Hey folks, and welcome from the aftermath of the Lehigh Valley Chili Cook Off, held just offshore of the majestic Lehigh River, near these monstrosities:

These giant industrial beauties are what remains of the once-proud Bethlehem Steel plant, and they used to produce a truly inspiring amount of local pollution so great that the town began forcing them to clean the river before anyone even thought of things like “are you sure all that sludge in the river isn’t bad for the children?” and “maybe you don’t want to eat the fish that turn neon green when they swim by here.” Lost to history, however, are the days when these bad boys would light a pillar of blue flame 25 feet high well into the Eastern Pennsylvania night, and all they do now is provide a stunning backdrop to many local events and concerts, from such things as our pitiful attempt at an Oktoberfest and a solo performance by Ed Kowalczyk of Live.

Considering this is the sort of thing you see when you wander through my town, is it any wonder that every year, for an embarrassingly large portion of the calendar year, the local police force just throws their hands up and says, “Fuck this, drink wherever the hell you want?” They allow for many an open container, provided said container is 1, not glass, 2, not being held by someone underage, and 3, in some way related to one of the two dozen or so local festivals which sell mugs and drinking paraphernalia solely for the purpose of pretending no one is, in fact, drinking in public. Most of the local bars agree to fill these mugs and such for a reduced rate, and as long as you don’t walk around with a 24-ounce plastic mug full of gin, everyone is cool with it.

So, provided you and your crew thought ahead, by the time most people arrive at one of these events, everyone has had about a six-pack of cheap beer, and then squirreled another 1.5-2 beers into their Officially Licensed Mug™ and is hitting the festival grounds/enclosed parking lot/(my personal favorite)the entirety of East 4th Street. Here on East 4th, anywhere from 8-24 cooks will showcase their chili prowess, and allow hundreds of locals to come through and get their scoop of chili goodness in a 4-oz cup, and then provide their rankings to judges at the end of the day. Every one of these stations will have a huge-ass line by 12:15, and, considering the Cook-Off starts at 12, this is fairly impressive.

—A Brief Return To Simpler Chili Cook-Off Times—

(Before I get too far into this, let me share with you the kind of random weirdness that occurs during the Chili Cook-Off. About six years ago, Bethlehem held this thing during Lehigh’s Alumni Weekend, so as to better cash in on all the wealthy graduates who came back to town to discover that all but one of their favorite watering holes has closed down [which warrants its own post one day, as the resilience of the Tally Ho is the stuff of legend], and on top of that, it was an unseasonably hot weekend in April, so motherfuckers were drinking. My friend, we’ll call him “Joe” because that’s his name, and I wandered into the Tally Ho in search of whiskey and air conditioning, and ran smack into this guy:

Joe and I were both struck dumb by seeing a notable TV personality sitting alone at the bar during the Chili Cook-Off, and also by the fact that neither of us knew his damn name, either the character or the actor, and instead managed a half-lit “Hey you’re THAT GUY from CSI!” shouts, which he waved off and asked us to sit down before we drew too much attention to him (his name is Paul Guilfoyle, and he is an amazing man). After sitting next to him at the bar, we began bullshitting, and found out he graduated Lehigh in 1972, and his character’s name is Detective Brass. He wouldn’t allow us to buy him a beer, but he did take the shot we bought him, and we all sat and talked for about 30 minutes. He was possibly the nicest famous person I met at the Ho, narrowly edging out Shooter McGavin (a tale saved for the Tally Ho’s story, one day), and when we told him that, he smiled and bought us another round. He answered most, if not all, of our questions, and even laughed when I asked him how bad Marg Helgenberger’s coke problem was during the first few seasons. He  didn’t seem inclined to answer beyond a quick admonishment not to spread that kind of talk, but he also didn’t ask us to leave him alone, so that must mean something.

Joe and I bought another round of Jameson, and Brass then informed the bartender he was paying our tab (I didn’t have the heart to tell him I almost NEVER had a tab at the Ho, as all of my friends worked there and the owner was a good friend… but instead I asked the bartender to take half as his tip and use the rest on Brass if he came back in that weekend). He shook our hands, downed his shot, and walked off in search of whatever it is TV character actors do in their old college towns. I like to think he went down the block to a bar where people more in his age bracket hung out and got a sloppy beej from some of the older women who were out enjoying the Cook-Off. Joe and I walked back out into the heat and sunshine, and I never saw Brass again. I hope he enjoyed his time with us. He seemed like the kind of guy who deserved it.)

–I Now Return You To My Regularly Scheduled Idiocy™, Possibly In Progress–

At this time, I will relate the tales of this year’s cook-off, stopping at some time to regale you all with the stunning tale of Throwing A Hipster Jackass On The Garage Roof Behind the Funhouse.

The Bethlehem Spring on the South Side festival is a way for my quaint little town to kick off the Summertime festivities, and it has grown from a small chili cook-off between four local bars across five blocks to this huge, sprawling thing that now includes all manner of oddball “cultural” shit in addition to the Chili Cook Off.  Also, because my town has always had a large hippie population, they schedule the damn thing for Earth Day every year and we get that mashed in here, too. Then, because this country is full of idiots (sort of like the beans in bad chili), they scheduled the “March for Science” for Saturday, as well, which basically meant that everyone I know was spread across a large part of Bethlehem, for various reasons which all pretty much involved getting hammered just to get through the day.

As I stated, this Cook-Off started off small, and everyone was previously allowed to attend and eat free chili and cast a ballot for the winner, who got the most important prize of all in a cooking competition: bragging rights. Now, there’s a trophy and appointed judges and the whole thing requires a Passport, which is like a chili-themed Stations of the Cross pamphlet, that allows you one free 4 oz. cup of chili at each spot, and then you’re out. To make things easier, my friend Joe (see the Tale of Jim Brass, above) picked up the “passports” earlier in the week, which I assumed meant we were good to go upon arrival, so I started my morning drinking Jack n Coke before catching a ride to the South Side to begin my day drinking in earnest. I would have walked, but there was a light drizzle and, well…. I’m fuckin lazy.

I arrived at Joe’s house for further pre-game ritualized drinking, wherein I introduced my friend Joe and his new girlfriend to the wondrous game of “Watch How Fast I Can Drink This Beer,” he presented me with his surprise for the day: a Santana Moss New York Jets Jersey he found in a thrift shop, which was both miraculously in my size and somehow not covered in stains. It was awesome, and we decided we would rock our respective Jets jerseys for the day. Further marking the day as one full of tolerance, we were not immediately ridiculed by passer by for this decision.

We discovered that our Passports were not good to immediately begin eating, as we were required to turn these over for Officially Licensed Spring On The South Side Chili Cook Off Passports, from a spot that was about five blocks from where we started the damn day, and it’s a testament to the power of whiskey that I did not immediately shout, “fuck THAT!” and retreat to the house, opting instead to brave the light rain, obtain my legal pass for chili, and begin this thing in earnest. Therefore, ON TO THE FOOD:

Chili #1 : Vegetarian Chili, presented by the Lehigh University Chef:

(I apologize for the lack of photos, but come on…. it’s a 4 ounce white cup full of chili. None of them looked any different, and I’m not that photogenic for you to complain about not seeing me in this post.)

We were given this chili prior to obtaining the passport, by the closest purveyor of fine chili to Joe’s house. It was a decent, if not exciting, chili, fairly spicy and full of the kind of filler vegetarian chilis require to make people forget they’re being fed some kind of bullshit without meat in it. A solid middle-of-the-pack contender.

Chili #2: The Bookstore Speakeasy

Yes, my town has a speakeasy. Yes, it sucks ass and tries way too hard to be hip and edgy and cool. They have one thing going for them: the entrance to the place is a legit used bookstore, where I bought a decent copy of Dennis Lehane’s Mystic River about eight years ago for $5. After digging through their used books, which quite frankly suprised them, you can go through a black curtain and enter a too-dark restaurant with a bar that’s too small, a ceiling that’s too low, and so many fucking candles it’s a wonder the place passes fire inspections. Anyway…. their chili sucked. I took one spoonful and declared I wouldn’t feed it to my dog, which drew nervous laughs until some guy behind us tried to do exactly that… and his dog spit it the fuck out. This was not a good sign.

Chili #3: Miller Lite and Jameson

We sort of skipped the line outside of the next establishment and went inside to refuel on the more important offering of the day: alcohol. Also, considering Joe and his girlfriend both had to pee, I feel the correct decision was made here. While inside, the rain kicked up for about 15 minutes, so we chose to have shots of Jameson, and therein began the argument of the early afternoon: why Jameson is awesome, and why Tullamore Dew sucks ass (Joe’s girl thinks Jameson is worse than Tully, and she was SO WRONG).

Chili #4: Molly’s Bar & Grill

Hands down, the easy winner in my opinion. Spicy, flavorful, and, perhaps most importantly, NOT FUCKING VEGETARIAN, Molly’s maintained their streak of providing a damn fine chili with good heat. I was also given a full bowl of chili here, so I may be biased (knowing everyone who works in a bar is a good thing, some days). They were my front-runner for the day, despite some good competition coming up in the second half of the tasting window.

Chili #5: La Lupita, or “La Mexican Place Across From Molly’s”

By this time, the combination of the shots from Molly’s, the morning drinking, and the Jameson and Ginger we were all carrying with us was beginning to kick in, so remembering the names of some spots got hazy for a little while. La Lupita offered a damn fine chili that came in two heat scales, and they graciously allowed me to try each of them. The lesser heat version was fantastic; the hot version made me chug J&G until my eyes stopped watering. I admit this colored my ranking of their chili, as I felt that enjoying the chili should be part of the experience.

Chili #6: Tulum

Tulum is a place that makes great food with minimal fuss or fanfare, and they have the best hours in Bethlehem: “11-ish until we get tired.” Also, the woman they had serving chili had bright blue hair, which would have made Seamus very happy during his second-to-last Sexy Friday. This was a good chili, some strong flavors, no real heat to speak of, but they were the first to add a bunch of Tostito’s Scoops to the cup, which set things off nicely.

–Interjected Tales of 2016–

So, the Hipster Jackass that looks to be having fun on top of the roof in this photo? I put him there, in a version of a “time-out” that he earned because he did not know how to act like a proper human being when in the company of others. The Funhouse is a dive bar in South Bethlehem that always manages to have great bands and really good chili for the Cook-Off, which is always surprising because the FunHole doesn’t actually serve food.

At all. EVER.

Seriously, the last time they had food on the premises was when they had one of those rotary hot-dog contraptions in a corner on the bar, and for the better part of a year, there was one dessicated hot dog on a metal spit, turning endlessly under a heat lamp, awaiting the day when someone… anyone… would be so hungry, they would attempt to eat it without dying. I never got the story on what happened with that hot dog, but we all commented when the machine went away. Tina, the owner, merely smiled and shook her head, then offered us a round on the house to shut us up. Something happened, that’s certain, but we may never find out what.

So the Funhouse has a dubious, yet wholly appropriate, history, and considering it is a proud dive bar, many of these stories change in the telling. For instance, the Hipster on the Roof is now the result of a fight, and even after trying to correct the record all day, it’s still the tale people prefer to tell, so I am letting it go. But here’s what really happened:

The FunHole offers drunken games in addition to Chili and live music on Cook-Off Saturday, and last year, they offered a version of basketball with a 55-gallon drum lined with a trash bag, and three inflated rubber balls in place of the basketballs, two orange and one red, the red one counting for two points as opposed to orange’s one. You get to throw all three for sixty seconds provided you pay a dollar, and the top five scores between 1 and 6 PM get a chance to play for money against each other from 6:30-7. I did OK, but never made it to the final round at 6:30. Hipster was removed from competition by a lovely young Asian girl and after he was booted, he picked up the red ball and threw it on the roof, much to the consternation of the growing crowd of drunks, and it seemed about to bring the young Asian girl to tears.

I don’t like that kind of thing, so I informed the Hispter he had to go get the ball or he was leaving, permanently. After much hemming and hawing and complaining there was no ladder to reach the roof, I said I could probably throw him on the roof. He, being a bit drunker than I was, thought this a delightful idea, and plans were quickly made to attempt this. At no point, and I feel I should note this, did I agree to bring him back down, nor did he think to ask about this, a fact the young Asian girl was about to point out when I held my finger to my lips and gave her a quick wink. So, we went over to the wall by the garage, and I boosted the Hipster on the Roof. As he seemed to miss the top, I gave him an extra shove and up and over he went, landing quite satisfyingly on a shrinking puddle unseen by those of us below. He gave a quick shout, started to bitch, then thought better of it. He found the ball and tossed it down, and was promptly ignored by everyone in the back of the bar.

I ordered a new beer from the server walking by, and turned my back on the Hipster on the Roof, and my friend Kris asked, “Aren’t you gonna help him get down?”

“Did you hear me offer to do that?” I replied, to which Kris shook his head no. “Exactly. Fuck that guy. He can stay up there for the next week for all I give a shit.”

And we then proceeded to drink until it was time to find a new bar for a few hours.

Chili #7: Soto Santi

Soto Santi is the place in South Bethlehem where everyone who wears an Ed Hardy shirt drinks… and yet, somehow, this place considers itself an upscale Italian restaurant. Their food generally sucks, the atmosphere is bullshit, and the clientele are people I would gleefully curbstomp for five minutes’ peace and quiet. To give you an idea as to how much of a dick the owner is, the guy serving us chili broke his fucking arm the night before, and was told he still had to be there to work. Coincidentally, they had the second-worst chili after the Bookstore, although I’m pretty sure they both used the same dog food brand as a base. Total shit.

Chili #8: The Funhouse!

Also known as “the place where a hipster may still be on the roof out back,” Joe decided he wanted to hike the 8 blocks to another chili spot while his girl and I went in search of more booze. She finally got a shot of Tully while I drank more Jameson, and this was when I noticed she was not truly capable of keeping up, as she began wishing for Red Bull almost immediately, as she was fading fast. I encouraged Nikki to get up from the bar stool and follow me outside, thinking that the combination of standing and the light rain make wake her up some, and buy us a couple of hours. Outside, the Funhouse had their chili on offer, and to be honest, it was unremarkable. While we stood around in the rain, everyone I knew from the other locations around the Festival stopped by, and we had a large, drunken gathering of idiots talking about all the dumb shit one does when day drinking, capped mostly by people remarking that I was wearing a Jets jersey during the off season. After 30 minutes or so standing around the back yard of the Funhouse, Joe returned, and we were off to our final stop of the day…

Chili #9: The Tally Ho!

The Tally Ho used to be the stuff of legend. At one time, it was the best bar in South Bethlehem, and I was there at least three nights out of the week. Nowadays, I never go in there, because the new owner sucks ass and their food has gone horrendously down hill, and the quality of their entertainment is questionable at best (all of their entertainment is run by a guy best described as a truly heavyset Kevin Spacey as Lex Luthor, who may be the worst singer I’ve ever heard attempt karaoke, let alone try to fucking host it). Their chili was served us to by an Asian man in an impeccable suit with no visible stains at all, which should have been a clue that I was about to eat something that was so goddamn thick it should have come with a hammer and chisel to break pieces off to stick in your cheek, wait it for it to soften after a few weeks, and then eat it only if starvation was a real possibility.

Or, to put it plainly, this shit SUCKED.

So, considering we were unimpressed with the food, and Nikki was fading again, we went hell bent for leather on getting as drunk as possible, as quickly as possible. Nikki was now complaining loudly that she required some sort of Red Bull Bomb to wake her up, while Joe and I were in a more Irish mood, and proceeded to have Car Bomb Races for the next 45 minutes…. until the owner came over, ignored Joe and I, hit directly on Joe’s girl, and then, seeing that one of her eyes was looking in a completely different direction than the other, decided to feed her more alcohol. This decision was not the best anyone ever made, as a mere six minutes later, Nikki thought that disgusting beers-stained bar looked like a fairly comfortable pillow, and proceeded to put her head down and take herself a nap.

Now, while my town is pretty lax on the whole “drinking in public” thing, they don’t like it when people have a siesta inside the local bar at 3 PM. Joe was freaking out, and we decided to get her the hell out of there post-haste, by the most expedient means available: We took turns carrying her.

I scooped her up from her barstool and pushed through the crowd, out the door, and across the street, whereupon I discovered that 1, I was no longer in great shape for that sort of thing, and 2, people have all sorts of questions for people my size carrying girls that are 5’2″ across a street an into a parking lot, and NO ONE has good answers at that time. Simply explaining things would have been fine, but NOOOOOO. Couldn’t do that, opting instead to just curse at them and tell them to mind their own fucking business. Joe calmed them down by saying, “It’s OK, she’s my girlfriend,” but Nikki was not cooperating, and chose these moments to respond by giving us the finger and then passing back out.

For the next agonizing six uphill blocks, Joe and I took turns putting her in a fireman’s carry and hauling ass up that hill, trying like hell to get her out of the rain and the public before she decided to cap our day with something even more memorable than passing out in public, like puking down one of our backs, or getting us all arrested for kicks. We were a mere six houses away from free and clear when the last good Samaritan pulled up in his truck and demanded we clue him in on what was going on, which I felt was just unnecessary and met with threats of bodily and vehicular harm until he pulled away with screeching tires, all while pulling his cell phone out for what I’m certain was a call to the local police.

Joe then scooped Nikki up one last time, and we made it inside without further incident, although I do admit I am sore as hell today… and sadly aware of just how old I’ve become.

*some people=me and my friends. We made the paper over this one, albeit unnamed on the promise we wouldn’t do it again.