The Spew Zone

Ready? Set? Blow! With that, I jammed my face into a slice of watermelon. I came in second place behind a Neanderthal- looking guy. Aside from inhaling a seed up my left nostril, my dignity and stomach contents remained intact. It was my first, and last, attempt at “speed eating.”

Apparently, the sport has swollen.

So I’m vegging out on the 4th, butt on sofa and TV changer in hand, when I stumble upon ESPN’s broadcast of Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest. It was like watching a car wreck — I could not look away. What with the top prize being $10K, you can bet folks push the limits. It’s 12 minutes of wieners, buns and discharging orifices. All, nationally televised.

They call it “competitive eating” and have bred their own brand of “athlete.” Sometimes known as “gurgitators”, these studs compete in more than 100 Major League Eating events annually worldwide. They even created their own governing body: IFOCE — International Federation of Competitive Eating. But Nathan’s is the crown jewel of the sport, garnering a television audience of millions.

The competition is fierce and each participant exhibits their own techniques. Some dip their buns, while others bounce and wiggle, forcing the contents into their gut. National Geographic aired The Science of Speed Eating and, according to the “researchers,” the biggest trick is to overcome the gag reflex. For those who don’t, there is the “spew zone.” It’s the area directly in front of the stage, where only die hard fans dare tread. Rain gear is suggested.

Watching the proceedings was painful, but not just for the obvious reasons. I come from a family of folk who know how to “put it away.” My father was not only overweight, he was an alcoholic. I’ve chronicled his plight before and won’t belabor you with the details. But, needless to say, our family became the “spew zone”. He was either AWOL or in a drunken rage and we had front row seats to the aftermath.

Sure, the hot dog eating contest is an easy target. But as one genetically predisposed to addiction, I couldn’t help but see it as a metaphor for our entire culture.

The Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave has become a nation of addicts: alcohol, drugs, food, sex, entertainment — there’s fuel for every fire. The last I looked, gluttony was one of the Seven Deadly Sins. But in an environment of excess, cramming 66 hot dogs and buns down your throat in 12 minutes is not a sin, it’s a world record. Perhaps this is why we idolize our addicts. That Jimi Hendrix could simultaneously jam like a fiend and intoxicate himself into a stupor is impressive. Who cares that he choked on his own vomit.

According to Augustine, “Complete abstinence is easier than perfect moderation.” Of course, neither one seems an option in our age. Instead, it’s more — more food, more money, more sex, more drugs, more pleasure. But when we celebrate excess and reward overkill, when we pummel our endorphines and push our sensory envelope — when life becomes a contest to see who can make the most, have the most, or eat the most — there’s bound to be explosions. Whether it’s alcohol or drugs, food or porn, far too many families are the “spew zone” for someone’s sin.

So let us hail the new hot dog eating champ. May you relish your victory. But, at some point, aren’t we’re all king of the gurgitators?