Time for your weekly edition of the Defector Funbag. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. And buy Drew’s book, The Night The Lights Went Out, while you’re at it. Today, we're talking about pepper, normalcy, cooking while baked, and more.
Before we get to the festivities, a quick “only in New York” story for all of youse. I drive into the city on Thursday to visit my friend. I park my car in a garage because I’m don’t have the energy to battle it out for a street spot. It’s one of those tight garages with a car elevator to accommodate all of the inventory, so you have to surrender your keys to them, visions of the joyriding parking attendants from Ferris Bueller dancing through your neuroses. This isn’t my first time in such a garage, so I give up my key fob and then go about my business.
When I go to pick the car up the next morning, the attendant drives it out of the elevator. He’s got the side mirrors folded in to avoid trading paint with the walls, but I see him—with my own eyes—still brush the car against the wall. I check the back of the side mirror and there’s a fatass scratch on it.
“Yo,” I tell the guy. “You scratched the car against the wall.”
Right away, he’s like, “Oh no no no, that scratch was already there.”
“DUDE. I literally watched you scratch it! Just now!”
“No no, look at the wall. Not the same color as the scratch.” It was the exact same color as the scratch. This isn’t a Ferrari we’re talking about here. It’s a stupid minivan. I don’t care if the mirror has a substantial blemish on it. (Tom Cruise voice) I WANT THE TRUTH.
“Look,” I tell the guy, “I’m not gonna sue you or anything, but at least admit you scratched the stupid car and give me my money back or something.”
“Let me talk to my manager.”
They told me the boss’s boss would call me on Monday. It is now Tuesday. No call from the garage boss. You know how I told the attendant I wouldn’t sue? I’ve changed my mind. You’ll be hearing from my representation, “Park.” I got your name. I GOT YOUR ASS.
Your letters:
Chuck:
What is the worst CD you've bought for yourself? I bought the Jim Rome CD back in the day not thinking about the limited playback value. Also, it has 4.2 stars on Amazon from six ratings.
I didn’t know SoCal Mike Francesa had an album. Rome’s magnum opus isn’t on any streaming services I use, so let’s check the Amazon page to see what kind of artifact we’re dealing with here:
Jim Rome is in-your-face brash, off-the-wall brilliant, and emphatically not a nice guy. From his syndicated radio talk show to televised spots on ESPN2, millions have followed this motor-mouthed sports punk into his imaginary "jungle," where athletics, politics, and show biz meet on the street to quarrel and brawl in hilariously deadpan rock-jock slang. To "run smack" on the air, Rome's "clones" must submit to the supreme Law of the Jungle: "Have a take and don't suck." On Welcome to the Jungle, their takes bound from NASCAR to karma, spelling bees to cops, helped by the Ramones, Flatt & Scruggs, Guns 'n Roses, and James Brown. The chilling humor of "Don King Did That" leads many tracks running to daylight in this anarchic stampede. Welcome to the Jungle is an "all that" CD--a spoken-word collection that rocks.
Somehow I doubt that, Amazon. After 9/11, K-Rock in New York put a version of Metallica’s “Don’t Tread On Me” into the rotation with snippets of George W. Bush’s threats to Saddam Hussein and Iraq spliced into it. I didn’t know there was a way to make Metallica’s worst song even worse than it already was, but by God K-Rock engineers pulled it off. What a coup. Anyway, this Jim Rome album sounds like 40 minutes of similar production wizardry. I feel Chuck’s remorse here deeply.
Because this represents the dark side of analog living that us boomers never tell you kids about. We’re all, Boo hoo I can’t go to Tower Records anymore and FEEL an album in my hands. The internet ruined everything! Meanwhile CDs cost a fortune, and most of them SUCKED. And labels would put anything on them, even Jim Rome callers screaming that LeBron James is a choker while Jackal plays underneath. You bought an album hoping that you’d get your money’s worth, and you often didn’t.
This is how I ended up pulling a standard issue Columbia House scam—you signed up for 10 free CDs and then bailed on paying the rest of the subscription—and getting a copy of Staind’s Break The Cycle because I wasn’t sure what else to pick for my 10th CD. I liked “For You” when I heard it on the radio (K-Rock!), so I figured I may as well swallow my pride and get the whole album. It spent its life in my apartment as a coaster. I’ve bought worse albums, but none as inessential as that one.
By the way, I possess a strange and lasting admiration for Jim Rome, even now when he’s an official paid broadcaster for Elon Musk’s Twitter. Rome was one of the original take artists back before hot takes ate the world. He attracted a very specific, very aggro genre of Cali bro (and still does), but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t watch his ESPN 2 show regularly (before and after he got his ass beat by Jim Everett on it). It’s like how I still admire Mike Florio because he’s one of the original bloggers. Florio still has that true blogger’s heart. Rome is like that. I liked the hot-take economy better when I knew where my takes were being sourced from. Do I want them scored to Three Doors Down? No. But I’ve got more than a little bro in me, so I’m drawn to the hustle.
Daniel:
My wife wants to get chickens. She loves eggs and thinks it would be fun for our two year old. We both work full time jobs, and also have a dog and a two year old. It is legal to have backyard chickens here and it is relatively common in our neighborhood (or at least, not unheard of or unexpected). With our dog, over time, most responsibilities have fallen to me, like walks, vet trips, food, etc. My wife promises me that she will take the primary role of caretaker of the birds and she’s trustworthy. My dealbreaker though, is dealing with the process of killing them. Like at some point they get sick/old, and you have to kill it, right?
I’m sure they have chicken disposal services for any hobby farmer who needs a sick chicken properly disposed of. This is America. You can always pay someone else to do your dirty work for you here.
Now Daniel, lemme tell you my chicken story, as it’s relevant to your decision. Long ago, my wife and I had neighbor problems. Neighbor problems are right up there with tax problems and car problems as problems you never, ever want. In our case, the tension arose from our next-door neighbors getting chickens. They were perfectly nice chickens, and sometimes the neighbors would bring over some freshly laid eggs for us to enjoy. I’ve never met an egg I didn’t like, so this was cool.
Except for the rooster. They had one of those too, and it cock-a-doodle-doo’ed every morning, and at real My Cousin Vinny hours. We couldn’t sleep. We politely asked the family next door to do something about the rooster. They promised they would, and then never did. Things grew frosty between us from there. My wife started to have panic attacks every time she heard the rooster pop off. We called the county and they said there was nothing they could do about it. I asked a friend what to do about it and he referred me to a chicken lady friend of his that warned me not to be “that guy” who complains about the roosters next door. I wanted to throw this lady off a cliff. Ah yes, don’t be “that guy” who wants to sleep. I went next door and begged them to get rid of the rooster and was told that if I wanted to kill the rooster myself, I was welcome to. We started looking for places to move. I’m not joking.
Then the neighbors moved out and another family took their place. The new neighbors kept the chicken coop, but got rid of the rooster. Many years passed and we’ve had zero incidents since. So while I’ve never owned chickens myself (I’d have to buy a coop from Williams-Sonoma!), I’ve been on the good and bad end of living next to them. So if you and your wife are gonna do chickens, just please don’t get a rooster. Also, don’t be caught by surprise if a fox literally gets into your henhouse. That’s also happened next door to us. The aftermath is quite grisly.
Nick:
Mel Diaper.
Damn. You got him good.
John:
When are you allowed to call yourself an actor? Is it because you want to be an actor, or is it because you’re in a play or you’ve done work as an actor? Is there like some sort of gatekeeper for that title, or can I just declare “I’m an actor”?
You’re free to declare yourself an actor anytime you like, but people are going to want a verbal résumé out of you. Being a writer isn’t that much different in that regard. When I tell people that I’m a writer, that means nothing in a vacuum. I could be scrawling manifestos on toilet paper, for all they know. I have to tell them WHERE I write to leave them convinced that yes, this is my actual, paid vocation. And even then, success isn’t guaranteed. I wrote for Medium’s GEN Magazine for a couple of years. You try telling people you write for Medium and see how it goes. It’s like telling people you eat for McDonald’s.
So you can call yourself an actor if you’re dying to be an actor, but you have to be ready to tell people what you’ve acted in, or at the very least auditioned for. They’re not gonna just take you at your word off the bat. They’re gonna ask, “Have you been in anything I’d know?” If you can stomach having that question thrown at you, even if you‘ve never been in anything past your college production of Fiddler on the Roof, then you should be all right. Smart people know that the average actor is a struggling actor, so they’re not gonna act dickish if you call yourself one. They know you’re probably short on rent.
Luis:
I am 34 and just realized that I am older than everyone that's currently on the roster of my favorite NFL team (Da Raaaaadaaaaaas). Should I feel shame about buying a jersey of someone who is younger than me and just buy a classic 24 Woodson instead, or should I relish in youth and buy a Jeanty jersey before Pete Carroll grinds him into dust?
Luis, I own many jerseys and only one of them is that of a player who is older than me: former DT Pat Williams. The rest of the players hanging in my closet are like, half my age. I don’t give a shit and neither should you. You’re a middle-aged man wearing a football jersey. You’re already acting out a fantasy of youth, so the name on the back isn’t gonna change that one way or another. I own a Dallas Turner jersey and that guy is nearly younger than my oldest kid. Doesn’t matter. If I only allowed myself to wear the jersey of players older than me, I’d run out of jerseys to buy 10 years from now. I wanna support CURRENT players, and I wanna pretend I’m as young and strong as they are. Why be a sports fan otherwise?
(By the way, don’t let this discourage you from buying a Charles Woodson jersey. You’re certainly allowed to go vintage, and Charles Woodson is one of my favorite football players of all time. An evergreen jersey choice right there.)
Will:
I've been trying to make my own simple cheese sauce to dip popcorn in. The test batches taste ok, but are sometimes a tad lumpy. Do you have a recipe you like?
For dipping popcorn? Like, one kernel at a time? Using a custom fondue fork? I’m not sure how to assist you here, as I have no experience in making popcorn sauces of any kind. When my kids were smaller, my wife used to sprinkle their popcorn with cheese-flavored Butter Buds, which is just a powdered flavoring that ends up all over the couch. Much better to buy your popcorn pre-cheesed, so long as you’re aware that Smartfood changed its secret cheese powder recipe and isn’t Smartfood anymore.
But that’s not a satisfactory answer for Will here. This man wants to get his hands FILTHY, and so I have to give him a cheese sauce recipe regardless of practicality. That’s queso. Buy a block or two of Velveeta and melt it on low in a saucepan. Then dump in a can of Rotel tomatoes and chiles, plus a few glugs of Red Hot. Stir until it’s smooth—Velveeta doesn’t get lumpy because it’s Velveeta—and bingo bango. Enough cheesy goodness to kill you five times over.
HALFTIME!
Brian:
I'm 37, no kids and no pets, and fairly new to smoking pot (one year of casual use, followed by the last few months fucking destroying it). Since the world is ending, getting high every evening and watching TV is all my wife and I really do for fun. As a total newb, am I missing out on any housebound activities that are extra fun to be absolutely baked for?
I’m glad you asked Brian, because this email landed in my inbox right after yours did…
Amanda:
Is there anything better than cooking high? I’m a late adopter, a middle-aged edibles adult, and among the many gamechanging benefits I’ve discovered since become a semi-regular user is that it makes me *enjoy* the process of cooking again (which, thanks to having two kids, had been beaten out of me). Even *thinking* about the novel possible combinations has me salivating. Then, the actual steps of the cooking process—sizzling oil, wafting garlic, chopping parsley, etc—are all enhanced in their sensuousness. I just made and consumed a bowl of bucatini with a blistered tomato, butter, and miso sauce, and I nearly died of delight.
See now, Amanda knows what’s up. Weed makes a lot of otherwise dull household activities fun (or at least, it renders you in a trancelike state that makes washing the dishes an almost zen-like experience), but cooking on weed is its own stoner lifestyle. Ask any professional chef; they’re high ALL THE TIME. And with good reason! When you’re baked, you think of flavor combinations you never would have otherwise (Twix bars dipped in almond butter? Why not!). More important, you take profound joy in the process of cooking. I don’t even complain about chopping vegetables when I’m high as balls. I just grab my happy little knife and go CHOP CHOP CHOP until a ragged mound of diced onion lies before me. The pleasure in cooking comes from your anticipation eating the final product. So imagine how much weed increases that anticipation. Ever pop a gummy and then watch cookies bake in an oven? JOY. Watching a ribeye cook on the grill? FOREPLAY.
I don’t even have to make something cool while stoned to derive primal satisfaction from the experience. One night I was craving oatmeal for some reason, so I whipped up some midnight oatmeal from scratch, simmered in milk with a generous amount of raisins and brown sugar mixed in. That oatmeal hit like the opening riff of “Hate To Say I Told You So.” So set your brain to Chill and then cook like a madman!
Pete:
Every time I see a dog with his/her head out a car window, I instantly smile, because I know how great of a time the doggo is having. Is there any comparison to this for you, other than pics of kids?
Dog photos and videos give me sustenance whenever I’m on the road, as I am this week. Before bed, I grab my phone and queue up the Carter section of my photo library. There’s Carter at the park. There’s Carter lying on the couch like a useless sack of shit. There’s Carter taking a joyride (and not scratching my side mirror)…
Did I listen to Fleetwood Mac while playing this video on a loop? You know I did. When I think about Carterfarter before bed, I am happy. Ditto pics of my kids making stupid faces, and also my bookmarked link to “Baker Steet Baba Booey.” We all need reliable sources of happiness in 2025. They don’t have to be profound ones.
Matt:
How many attempts would take for you (or the average person) to steal a base off a major league pitcher and catcher? Could you lay down a successful bunt on a major league pitcher, given 10 attempts?
Lemme answer the bunt question first with a hard no. I’m scared shitless of fastballs, and I’m not even talking about Major League velocity ones. If your kid can crack 70 on the radar gun, I’m fleeing the box the second that ball comes out of his hand. So now I have to face down Paul Skenes? Uh uh. No chance I make even the most basic contact. I wouldn’t even stay in the box long enough to strike out; I’d simply forfeit the at-bat. Then I’d get stoned and make breakfast tacos.
Regarding the stolen base attempt, I’d have to keep trying until either the pitcher or the catcher fucked up. If they properly execute a generic pickoff attempt, I’m out. In fact, put 21-year-old me on base and I’d be just an easy of a target. Even when I was in my best shape, I had no burst in my step. Also, don’t just assume that I can attempt a slide into second without fucking it up. I’d start diving too late and pull a Buster Posey on the bag. So I’d need a minimum of 100 attempts to swipe that base, and that’s being generous to myself.
Gary:
Will anything ever be normal again?
I’ve actually been thinking about this a lot lately. Because what IS normal, Gary? Is it just a world where the news stops? Well, you and I know that’s not possible. Is it just having Democrats in charge? Well, they were for the four years before this and yet no one felt settled. Ask me how normal I’d feel if Gavin Newsom ended up our next president. Shit’s usually fucked no matter what flavor it comes in.
Knowing that, you can’t sit around waiting for the world to chill out. It never has and it never will. I could spend the next three years and change with my head between my knees, waiting for the bad people to stop doing bad-people shit. But evil will be here long after I’m gone, as will mankind indulging in alarmingly destructive ways. I can’t hope the world will be normal, and I’m not even sure I want it to be. That doesn’t mean YOU can’t be normal yourself. Thanks to the government, I have no choice but to (Miguel Ferrer voice) live by a code now. I live my values and do right by my people. That keeps me centered, while hopefully centering those closest to me. That’s the best I can do, and I’ve learned to accept it. Normal starts at home, baby. Now let me tell you about the time I shat my pants…
Kraig:
I convinced the wife to let me get a smoker. What should be the first delicious smoked meat I make?
I smoked ribs in foil my first time out, which was probably too ambitious given my inexperience. But they turned out edible, and I had them all to myself. I’m logging that as a win. If I had to do it again, I’d probably start with dark-meat chicken, because the margin for error on chicken is so broad. Then I’d move over to ribs and pork shoulder. All in the same weekend, mind you. I never drew out the learning process with my smoker. I was too hungry
(and stoned). Go chicken or pulled pork.
Christian:
White pepper sucks, right? It’s musty, expensive, called for in stupidly small amounts, and still stands out terribly in otherwise good dishes.
Where did you buy that pepper from? Here’s something I only learned recently, thanks to the legendary Bill Buford: almost all pepper sold in America is dogshit. It’s old and therefore more inert than fresh pepper. It usually only comes in a handful of varieties (black, white, red), and it has little flavor characteristics past the initial heat. Will that stop me from buying shitass McCormick pepper from the Safeway? No, but at least I understand what kind of product I’m shelling out for. I’ve given up to Big Pepper, essentially. If you aren’t willing to settle, then you’re gonna have to put some effort into sourcing your peppery goodness from the right places. Find the right one and maybe you’ll understand why wars started over this shit.
Email of the week!
I had not been able to poop for about three days. As I got out of my car, my neighbor, a 93-year-old woman, asked if I could help her carry in a box of cat litter she had delivered. When I was doing that, she said I looked terrible. I told her about being backed up. She snapped her fingers and said, "Take this." "What is it?" "It helps me." My wife told me not to take it, but I did. I was desperate.
The next morning, at work, the mutant mixture of whatever she gave me kicked in, and I ran to a rarely ever used conference room bathroom. The lights are off and the heat vents are closed. Perfect, quiet place. As I'm finally releasing my inner demon, I see light come in around the door. Then voices. Then, "What's that smell?" Then, “I think someone is in the bathroom.” I flush, wash my hands, spray the air freshener I brought in, open the door, and see Sherrone Moore, most of the offensive staff from Michigan, and his entire family.
“Hey guys,” I said, “Great win against OSU.” Took a pic and walked out.
The perfect crime.
