WHEN IN ROME, NY

Post #45 Topic: Wingin’ It!

Raise your hand if you’ve ever been “Wang Drunk”. Yes, there is indeed such a thing. It’s a seldom-referenced phenomenon that occurs when an eater ingests a lot of wings in a short period of time. I’m not talking about your standard dozen; I’m talking like 50 wings in 15 minutes – wang drunk. Notice the spelling of wing – W-A-N-G. No this is not some homage to the Ladies Man, rather, it is the appropriate way to spell the adjective that describes the type of drunk you get when you eat too many wings. Why? Because most people who get wang drunk are country bumpkins, and they uniformly pronounce WING as WANG. Intoxicated off of grease and chicken. Barbecue, Honey Mustard, Hot… doesn’t matter. If you haven’t been wang drunk in your life then my friend… you simply have not lived.

When I was a freshman in the Onondaga Valley, I was fortunate enough to be assigned one of these “bumpkins” as my roommate. He was the 1^st person I had ever met that did not know what a computer was. I was his VERY 1^st JEW! When I got the roommate assignment, I noticed that he was Italian. Call me insensitive but I was expecting a 6 foot 4 vinnie scallopini to roll up ready to hit the clubs and crush the bradgiole. What I got was a 5 foot 10 toothpick with a southern accent, and an affinity for unpasteurized milk and hunting turkey vultures.

He was expecting me, a jew, to roll up in a fleet of Jaguars with an entourage and a stylist. Fortunately for my initial reputation we only came in 1 Jaguar, which had no room for my entourage or my stylist.

My roommate, we’ll call him Jon (mostly because that was his name, but also because Jon is a pretty popular name and would otherwise have been the firs alias I would have come up with), was from nearby; right outside of Syracuse. Funny thing about Syracuse is that within 10 miles it turns into sprawling farm lands – this was where Jon had grown to lay his head.

In the neighboring vicinity of this farmland existed a little bar called Knoxies. This was the kind of place that if you didn’t know someone in the area… you would never come across. (Legend has it that Knoxies’ actual location changes every time you go there – very secretive stuff). Several months into the semester, Jon informed my new floor mates and myself that Knoxie’s had a 10 cent wing promotion every Monday. Given my eating habits, Monday night Knoxies became a staple in my Syracuse tenure.

Almost as quickly as the world turns, I developed an enormous tolerance for wings. Almost without stopping for a breath I could inhale nearly 50 of the buggers, bone clean, no meat to be found. Slowly, our enjoyment for eating wings developed a slightly competitive nature. If Adam could eat 30 in half an hr, I could certainly eat 40 in 35.

Soon the competition era was phased out by the “team concept” era. Gather your 4 best wing eaters and see how many wings you can clean in an hr. Our numbers were instantly legendary. In our 1^st attempt we ate as a group 115 (there is some debate as to how many I ate that night. I claim I had around 60, others say it was closer to 40. Our WANG drunkenness prevented us from keeping any accurate historical records). Soon 115 became 120, 120 became 130 and 130 became 140. Then, one fateful night, me along with my friends Conor, Jay and The Jaguar (see earlier posts), decided to throw caution into the wind… we would eat 160 wings amongst the 4 of us (Conor would proceed to dip every bite in blue cheese, adding a significant load to the already substantial weight of our wing conquest).

To say that we ate all 160 would be a lie, a prime example of brutal dishonesty. Truth is that I dropped one wing to its perilous death on the sawdust-ridden floor. There’s no 5-second rule in god’s country! To this day I remain ashamed of my negligent behavior. But the record was set that Monday night in November in my sophomore year, and the record would stand for the rest of my Syracuse days.

SO WHAT? WHO CARES? Well, as I demonstrated that historical night, Wings are the unheralded essence of life: I digress.

A little over a week ago, NHL fans witnessed one of the most horrid accidents in the history of Athletic competition, barring the ancient Grecian sport of javelin swallowing which has since been banned in all but 4 countries (and three provinces).

Behind his own net, Richard Zednik was fighting for the puck. When his teammate and captain Olli Jokinen was checked into the boards, Olli’s skate jerked up towards Zednik’s face. The next image the camera showed was of Zednik bracing his neck skating to his bench. Blood was everywhere as Zednik has sliced his carotid artery, a potentially fatal incident. Literally speaking, blood was everywhere. The crowd was silent, teammates were panicking and trainers assisted in rushing Zednik to the local Buffalo hospital (who knew they had medical care near Canada). The next several minutes were occupied by a terribly difficult decision making process; whether or not to continue the game.

These decisions are never easy ones, as evidenced by Jiri Fischer’s on-ice collapse in Detroit several years ago. Apparently the powers that be felt it better to complete the game, and thus the puck was once again dropped, albeit amidst a cloud of doubt and concern for the life of a “consummate teammate and professional”, Richard Zednik.

Within two days the sporting world received the word the Richard would be ok. According to the doctors, Zednik reached the hospital just in time to receive what is considered “life-saving surgery”. Although Zednik would be unable to return to the ice this year, dr’s opined that Zednik would most likely be back in competitive form for the start of next season. Given the almost inevitable trade of Jokinen and the Panther’s otherwise inexperienced roster, playoffs for the Florida club are considered a pipe dream.

So where am I going with all this? When Zednik awoke from his post-surgical sleep, he not surprisingly found himself hungry. Hospital food? Nah! Pasta and veggies? Fugheddaboudit! Apple sauce and cream of corn? Perhaps tomorrow! When Richard Zednik awoke from his deep sleep, the only things on his mind were Buffalo Wings… and a lot of them.

When in Rome eh? According to nurses, Zednik didn’t even hesitate when asked what he wanted to eat. But Wings are notoriously unhealthy and Dr’s were concerned that the grease might not be the best antidote for a recovering patient. So the Docs ran a few tests, asked a few questions, and eventually determined that wings were exactly what the Dr. ordered. Richard Zednik, ladies and gentlemen, defines the word “man”. Being in Buffalo, there was of course no shortage of the things (my junior year I “asked” my pledges to drive the 2.5 hrs to Buffalo to bring me back a dozen wings… my pledges were good pledges!). Given the severity of the injury, 1 local wing joint felt inclined to donate wings and pizza to feed the entire hospital staff that day. According to reporters, after biting into his 1^st wing, Zednik appeared as healthy as ever.

I love wings, and I really can’t stand the fact that EVERYTIME I’M EATING THEM, some ass has to remind me of how unhealthy they are. To all those people… IF THEY’RE HEALTHY ENOUGH FOR A DYING MAN, THEN BY ALL MEANS THEY’RE HEALTHY ENOUGH FOR ME. Let that be the end of the wing-health discussion.

So what’s the moral of the story? Some people drink Soy Milk, which ironically contains NO DAIRY and therefore IS NOT MILK. Some people stay away from carbs and some from grease. Some people watch their weight and others eat to feel good. But take it from a man who was literally inches away from losing his life that when you’re down and out, or even when you’re just a little hungry, never underestimate the powers of a delicious buffalo wing.

P.S. Hockey is the best sport and the only sport in which people don’t cheat.

Other Notes

What’s with all of the pirates walking around NYC?

Jazz killed weezie. Weezie re-killed Jazz. Weezie is killed by… Kermit Ruffins?

Hi I’m Dwight Howard, nice to meet you world. I’m going to be here for a while so you better get used to me. OH, and Phil (Jackson), I’ll see you when my contract in this theme park is up, save me a seat next to Kobe.

STOP WATCHING NASCAR.

Speaking of Weezie, quote of the century: “if you understand me, you must be Jesus Christ”