Wing Bowl: There's a price to pay ... but why, exactly?

TO SOMEONE who grew up with three brothers who hit puberty within roughly 15 months of one another, the term "eating contest" means essentially the same thing as "dinner's ready." Starting in 1975, when the first one hit double digits, and for a decade or so thereafter, the Flowers boys would compete to see who could stuff the most food in their mouths in the shortest period of time. Sometimes they even mastered the novel art of chewing before swallowing. As far as beverages, they were optional, but a carbonated soft drink was always helpful to clear the air, if you get my drift.

I'm used to nutritional bacchanalia, pretty much like anyone who ever had contact with an Italian grandmother on Thanksgiving (that's another column). I'm much more comfortable around people who snack on things that would wipe out an entire month's point allowance on the Weight Watcher's program than those who separate the yolk from the whites, the gluten from the (fig) Newton and the joy from the plate. A good gauge of character for me is the way in which someone wields their cutlery: If you grasp the fork firmly, with evident pleasure, you are my kind of person. If there's an erect pinkie involved at any stage, I write you off.

All of this is to say that the sight of people (mostly the sort in possession of a Y chromosome) eating copious quantities of foods that would make Michelle Obama question whether she should still be proud of her country doesn't upset me. Racing against someone else in an attempt to digest the most amount of food in the least amount of time (and walk away without doing permanent and unsanitary damage to your colon) is not my idea of rollicking fun, but it also doesn't make me think that the world is going to end.

That's why I haven't yet written about one of this city's most controversial and colorful traditions: Wing Bowl. To me, there hasn't been anything particularly noteworthy about a bunch of men (and a few women) gathered together in one place chowing down to the tick-tock rhythm of a stop clock and showing the rest of the world that their esophagi are actually made of Spandex. Ho (belch) hum.

But without my knowing it, without my paying attention and seeing the monster grow from the excretion of discarded chicken bones, hot dog rolls and crab shells, Wing Bowl has turned into an event that would astound Caligula.

Don't get me wrong: Grown adults can do whatever they want to do when their football team is not in the playoffs. They can pretend that this sad orgy of hors d'oeuvres is a legitimate substitute for watching talented people (including talented people who cheat) vie for athletic glory on the gridiron. They can watch (or be) scantily clad women who are absolutely entitled to strut their oiled and well-toned stuff in a pageant that involves no talent portion, half a swimsuit and absolutely no scholarships.

In short, they can do all this because we live in a free country and have the right to be as crass and tasteless as possible, even away from Capitol Hill.

It's just that I'm flabbergasted that people will actually pay to be involved in this kind of thing. I mean, do they charge admission to the frat-house parties beyond the contributions to the keg? Do the fellows at stag parties have to fork over anything beyond the cost of the computer through which they can access emails from ex-Justice Seamus McCaffery? Seriously, when did good, dirty fun start coming with a hefty price tag?

I went online to see how much tickets to the event cost, and I saw a wide range of offerings, from $18 for the lower level to $181 for a "Superbox." I have no doubt that people pay these prices because I've been told that this event normally sells out. And that is what amazes me.

While I myself would not choose to watch naked women prance around discarded banana peels and half-digested jalapeno peppers (I get enough of that kind of stuff on SEPTA), I don't begrudge some lonely gent from doing the same. Although I would run from the prospect of seeing a man creep up to that thin line between satiation and food poisoning - without actually crossing it - I can fully understand where a basement-dweller would find it to be charming and strangely comforting.

But, again, what I cannot understand is how anyone would part with their hard-earned money, dollars that they could otherwise spend on pornographic films or numerous McDonald's Happy Meals, to watch other people eat.

It just does not compute.

Of course, I do realize that the whole Wing Bowl ethos is a fiction, built upon the idea that these competitive eaters and these local celebrities are our friends. We can ignore the fact that they are our friends only if we pay them money, because at 6:30 a.m., with several beers under your belt, even the guy with the entire porchetta hanging out of his mouth can seem like a pal.

The kind you could give the Heimlich to.