January 2006 Archives

Author's Note: This is a salvo and a manifesto and a riddle and a metaphor. I'm not kidding.

I am going to the zoo today because I have business to conduct. I'll be sizing up chimpanzees.

"Sizing them up?" you wonder. "For what?"

Allow me to explain.

A few weeks ago I discussed with a friend whether or not it would possible to beat up a chimpanzee. The rules: no weapons, no pads, no nothing in a fight to the death of one of us. My friend argued that it couldn't be done because a chimpanzee is all muscle--"he's pure energy!" But I countered that it could be done because whereas a chimpanzee would fight only for his survival, I would fight for my survival as well as for the abstract concepts of victory and pride. I have seen episodes of Man vs. Beast and know that animals are often slow to figure out what the heck is going on. They don't understand competition. Thus I reckon that before the chimpanzee had figured anything out, I'd have landed two solid body blows and an uppercut so sweet it would have made my own knuckles bleed.

I know what you're thinking. I know why you're shaking your head and staring at the ground and raising your finger trying to get a word in edgewise. You're thinking about that man in California who was attacked by chimpanzees at a petting zoo back in March. They bit off most of his fingers, poked out one of his eyeballs, and ripped off both of his testicles. Ouch! They nearly killed him, and you're thinking that a similar fate awaits me. Well, stop right there. Hold it one second. I have news for you. That man was attacked by two chimpanzees. They double-teamed him, which isn't fair. My monkey and I will fight inside of a steel cage on a tiny island that disappears with the rising of the tide. There will be four referees in four separate cigar boats, each of whom will make sure that no other monkey interferes with our fight. A helicopter will hover above the top of the cage to ensure that no other helicopters, flown by monkey sympathizers, drop monkeys into the cage to assist my opponent. A sophisticated monkey radar will detect any other monkeys in the area so that a plain-clothes referee can head them off before they cause me any trouble. And the referee will be sly about it so that the monkeys won't realize what's going on.

"Say, you there, monkey friend," the referee will intone with a smile. "Don't I know you? Haven't we met somewhere before?" It will be a lie.

"Who me?" the monkey will think, pointing to his chest and looking around. He won't recognize the referee because they won't actually have met before, but because the referee will seem so sincere, the monkey will wonder if they have. "Oh, gosh! How embarrassing this is. I almost never forget a face," he'll worry. He will stare at the referee awkwardly, wracking his brain, shuffling his feet, pretending that he remembers their first encounter while the referee recounts the time that they supposedly met. The story will go on and on and on, and the monkey will grow impatient and look at his wristwatch repeatedly. But because the monkey will feel profoundly guilty, he'll suffer the story obligingly.

Meanwhile my fight will continue unimpeded.

My opponent, who on this occasion will have chosen to wear a black silk cape to intimidate me, will take hold of my leg with his two goofy hands and two goofy feet. He'll sink his primitive teeth into my thigh, causing me to shriek like Xena the Warrior Princess, but I'll work on his grip with my hands and break several of his knuckles in the process. I'll grab him by his wrists and spin myself around, whipping him into the side of the steel cage with Force-5 speed. Dazed but otherwise serviceable, he'll right himself slowly, stagger, and prepare for another charge. We'll lock arms and grapple again. Billy Packer, on hand to provide play-by-play analysis for CBS, will scream, "What a tough little monkey!" and no one will think him a racist this time.

And then a critical moment will occur in our fight. The monkey will bite off two or three of my fingers, and the road to victory will suddenly fork. I'll have two choices: pick my bloody fingers up off the ground, put them in my pocket, tuck tail and run to the nearest hospital to have them reattached; or paint my bare chest with the blood from them, stare up at the sun and scream, "If he takes all 10 of my fingers, I will beat this monkey yet!" Having steeled myself for this moment, I'll choose the latter.

Again we'll square off, and again the monkey will charge me, but this time I'll be ready for him. With perfect timing that maximizes the clash of our opposing momenta, I will kick him in the mouth and shatter his monkey-jaw. Billy Packer will squirm in his chair and shield his eyes from the horror. The left side of the monkey's face will sag pathetically, and a broken tooth will protrude through his lower lip. Blood will spill onto the canvas from a gash near the monkey's eye, and as the monkey surveys his liquid form, I will move in for the kill. I'll tackle the monkey and flip him onto his stomach. His cape will slip over his head, revealing for the first time a GoldenPalace.com tattoo scrawled across his back. Billy Packer will shout with disapproval, "Why he's nothing but a shill!" and I'll dig my knees into the small space between the monkey's shoulder blades, kiss him on the top of the head, and whisper into his ear, "Good night, beautiful." And then I'll begin punching him in the head.

Four hundred and sixty-two punches later, blood will pour from the monkey's ear.

Thirty-eight punches later, the monkey's chest will heave one last time, and every one of his vital organs will shut down. A bell will ring to the end the fight.

Thirty-six punches later, the bell will sound again as if to say, "Okay, okay, we get it! Now please stop punching that monkey carcass."

Ninety-eight punches later, when my fist finally penetrates the back of the monkey's skull and makes contact with the canvas beneath it---"Oh, that chafes," I'll calmly remark---I will stop punching him in the head.

Billy Packer will storm the ring and stick a microphone under my chin. He'll ask me if I think I could have beaten up the entire Duke basketball team today. I won't know the answer.

Billy," I'll say. "Let's just enjoy this one. Okay?”

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Dear Reader,

I promise you that I don't harbor any ill will towards any species of monkey. And even though I'm completely fascinated by the idea of fighting a monkey, it's not something that you should worry about; I don't think the opportunity will ever present itself. The monkey I've written about, like many other elements of the story, is merely a symbol.

The fight between me and the monkey represents the upcoming GoldenPalace.com Grilled Cheese Bowl. Although I recently held the world record for eating grilled cheese sandwiches, I will likely enter the finals as a heavy underdog. The media will focus on two eaters in particular: second-ranked Sonya Thomas and third-ranked Joey Chestnut. If Sonya Thomas ever loses a contest, she loses to Joey Chestnut, and if Joey Chestnut ever loses a contest, he loses to Sonya Thomas. Nobody else ever comes close to beating them. A lot of people will write me off before I even arrive at the table. They'll say I can't win, that I cannot beat...

The monkey, who is an amalgam of Sonya Thomas and Joey Chestnut, because they're considered unbeatable, and any eater whose love of the sport of competitive eating is eclipsed by his/her desire for publicity and profit, hence the cry, "Why he's nothing but a shill!" I eat for honor and pride and for love of the game. I am a purist. I resent every Eater of Fortune.

The plain-clothes referee was inspired by George Shea, Chairman of the International Federation of Competitive Eating, because I once witnessed him deftly intercept a guy who'd been following Sonya Thomas around to way too many competitions. George was smooth.

Billy Packer is Billy Packer, the basketball analyst who once drew the public's ire for remarking of Allen Iverson, who's black, "What a tough little monkey!” Billy Packer cares more about Duke Basketball more than he does about objectivity. If Billy Packer had a G-spot, Duke Basketball would know exactly how to find it.

Billy Packer also represents every killjoy fan and reporter who has ever approached me after a contest, asked me how I did, and then asked, "So how many do you think Kobayashi could have eaten?" I always answer that question politely and with a smile, but deep down I hate it. Every once in a while I'd like to enjoy what I've done even if somebody else could have done it better. Fuckers!

When The Whaler's back in port and drunk at his favorite bar, he and the bartender Mary watch a lot of Dr. Phil on WBZ-4. Mary likes Dr. Phil because he's real and "tells like it is, Goddamnit!" The Whaler likes Dr. Phil because when Mary becomes engrossed in his show, she often loses count of how many drinks The Whaler's had. "What'd you have? Four today?" she'll ask him when she's closing out the register at the end of her shift at six.

"No, Mary. I think I had five. Better charge me for five," he'll answer back when, in fact, he's had ten and knows it.

"Well," she'll say, "because you're so honest, I'll only charge you for three! How's that sound?"

"Bless you, Mary," he'll say.

Though The Whaler's primary interest in Dr. Phil is as a distraction for Mary, more often than not he finds himself enjoying the program. He especially likes the episodes in which Dr. Phil encourages overweight people that the only way to lose weight and keep it off is to completely change their lifestyles. "Teach a man to fish..." he'll say to himself quietly as he smiles and remembers the old adage that rings particularly true for men of the sea. Some days, if he's had enough to drink, at the end of the show he'll tap his feet and bob his head and hum along to the electric guitar-led theme song.

In an episode that aired a few of months ago, Dr. Phil met with victims of violent crimes who were having difficulty moving on with their lives. He advised them as part of their therapy to write their fears down on paper in letters to themselves. At the time The Whaler didn't realize how important to his own life this advice would become, until a few days ago when he began to notice how worried Eater X is about the upcoming Goldenpalace.com Grilled Cheese Bowl.

"Eater X," The Whaler said to Eater X last week on a collect phone call made from a pay phone outside of a Gloucester bar. "I want you do me a favor."

Eater X listened politely to The Whaler as he explained what he'd seen on Dr. Phil and how he thought the same kind of therapy could help Eater X deal with his anxiety about The Grilled Cheese Bowl.

"But I'm not a writer," Eater X replied when The Whaler had finished his appeal. "What would I write about?"

The Whaler thought for a second before answering. "You don't have to be a writer," he said. "You just have to write a letter to yourself. You can write about anything, whatever's bothering you."

Eater X nodded, and The Whaler continued. "Do you remember how you felt after Joey Chestnut broke your grilled cheese record at the Arizona State Fair? Do you remember how hurt you were when you read the heading of the IFOCE's press release proclaiming that Joey had "Shatter[ed]" it? Do you remember what I said to you to try cheer you up?"

"Of course, I do," Eater X replied. "You said, 'Eater X, I'm not a dictionary, but I'm pretty sure that shattering a record is what you did in Nebraska when you ate 24% more than Sonya Thomas had ever eaten and the press release weakly stated that you had "Set" a world record.' You told me, 'Shattering isn't what Joey Chestnut did. He ate 4% more than you did. You shattered a record. Joey just fractured one.'"

The Whaler smiled. "And that's the kind of thing you can write about!" he said. "Whatever you're feeling, just get it out."

At the end of their conversation and with nothing to lose, Eater X agreed to write a letter to himself about everything that worried him about the contest coming up.

Below is a copy of that letter.

Dear Eater X,

Are you ready for The Grilled Cheese Bowl on February 1st?

I'm very nervous about it. I'm worried that it's going to disappoint me and that I'm going to disappoint myself. I was so proud of that record when I held it, and I've wanted so much to get it back, even though I know the odds against it are long. There isn't a contest on the calendar that would mean more to me to win. It would mean more to me than everything else I've ever done combined, and that's a scary feeling to have because if this contest means so much to me, I know it's going to break my heart.

The grilled cheese record I had wasn't like the other records I've got; it wasn't like anything else I've ever done. On that one day in Nebraska, I did something that every other elite eater had tried to do and couldn't, one, two, and sometimes even three times before at other grilled cheese contests around the country. In my life it's always been the other way around. I've always wished to achieve more than was reasonable to expect.

When I lost my record to Joey Chestnut back in October, I didn't know exactly how to feel. I was sad and I was angry because I'd lost the record, but I didn't know if I should be proud because Joey had barely broken it or angrier because he hadn't broken it by more. If he'd eaten 40 that day and crushed the record, at least I could have said to myself, "There was nothing you could have done differently. You're lucky he didn't go before you. You're lucky you held that record at all."

I'm nervous that already people are expecting me to eat more than I ate in Nebraska. I don't know how many I can eat. I don't think that performance was my best, but I don't know for sure that it wasn't. I'm scared that if I screw up and eat 29 instead of 31, everybody will wonder why I didn't eat more. I'm worried that if the sandwiches are stubborn and slow and I only eat 22 of them, everybody will question the legitimacy of my old record. And I'm worried that I'll eat 31 again but that four or five people will eat more, and that two or three of them will eat many more, and that I'll just be an afterthought.

But my biggest concern of all is that there's too much going on inside of my head right now for me to do my best. I've been walking around like a zombie lately. Something inside of me has already given up, and I just hope that I can fix it in time. I don't want to wake up the morning of the contest and wonder where my intensity is. I've done that before, and it sucks. I don't want to get to the contest and stare at the other eaters on stage and imagine how they'll beat me. I've done that too, too many times, and it sucks. I want to wake up as I did that day back in August, when I hopped an early flight to Omaha knowing there was something pecial about the day. I have never felt a feeling of destiny as strong as the one I felt that morning. I didn't know that I would set a world record, but I knew that I needed to be in Nebraska. Something in my heart told me so. I want to feel that way again.

Good luck to you! I hope you get what you want. I think you deserve it. Of course, you're my favorite eater.

-Eater X

I've heard from several of the eaters at last year's Barrick Burger contest that the Barrick Burger tastes like garbage. I've never eaten a Barrick Burger before to know if they're right, but I always cringe when they make their comments because I'm not one to talk behind somebody else's back. "Poor burger," I think to myself when they say those things, because I bet if the burger could hear them it'd be sad. "And poor cow whence it came," I think, because I bet if the cow could hear them it'd be really mad, er, angry. I don't know, maybe I'm too optimistic, but I like to imagine that the Barrick Burger is the best 9-lb. burger in the world!

That's right Barrick Burger: You're the best 9-lb. burger in the world!

These people who've insulted the Barrick Burger and the cow whence it came say that it's cold and dry and overcooked and that it could stand a few condiments and vegetables, anything to give it some flavor.

"But, but then it'd be a 10-lb. burger," I tell them. "It wouldn't be the best 9-lb. burger in the world anymore." I'm polite and sincere and mathematically correct when I say it, but they always look at me quizzically, as if I'm retarded or from another planet or both. And that's not the half of it!

If I'm talking to more than a few of them at once, somebody always seems to sneak behind me to poke me in the back of the head, which causes everybody else to laugh heartily and clutch their stomachs for support. Too often somebody else will suggest that I go "catch some fish or something," which makes the whole group of them laugh even harder. Sensing that the audience isn't with me, I'll say my goodbyes and leave at that point, unless they've tied my shoelaces together, which sometimes happens, and in which case I'll trip and fall and leave only after I've untied them--or if the knot's too tight, taken my shoes off entirely. Bullies!

I hope the will of the burger and the spirit of the cow will exact their revenge upon them in Vegas.

Reap what you sow, bitches!

This post is a copout. The Whaler spotted a pod of sperm whales off the coast of Cape Ann last night and had to cut short his time at the computer. He's sorry it's so short. He had to get his reap on.

Jimmy "The Greek" Snyder had a way with words. It got him fired. But, honestly, if you'd ever paid attention to his weekly picks on THE NFL TODAY, you had to wonder how he'd kept his job for so long in the first place; the guy couldn't even pick straight-up winners let alone work with a spread. Nevertheless, his segments were some of my favorites. Several years ago, I actually went to The Museum of Television and Radio to watch an old episode of THE NFL TODAY and reminisce.

In honor of Jimmy's body of work, I offer my picks for this weekend's corned beef contest in Hot Springs, AR. I'm sorry if my picks upset any of the participants. They don't necessarily reflect who I think is the better overall eater. Every food's different, every eater's different, and every contest rewards a different skill. Thoughtful picks recognize that reality.

So here they are, my picks:

1st Place - Joey Chestnut
2nd Place - Sonya Thomas
3rd Place - Chip Simpson
4th Place - Pat Bertoletti

And here are Jimmy's:

1st Place - Tyler Shuffield
2nd Place - Minnesota (+3.5)
3rd Place - Tim Shuffield
4th Place- Joey Chestnut

And here's the phone number for Gambler's Anonymous:

1-800-266-1908

We must all do what we must do, for if we do not, then what we must do does not get done.

-Chung Mee
Volunteers

Back in his fighting days, The Whaler once beat up a man because his first name was Jesse.

Jesse!

Can you believe it? The guy was named Jesse?!?

As The Whaler's knuckles were carving divots into Jesse's swollen face, Jesse cried out through the soupy solution of blood and saliva that was curdling in his throat, "Why are you doing this to me? Please. Stop.”

To which The Whaler responded in rhythm with his punches, "Because I'm trying to beat that God-awful name out of you!"

A day later in a conference with his court-appointed lawyer, The Whaler was advised that his case might be helped a bit if only he would claim that he'd mistakenly assaulted the wrong man. "Tell the judge you thought he was The Shrimper,” the lawyer suggested.

The Whaler cocked an eyebrow and laughed proudly and dismissively. "A case of mistaken identity? Hah! I beat up that man because his name was Jesse.”

Three weeks later at a pre-trial hearing and to everyone's surprise, Jesse dropped all charges against The Whaler. Jesse had decided that The Whaler was right, that the name Jesse is for weenies. Seems Jesse's girlfriend had dumped him two days prior. She'd told him she could no longer stand to date a man named Jesse.

Seeing that the prosecution no longer had a case, the judge banged his gavel against his bench and declared The Whaler a free man. The Whaler threw a straightened arm up into the air, his fist clenched tightly. "I am vindicated!” he shouted. His lawyer hugged him and wept.

You wonder why I'm telling you this story, why I'm revealing to the world my history as a brute. I'm telling you about Jesse because I'm trying to avoid what's on everyone's mind: The GoldenPalace.com Grilled Cheese Bowl on February 1st in New York City. I don't want to write about it because reading about it's not good for Eater X's state of mind. He's already nervous enough; he hasn't trained in forever, his grilled cheese record is history, and his swagger is completely gone. When I watch him when I'm visiting, and when I talk to his city friends who see him more often than I do, I worry about him. Eater X sleeps with a grilled cheese sandwich packed underneath his pillow. He walks the streets of New York City with a grilled cheese sandwich tucked into the triangle formed by his forearm, torso and hand, daring everyone he passes to try to knock it free. If you're foolish enough to accept his challenge, he'll stiff-arm your face, juke to the right, run 20 yards behind an invisible blocker and then spike his sandwich on the ground before picking it up and continuing on. At first I brushed off his behavior as his typical eccentricities, until this morning, when I stopped by his apartment early and caught him lovingly cleaning the burnt crumbs from his grilled cheese with the dull edge of a butter knife. He was softly reciting these words:

This is my sandwich. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My sandwich is my best friend. It is my life. I must master my sandwich as I must master my life. My sandwich without me is useless. Without my sandwich, I am useless…Thus I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strengths, its parts, its accessories…We will become part of each other. Before God I swear this creed.

I have never witnessed that exact moment when whatever holds a man together snaps, but I wonder now if for Eater X perhaps that moment is near. If Eater X challenges the field for first place next month, I'll know that he was focused and fine and that I was overreacting. But if that starting bell rings and the eaters start eating and Eater X just stares at his food and wets himself, I'll know for sure that something was terribly wrong. For now, because I've just watched Volunteers, I'll give Eater X the benefit of the doubt. Maybe, as Chung Mee explained, he's just doing what he must do. But I'll be keeping a close eye on him anyway, and if he steps out of line any farther, does anything else that even makes me wonder about his sanity, I'll have two good fists ready to knock some sense into him, just like I did with Jesse.

When there's a huge break in between eating contests, Eater X goes batty. He hand-delivered this latest entry and asked that I post it immediately. He said it was urgent, so I agreed, even though it doesn't make any sense at all. He said it represents a "journey of self," that as a kid he used to try to compel people with angry words and brute force to do what he wanted them to do, but that now because he's smarter and more patient, he cajoles them. He said it's symbolic, like an allegory, and that "Monday" doesn't literally mean Monday and that the monologue isn't directed at anyone in particular. I didn't really care. I just wanted him to take a nap and get better. "Okay," I said. "Whatever."

Monday

You like Bo Bice. You like him because you're a fag. I don't like Bo Bice. I don't like Bo Bice one bit. But you do. You like Bo Bice. You like his long hair. And what's worse, you love his music.

Tuesday

Okay. I'm sorry. I take it back. You don't like Bo Bice, and I shouldn't have said that you do. It was wrong of me. I just wanted you to like Bo Bice because I thought it would make you more interesting. But you don't like Bo Bice. I get it. You don't even know who he is. Maybe you should Google him.

Wednesday

You still don't like Bo Bice?

Nothing's changed?

But you really haven't tried to like Bo Bice. You haven't even given him a chance. Okay, you know what? I'm going to make you like Bo Bice by the time the week is out. In fact, I guarantee it. You're. Going. To. Like. Bo. Bice.

Thursday

Look at you! You look fabulous. I like your hair. Been a while since your last haircut, huh? Your hair's getting shaggy, just like Bo's.

Friday

I'm sorry I spilled that glass of red wine on your shirt. We should get that off of you immediately. I'll put it in the washer. Here, wear this shirt. It's a Bo Bice shirt. It's not much, but at least it's clean.

Wow! That Bo Bice shirt really flatters your figure.

Saturday

You know that Bo Bice shirt I loaned you yesterday? You know what? You can keep it. I don't need it. I have too many shirts already.

Sunday

I made you a CD. It's a mix. I think you'll like Track 5 a lot. It's called "U Make Me Better." But that's all I'm gonna tell you.

Monday

Yeah, sure, I can take care of your cat while you're away at the Bo Bice concert. That's gonna be some weekend. Have fun!