. When I wrote about that movie two years ago, at least one Defector reader said they had gone to one of those shows. That’s a far superior brag to my little Def Leppard boast earlier.
- Nirvana in Paris
- The Ramones at CBGB
I already feel like these choices are inadequate. How about instead of picking three concerts, you let me pick 700?
John:
Gene Steratore is essentially the greatest “rules analyst” in the history of the role, right? Maybe the most important official/referee in sports, non-Donoughy division?
Wrong. Mike Pereira pioneered the role, and was also really good at it. Also, Pereira’s open love for Tito’s vodka gives him a bit of pizzazz that Gene lacks. The only reason Gene Steratore is so visible at CBS now is because A) He’s not Mike Carey and B) He also reffed basketball. That means that the network can force him to work 250 nights a year on just one salary. The magic of corporate efficiency.
I don’t mean to dump on Gene here. He’s perfectly good at his job, and someone who has shepherded rules analysis deeper into the mainstream. I don’t get mad whenever he pops up on my TV. But again, he’s not mad for vodka, so that makes him less fun. Also Russell Yurk over at ESPN is much faster on the mic. A play happens, Yurk pops in to say, “that call was wrong,” and then he fucks off. That’s how you do that job.
Patrick:
I'm re-watching Game of Thrones, and there's a scene towards the end of Season 1 where a main character dies. It's a great scene: lots of tension, build up, and a rather shocking (at the time) climax. I enjoyed it, but I wondered how it would feel watching it without knowing how it ended. Is there a TV or film twist scene you wish you could watch for the first time again?
Again I have to reach for a compelling answer, instead of just throwing out Empire Strikes Back like every other Gen Xer. I was only four when I first saw that final duel, so the memory isn’t sharp. But I remember being scared shitless the whole time. So when Darth Vader told Luke Skywalker, “No, Luke, I am your father,” I became even more freaked out than I’d been seconds earlier. To this day, Luke’s horrified reaction to hearing the news has been etched into the foundation slab of my mind.
With terror now in mind, I’ll pick Psycho to relive. That’s another movie that deeply scarred me when I saw it as a kid. But give me a time machine and I’d gladly travel back to 1960 and watch it fresh, as a big strong adult. If you know your film history, you know that Psycho actually had two twists. The main one, of course, is that Norman Bates is his mother. But the original shocker was Janet Leigh—who headlined the movie when it was released—getting butchered to death halfway before the movie was over. No one saw that coming in 1960, and I wouldn’t have either. I bet people walking out the premiere looked like they’d just been shot. I want that for myself. I’d save that Nirvana Paris show for afterward, as a means of decompressing.
By the way, I’ve never watched Game of Thrones. But the 13-year-old and I did just finish off The Knight Of Seven Kingdoms, and that was a good time. I wish every episode of it had been like the penultimate episode, but then my son and I wouldn’t have gotten to see Ser Arlan of Pennytree’s huge cock. So it’s OK.
Daniel:
Part of our dog’s nighttime routine (gratuitous exhibit A included) is to stretch out and demand pets by looking stoned (she isn't) and adorable (she is), and also by staring into your soul if you stop before she's gotten her due. She is particularly fond of knuckle rubs on her snout. Tonight, out of nowhere and for the first time in seemingly decades, this made me think of the word noogie. I posit this question to a parent: does the noogie still exist?
Before I answer that question, let’s all praise Daniel’s dog for being such a good doggie. WHO’S SO CUTE LYING WITH HER PAWS UP?! IT’S YOU! YOU’RE SUCH A CUTE LITTLE DOG! I love when my own dog does this, especially if it’s right as I’m falling asleep in bed. His paws go shooting up, and I gently bat one like it’s a palm frond. Then I fall asleep until I have to pee. It’s a good life.
Anyway, noogies. I’ve been a parent for 20 years now (!), and I have never seen any of my children give a noogie, receive a noogie, or mention any noogie incident at school. Now, does that mean noogies, and perhaps even wedgies, have gone extinct? Yes, because I am the center of the universe.
But really, no. This country is an even nastier place than it used to be, so the average grade school bully is much more likely to shoot you than stuff you into a locker. But mean kids still exist, and anti-bullying measures are too woke for states like Texas to enforce them. So yeah, shitty kids are still doling out noogies somewhere right now, as we speak. You’ve met these kids, and so have I. Ever have one of your kids bring home a friend who’s a complete fucker? It’s never a good feeling when you want to launch an 8-year-old through your kitchen window.
Jesse:
I was driving home from work today listening to the Distraction, and I heard you, Roth, and Rohan all pronounce “focaccia” slightly differently, with each of you taking a different approach on the last syllable. I need this settled once and for all. My wife pronounces it foh-kah-shyah, whereas I think the true pronunciation is something like foh-kah-chah. Feel free to consult Roth and Rohan for a final answer.
I’m yoinking this question just for me, because I’m selfish and have space here that I need to fill. Also, I’m a full-blooded Italian. A lot of people don’t know that about me. My great-grandfather, Luigi Guiseppe Magarini, immigrated here from Sicily back in 1906. Before he died of lung caner at age 106, he said to me, “Andreas, it’s-a pronounced foh-cah-chee-ah. If anyone says-a different, you break-a their face!” So now you know. Don’t fuck it up. Don Luigi is watching you from above.
Manuel:
If your favorite team, which I assume is the Vikings, was known for being a dirty team that toed the line or regularly went past it, would you still support it or be fuck them, deal with it? Cheers.
Manuel, my team could take the field armed with Bowie knives and I’d cheer for them to slash every last Packer’s throat during regulation. If anything, my team never plays dirty enough. The Saints put bounties on the Vikes and won a Super Bowl in the process. Why can’t we do that? I demand my team hire Gregggggggg Williams as a defensive consultant and send players out into the game armed with weapons, blinding powders, and other foreign objects. Remember: it’s only bush league if you lose.
Michael:
I've helped dogsit for friends scores of times, and I always bring them to my place for the ease of travel purposes. I've known all of these dogs for years, and they love me. However, the first time I brought them back with me do you think they thought they were being dognapped?
You tell me. Did the dogs look at you like you were dognapping them? Because dogs have that look. They probably don’t grasp the concept of dognapping, but their doggy senses will tell them when something is up. This is why we can’t pack our suitcases with our dog still awake, because Carterfarter will know that we’re going away. Or if he gets in the car with my wife and no one else, he knows that she’s probably driving him somewhere he doesn’t want to go (the vet). In fact, my dog’s resting face is one of concern. That’s just instinct at work. And if his alarm bells really start to go off, he goes into attack mode. Same goes for Michael’s doggy friends up above. If a dog thinks you’re going to hurt them, they’ll hurt you first. Unless the dog in question is a lab, because a lab will go along with pretty much everything.
Holly:
When I'm having a bad day, I sometimes find compilations of fights between baseball players on YouTube. For whatever reason, watching a bench-clearing brawl (or several) makes me feel better. One thing I've noticed is that they seem to have become much tamer in recent years. I was born in the late 80s, so I grew up watching guys who were all roided out, which might have set my fight expectations too high. Have basebrawls peaked? Are we doomed to players handling their conflicts by exchanging a bunch of profanities now that Yasiel Puig has retired from MLB? Or is it unfair to compare the last 15-20 years of brawls to the several decades that preceded them?
I never thought about the steroid factor in basebrawls, which is a tremendous oversight on my part. I think you’re right about those brawls growing more performative since the heyday of Nolan Ryan beating Robin Ventura’s ass right there on the mound. MLB is stricter about enforcement, and there’s an infinite number of additional eyeballs on teams now thanks to the internet, but also regional sports networks. Every game is televised, and therefore heavily scrutinized. That provides enough of a deterrent in place to keep a baseball player, or any public athlete, from truly throwing down.
That’s especially fun to think about given how the U.S. comported themselves at the World Baseball Classic. Cal Raliegh won’t fight a player from another country, but he will stiff them on a handshake. OOOH YOU’RE SO TOUGH AND SCARY, BIG DUMPER. I’d hate to attempt to exchange pleasantries with you in a dark alley!
Email of the week!
Josh:
First job out of college, I was working at the polling firm that lost Hillary the 2008 primary. It was 2010 and I was working for one the two principals as the main analyst on a state senate race nobody cared about. Our candidate lost, and the next day, he comes into the bullpen and asks loudly “So, Josh, how does it feel to lose your first election?” I turn from my laptop, look him dead in the eye, and say calmly “I feel like I’m in good company.” Got fired six weeks later.
I hope you farted in the bullpen before you left.
