Well, it is 2:53 a.m., morning of Wing Bowl, morning of the big dance. Slept for a bit after work, got up at midnight. Watched Jimmy Kimmel, then Oprah. I like Oprah even though she sucks most of the time. Man-hater. Anyway, the plan is already awry: I was supposed to meet everyone for drinks at 700 at midnight-ish, but when I called Meats, no answer. He called back about an hour ago, gonna meet Meats at 4:00 a.m. at The Congregation a.k.a. The Church. Whatever, go with the flow. 'Til then, listening to Howard Stern replay. Will update later today. Be good.
OK, I'm back to some reasonable degree of sanity.
So we started at the Congregation, this old church in Fishtown where George, Woddy & Ang and Meats live. Pretty cool spot, first time I've checked out either George's or Woody's pad, both exceptionally nice spaces, really, well thought out and well-lived in. Chilled out and cocktailed for a bit, met Pete, good dude, one of us for sure. Then we cabbed it to Pete's bro Nips place (yes, his name is John, but everyone calls him Nips. As a fan and a receiver of many a quality nickname, I was on board immediately), so six dudes in a cab, seven really, including Mr. Cabdriver, whatever, it's all good.
Cabbie let us out in front of McFadden's at the Ballpark as the cops shut us down from getting any closer. It was surreal: about 40 degrees, quite warm comparatively, but somehow snowing big beautiful flakes. Anyway, we split up at the northeast entrance to the Wach, as Meats and I had floor passes from the Slack's event which needed redeeming at the will-call window.
Eventually we figured out where to go, with the help of the wiil-call lady, and went inside: Surprise VIP passes! Dope! I've never actually been a VIP at anything before, unless you include life in general, and from my own perspective at that.
Not that it really meant anything. I mean, I figured an open bar or some kind of special treatment, but really what it meant was: Welcome to the floor of the Wachovia Center, where bad hockey and basketball has frequently been played, at least by our homers. Whatever, someday maybe we'll get a Cup or an NBA Championship or something besides a Wings trophy, and then it will mean something. But I'm not complaining, well, yes I am: first of all, poor execution from whoever designed this event. You could only enter from the penalty box (actually, that was pretty cool, being in the penalty box, more later on that though) on the one side and exit the floor from a location approximately on the other side of the rink. Both of these locations were maybe 20 feet from the stage. So, naturally, a bottleneck (the first of which I'll gripe about) developed. So to get in or out was an exercise in elbow tossing, with the obligitory "Pardon me, 'scuse me's," tossed in for politeness sakes. Had this whole affair taken place at the Spectrum, I may have actually lifted the plyboard and kissed the ice, gladly sacrificing flesh for fulfilled fantasy. However, this is not the case. So I didn't.
Other than those gripes, the inside track was kind of cool: got to see most of the first twenty or so parade members up close and personal. Plus every time a chick took her top off in the stands, it was a matter of: track down the cheer, look for pointed arms/fingers, bingo!: titties! How much fun! I mean really, it is Mardi Gras set indoors for six hours. The last bastion of political incorrectness in Philadelphia, thank god. God save 610 and Wing Bowl.
But, problem was, there was so much going on everywhere else, it meant a lot of neck-craning, and I've had a stiff neck for a few weeks. And plus there was the, every-time-I-need-to-pee-or-catch-a-smoke-I-have-to-fight-these-people thing. So I stuck around in the pit long enough to, as he passed by in his Vince Papale #83 jersey, give my regards to Frank DeFraud, at least with a very close "Eat Frank Eat!" shout and some eye contact (by the way, he had cleaned up for the event: good look, man). Plus I met a few of his South Philly bu,ds which was good enough already. Good guys.
Gripe #2: At some point, I left the floor to go to the bathroom, and was forced to to return through the penalty box, and wait in said box while the first parade party passed. And let me tell you: I'm not sure who, but someone really smelled. Of shit. And it was not me. I think it was the usher. Anyway, I'm not sure if that's why they call it the "penalty box," or whatever, all I know is: I've done my time. Get in the box!!!
So I guess after that I went to smoke, and here is gripe #3, and my final gripe:
Why is it that at every bottleneck, you stupid people have to congregate? I mean, the outside smoking area is about 400 square feet, yet everyone hangs out by the doors leading to it.
Look: it was not that cold or windy outside, and besides, we were all pretty cocktailed at that point, and shouldn't need shelter from a few flakes, which of there were none, actually. Seriously: move along, dopes, less congestion at doorways prevents such tragedies as what happened in Connecticut at that Great White show.
Whatever: In my mind, natural selection.
So next I guess was, finally, they opened the bar at 7 a.m. Meats and I got a few more drinks, two vodka and tonics each with a whiskey chaser for myself. But by then, the actual wing-eating contest had begun, and as we watched on high-def a man projectile vomited a la Lina Blair. Turned out it was a replay from last year: still good shit.
At this point Meats and I decided to meet up with the rest of our gang upstairs, section 214 or whatever, close enough to the stage. It went like this:
First round was all-involved: Eat like the madmen you are for 15 minutes, see what shakes out, next round, they take the top 10 of Round 1 and enter them into Round 2. Unfortunately, Frank DeFraud did not make it past Round 1, bummer. I was going to go down to the pit to chat with him, but, frankly, I was too inebriated at this point to navigate the steep incline of the stairs at the Wach without help, thusly deciding against it.
In the meantime: Titties!
Round Two was 5 minutes, more shaking the tree.
After Round 2: something I don't understand: a lady getting tossed out for exposing breast meat. I mean, I understand at a 76ers game, or even the Flyers, but here? Then? What's the point? Whatever. Way beyond my comprehension or control.
So last round, the speed round, was essentially between three IFOC pros and two locals. Let me tell you something: Joey goddamn Chestnut can eat some wings. A combination of skill, heart, and technique. He was ripping flesh like nothing I've ever seen. Really. Very impressive. And he won. A diamond ring from Steven Singer and a Suzuki Grand Vitara. Well done, my man, well done. Good work. Wing on, man, wing on.
But:
Best was: El Wingador, pissed about these outsiders "winning our championship," announced his official un-retirement!!!! Go Bill! Go you motherfucker!!!! Get 'em, get those bitches!!!! Bring 'em down to Chinatown!!!! I'm there with you in both heart and spirit.
So I guess by and by we drifted out about a half hour later. We went back to the Congregation for some post-Wing Bowl come-downs. Somehow, Meats turned on NPR, who, surprise surprise, were talking Wing Bowl! Must be pledge/sweeps week.
Anyway, I stayed for a bit, but had to meet my Pops for a junk engagement. But I listened to stupid Terry Gross on the way home. Finally, getting pissed enough at her condescending attitude towards food eating competitions, I had to call in. I don't think I got my point across, but what I meant to say was, not in so many words, but, here we go, for the record:
Fuck you: Terry Gross, and your pals at the Philadelphia Weekly and the Philadelphia City Paper. I am in fact as smart if not smarter than you. And you know what? I like Wing Bowl. You stupid pseudointellectuals don't get it. Know what? I don't care. As someone told me at Wing Bowl about your attitude, in fact:
"Let 'em stick the're fois gras and truffels where the sun don't shine. Fuck them. We're blue-collar. They don't know us. They don't know Philly."
Amen.
As for me:
Next year: I don't care how I get in. But I will have: Wingettes. A float. And a chance. I god-damn-guarantee it.
Peace Y'all.
Smarty Bones: Out!
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