USA: Top Dog

Showed up to the Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Championships just as IFOCE cofounder George Shea was warming up the crowd with an in-German rendition of “99 Luftballoons” so outrageously earnest, it should've left everyone rolling on the ground laughing. But the pavement proved too hot for the food-stuffing fan base to roll on, and between its lack of Nena-ppreciation and its xenotarded anti-Kobayashi sentiment (“Kobayashi is a pussy!” “Yeah, he's a little pussy! He's shorter than I am!”), it was a tough day for the old Axis powers. (The fans did get behind Patrick "Deep Dish" Bertoletti, though in retrospect, I'm not even sure we hated the Italians during World War II.)

But it was a good day for emceeing, as Rich Shea took his game to new levels: claiming that some have described Sonya “Black Widow” Thomas as “the absence of good, the shadow underneath the rose petal”; praising Joey Chestnut's technique with “he's like an amoeba in a petri dish: he doesn't know why he's shimmying and shaking...except he does know why, because he's trying to get those hot dogs down into his stomach”; and, with much gravitas, explaining that he calls one competitive eater “Two Shoes” because “HE WEARS TWO SHOES”. What elevates the Shea Brothers over other professional hucksters is that whether they're belting out German pop music or creating new metaphors for evil, they don't overly concern themselves with the sensibilities of those they're huckstering. I'm pretty sure that makes them artists.

 

Proving that hell can be cute, this three-year-old boy straddling his dad's shoulders asked his dad if Eric Badlands Booker was black. His dad dismissively said “No”. The kid was confused, and asked if Badlands was “wearing a bunch of stuff on his face”. The dad said yes, that must be it. You can see the dad's video camera below. Hopefully he'll review the footage later and determine that, despite Badlands' predilection for Jewish cuisine (21 baseball-sized matzo balls in just over 5 minutes!), the man is almost certainly black.

In other news: the crowd treated “Don't Stop Believing” like people in more openly patriotic times treated the National Anthem, and while God might prefer Florida Gators football, Uncle Sam is partial to the basketball team, probably because nothing encapsulates America quite like Joakim"The African Viking" Noah: 

This sleeveless gentleman below was hustling people into his friend's bar with promises of ice cold beer and a gleeful chorus of “To the window/To the wall/To the sweat drop down my balls!” He says he does events for Mob Candy Magazine (“the entertainment magazine of mafia politics pleasure and power”, complete with restaurant reviews!). He also says he's the reigning champion of an unsanctioned Coney wings-eating competition -- his tally last year was around 37, compared to Sonya Thomas's record of 165, and he admits he cheats. He'll be arriving to this year's competition in a 1918 Studebaker, dressed as Al Capone. When we made to leave, he reintroduced himself as "Sean Lennon", then called Ben and me “Mark”, because apparently we were marks. Which isn't true. I know that the real Sean Lennon would've nailed that Lil John song.

Back in the East Village, purchased some lemonade from two enterprising youths and their somewhat more enthusiastic parents. Someone saw me taking a picture (for some reason it got screwed up on my point-n-click -- which is now literally held together with tape -- but you can bet it was precocious), and took one of her own, but didn't buy any refreshment. Not very American, though I guess I didn't buy a beer from Sean Lennon. I would have bought an issue of Mob Candy, but despite claiming he had copies in his trunk, he never produced them, and it remains uncertain if he even has a trunk. 

Crashed out, then headed to a rooftop party in Williamsburg. As anyone who's ever watched the Black  Widow eat can tell you, those shadows can be intoxicating.