In the wee small hours of Friday morning, I watched 29 morbidly obese people consume 7,000 detached chicken parts. They did it, I assume, for the glory of competition. I did it for sheer amusement. The rest of the 23,000 people in attendance did it because, well, they're Philadelphians.
I can think of no other way to describe the event known as Wing Bowl and no better way to comprehend the inhabitants of the city that has now proudly hosted it for 10 years. Like other towns whose identities have been shaped by events or rituals, this rite is unique to the City of Brotherly Love. And within just a few years, I believe, the name of this city and its annual pageant of poultry will be all but synonymous.
New Orleans has Mardi Gras. Pamplona has the running of the bulls. Philadelphia has Wing Bowl.
It is an event that has increasingly come to mesmerize the city for a few days each January. And to understand why is to understand much of what still makes this city tick.
To make things simple, Wing Bowl is nothing more than a marketing gimmick, an early-morning chicken wing-eating contest sponsored by WIP, the local sportstalk radio station. Contestants qualify by impressing the station's hosts with feats of digestive fortitude -- consuming an entire lamb's head in 30 minutes, for example -- and are rewarded with an exhibition of great pageantry, complete with an introductory processional, fiery female "Wingettes" and the chance to win a free trip to Aruba.
The folks who attend Wing Bowl -- the thousands who lined up at 5 a.m. for free admission to the First Union Center -- reflect the nature of the city and the competition. They aren't the ones fleeing Philadelphia in fear of its wage tax or bleak economic outlook. They don't spend their days griping about the city's comparative inadequacies; they wouldn't even care to analyze "the city" at all.
Instead, they're the folks for whom Philadelphia is a home and place to earn a living. They span all levels of education and income, though they tend to represent the working class more than anyone else. They wear the green and white of the hometown Eagles, and, on this special day, have no problem putting down a Budweiser at 7 a.m. or cheering on a man whose sole talent -- the ability to crush full beer cans with his head -- has earned him a spot in the record books.
They are steelworkers and carpenters. Bus drivers and attorneys. I bet there was even a Penn professor or two in their midst.
They drive the success of Wing Bowl because they recognize it as nothing more than mindless fun, inflated to epic proportions. And they cheer on men whose professional names evoke a fitting sort of gastronomical heroism.
Tollman Joe.
Lord of the Wings.
Ali Blobba.
And El Wingador, this year's champion.
The fans recognize that the ability and willingness to consume three pounds of head scrapple in 20 minutes ought to count for something in this world. And they have enough common sense to know that they can laugh and cheer, head off to work and not really care too much about the cosmic importance of it all.
They know, like an unfortunate few of us do, that some things shouldn't be taken too seriously, and that these are the things we ought to care about and laugh about most.
They probably wouldn't last too long on this campus. Or any other.
Wing Bowl spectators are the folks who keep this city running; who'll keep doing so long after the nay-sayers and social critics and holier-than-thou college students have gone. They know the character of a city has more to do with the spirit of its residents than with a pair of sandwich shops or a Hollywood prizefighter. And now they have an event to forever immortalize that spirit.
Certainly, the objections will continue to grow. The critics will argue that a festival of gluttony isn't the proper vehicle for celebrating the city where America's democracy was born. Others will say that the schtick of a radio station shouldn't define the character of a great municipality. Still others will point to the Wing Bowl's overt sexism as prime reason for checking its growth.
The critics will all be right. They will also be wasting their breath.
Sure, if Wing Bowl is to survive -- if it is to join Mardi Gras and Pamplona in the pantheon of great events -- it could use some tinkering. Organizers ought to tone down the role of the Wingettes and tell the strippers to stay home. Women, you see, also live in Philadelphia, also drive its character. And I bet they like chicken wings too.
Beyond that, though, there isn't all that much that can -- or should -- be changed. The city finally has an event to cling to, one lasting symbol of a gritty municipal identity that fades with the construction of every new Wal-Mart or trendy downtown restaurant.
They call it Wing Bowl. And Philadelphians wouldn't have it any other way.
Jonathan Margulies is a senior Management concentrator from North Bellmore, N.Y., and outgoing editorial page editor of The Daily Pennsylvanian .
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