November 2005 Archives
Or maybe she doesn't. I wouldn't know because, like so many girls, she colors her hair. Which makes her a liar.
The girl I used to love had long, straight, dirty blonde hair with even blonder highlights. I don't know if she colored her hair. She never told me, and I never asked. But deep down, I suspect she colored it because I think she was a liar too. And even if she wasn't, she was other things that were almost as bad. She was less than forthcoming. She was less than curious. And she didn't have the spine to say the things that needed to be said. Besides her appearance, she had one wonderful feature that in hindsight wasn't enough: she told fascinating stories. But I wonder now if most of them were lies. It wouldn't surprise me. They were that good.
The girl I loved before her had short, straight, chestnut hair, which I encouraged her to let grow until it was medium length. I know with certainty that she colored her hair because she told me so. I never caught her lying to me, but I know that she lied to other people of importance in her life, and I know that she encouraged me to lie to people of importance in mine. That she would ask me to do these things is a betrayal of my soul. People shouldn't ask me to lie to people I love. Lying through somebody else is lying by transitive property. She's a liar for asking me to lie for her.
The girl I loved before her had long, brown, wavy hair. Again I don't know if she colored it because she never told me. She might have, I guess, though she and I dated several years ago, and I don't think as many women colored their hair back then as do now. Whatever she did to it took hours. I've never met a girl who fought so hard to subjugate her hair. She was a control freak like her mother, who'd whipped her dad "into shape" and broken his spirit in the process. I think she was looking for a man to treat as harshly, someone whose nature, like her hair, she could tame and contain and eventually change altogether. Her hair looked fine enough when finally finished, but I felt sorry for it. It was dead below the surface.
The girl I loved before her had long, straight, platinum hair. It should have been obvious to anyone with a pair of proper eyes that she colored it. I don't know if she was a liar. We didn't date very long before I left her to date another girl who also colored her hair. But I know that she was confused. She didn't seem to know who she was. I saw her a couple of years ago after she'd let her hair return to its natural strawberry blonde. I was happy for her that she'd embraced who she is.
The good thing is that I don't really think I loved any of these girls. I think I just thought I loved them because they were decent to me and interested and pretty. I think I could have thought I loved a tree if it had known how to twirl its hair with its finger over dinner and then later fall asleep in the nook below my clavicle. I think I could have loved a tree a lot, and it never would have lied to me.
I love my family and friends and my dog, Winston, who died five years ago. I love food and football, and I love bicycles even though I haven't ridden one in years. I love being drunk and being asleep, and I love lying in bed only half asleep. I love dulcimers and harmonicas and fiddles and banjos, and I love songs that incorporate all four. I love scrimshaw and harpoons and boats and the ocean and anything that swims below its surface. I love hope and I love honesty, and some day I hope to find someone who loves me and a lot of what I love. And I hope she won't lie about it if she doesn't. I'll study her hair when I meet her.
Three days after the Krystal Square Off, I was hoping to find a different Eater X than the one I'd said goodbye to at Gate 5 of the Chattanooga airport. That Eater X was demoralized and somber. His brave face, his stiffer upper lip were affectations that I knew better than to trust. They were as genuine and as fragile as the dry warpaint that flaked from his face.
Into the radio's microphone I imitated the sound of a trumpet playing Reveille because I thought that Eater X might still be asleep. "Good morning, Eater X. It's The Whaler," I shouted. "Come in Eater X. Over."
In an unfaltering tone and with neither a trace of sleep nor emotion, Eater X responded, "Hello, Whaler. It's nice to hear from you. Over."
It was strange to hear him speak that way. He sounded almost like a robot, like Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey.
We talked for 20 minutes, Eater X and I, about football and the weather and beef jerky and finally, at last, about competitive eating. We talked about krystals and 10 lb. turkeys and meatballs and about his plans for 2006. I asked him how he thought his loss in Chattanooga would affect him.
"Whaler," he said. "I love this sport too much to let one or two contests break my resolve. I've put too much of myself into competitive eating to give up now and walk away. I've learned more about life and hard work in the past 18 months than 27 years of life and school had taught me before."
I laughed a bit at what I hoped might be hyperbole, but Eater X continued sincerely.
"I've been let down by life before, Whaler. Many times, in fact. I've had my share of setbacks. and I've watched things slip through my fingers. Before I was Eater X, when I was just Tim Janus, when things would go wrong, I'd shrug my shoulders and walk away and say, 'Fuck it!' because I thought that's how a cool person would handle defeat. But it never got me anything worth having. Everything I'd owned and done had come easily to me. I was complacent. I had stagnated."
I asked him to elaborate.
"Now I rise to the challenge," he said. "And when I see that I have to rise higher, I do. If I care about something, if I truly want it, I'll keep trying for it until it's proven to me that it's unattainable. Sometimes defeat will suck the wind from my sails, and sometimes I'll need time to recover and regroup. But I'll always come back stronger than before. There are lessons in losing. Over."
I paused for a moment to allow what he'd said to sink in.
"So you're saying that sometimes defeat is your friend?" I asked.
"Well, it's more like a coach. But yes," he answered. "Over and out."
From The Whaler's standpoint the contest was intensely disappointing. Eater X ate a measly 41 burgers, finishing sixth and breaking his heart and The Whaler's heart in the process. After the contest, The Whaler cried himself dry and then drank a gallon of water so that he could continue to cry some more. The Whaler screamed and wailed and sniffled and coughed. He grabbed a small child by her shirt collar, fell to his knees, pounded his fists against her chest and screamed, "Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?" The child, remarkably precocious, lectured The Whaler about life's ups and downs. She said something about tomorrow being a new day, about coming back stronger than ever before, and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. It struck The Whaler as condescending and cliched, so he excused himself and left.
"But wait," the child implored, waving her hand desperately at The Whaler's back. "I haven't even begun to tell you about the 12 Steps of Grieving. YOU'RE NOT READY TO GO!"
The Whaler turned his head around as he walked away. "Step 1 is rum and whip-its, right?" he shouted sarcastically and with a chortle before disappearing into the crowd.
Feeling like a failure for the first time in her young life, the little girl began to cry. (What a Pollyanna!)
On stage, Eater X felt like crying as well, except he couldn't because he's trying to act more like an adult, even though it goes completely against his nature. He smiled and signed autographs for the crowd while seething on the inside.
At the airport that evening, Eater X was swarmed by a mob of screaming women who cared not that he had lost. He gave each of them 45 minutes of what he calls "Tantric X," bringing his total for the weekend to 23 groupies satisfied. It was as prolific a display of sexual prowess as has been seen since the fall of ancient Rome. No other competitive eater was able even to approach his weekend's output.
Final Groupie Totals:
1. Eater X (23)
2. Crazy Legs Conti (9.5)
3. (tie) Joey Chestnut (0)
Sonya Thomas (0)
Takeru Kobayashi (0)
Bob Shoudt (0)
Rich Lefevre (0)
"Badlands" Booker (0)
Ron Koch (0)
Patrick Bertoletti (0)
Sam Vise (0)
Jim Reeves (0)
Loren Yarbrough (0)
Claudine Ko (0)
Hall Hunt (0)
Chip Simpson (0)
Eater X will head to Chattanooga on Friday to compete in the Krystal Square Off, The World Hamburger Eating Championship. The Whaler will be on hand to file a full report if he can ever figure out how the heck to get there. Apparently, Chattanooga's not an island. Nor is it anywhere near the coast. Eater X isn't sailing; he's flying. The Whaler may have to as well.
On Saturday, fifteen eaters will vie for the ultra-prestigious Krystal Title. Takeru Kobayashi will be there along with a bunch of Eater X's competitive eating buddies and a couple of guys that The Whaler doesn't give a shit about. When the contest has ended and Kobayashi has eaten far too many Krystals to count, Eater X will walk the length of the table and congratulate every eater on a job well done. The Whaler, who'll be both sad and angry that Eater X hasn't won, will watch this tremendous display of sportsmanship and wonder why Eater X is wasting his breath. The Whaler will stand on the tips of his toes and shout above the tops of the heads of the people in front of him, "But they're not your pals. In private they villify you. THEY WANT TO BEAT YOU!" And then The Whaler will look to Eater X for some kind of visual cue--a wink, perhaps, or a nod--to confirm this thought. When it doesn't come, when Eater X fails even to look in The Whaler's direction, The Whaler will file this idea away until he can ask Eater X about it later that day and in private.
"Eater X," he'll say hours later in a far off corner of the Chattanooga airport as they wait to board their flight home. "Why are you friendly to everyone at these contests? Why do you treat them so well? I know that you can be selfish. I've seen it firsthand. You can't possibly care about each of them."
And Eater X will look at The Whaler through his lemonade-streaked facepaint and through the crumbs of wet hamburger bun that have caked upon his eyelashes and gently say, "Because, Whaler. This is how it's done. This is how we act. And this is how I find my peace: by treating people well when my wounded pride wants me not to."
And The Whaler will say, "Ah ha."
Coming Soon: a Krystal wrap-up, a Thanksgiving preview, and something scares The Whaler.
Methinks it wise to explain a few things before I begin this site in earnest. But where to begin? I guess with a Q&A.
Who the heck is Eater X?
That question insults me. How could you not know the answer? Is that a rhetorical question?
I relayed that question to Eater X and he replied angrily, "Whaler, you tell that person that Eater X said, 'I know who I am. Do you know who you are?'"
"Consider it done," I answered back determinedly, knowing full-well that he was kidding.
If you must ask, here's the answer. Eater X is a top-ranked competitive eater, the International Federation of Competitive Eating's 2004 Rookie of the Year. He is the Tiramisu and Shoo Fly Pie Eating Champion of the World, the former Grilled Cheese Champion, and the first human ever to consume 30+ grilled cheese sandwiches in 10 minutes. He is a handsome man, a kind man, and a gentleman dedicated to the constant improvement of every element of his life. Eater X dreams of one day becoming the best man he can comfortably be.
Who the heck is The Whaler?
I find this question nearly as insulting as the first. But I'll answer it.
I am Eater X's #1 fan. We share a birthday and a bond of the souls. I can be found at every event in which Eater X competes. I can also be found slumped over barstools, passed out in empty alleyways, and naked in the arms of seaport whores.
Does The Whaler kill whales?
Do chickens have lips? (Yes, they're very small.)
Does The Whaler like killing whales?
Do chickens have lips? (No, they have beaks.)
Whaling is one of the great conflicts of my life. I am a whaler at heart and a man of the sea, but it pains me deeply to kill such magnificent beasts.
Well then why do you kill them, Jerk?
Providence has endowed me with a purpose that I cannot call into question. And as I am here for a reason, so is the mighty whale.
What does Eater X look like?
He looks a lot like the guy in the picture above.
What does The Whaler look like?
About as handsome, only rougher.
Does The Whaler have any tattoos?
My forearms are covered with etchings of naked ladies.
What are The Whaler's hopes for this site?
The Whaler would like to shed new light upon competitive eating and one of its stars, Eater X. As Eater X's #1 fan, The Whaler occupies a special place in Eater X's inner circle, which at most times should enable The Whaler to bring you information that other reporters might never acquire. Eater X understands my goal and has pledged his cooperation and candor to help make The Whaler's Unofficial Eater X Fan Site "very, very nearly official."
The Whaler apologizes in advance if he inadvertently offends somebody. Sometimes The Whaler knows not what he does, for he has syphilis, "The Disease of Lovers!" and it makes him a little bit crazy.