WC Manager

This past June 4 marked the 15^th anniversary of the Wheeling Feeling Chili Cook Off, and my second year as the dancing chili. Representing Wheelhouse as Mr. Chili for the second year in a row is a great honor that I take seriously.

I debuted as Mr. Chili during last year’s chili cook off and took home the coveted Mr. Hot Sauce award. My goal this year was to defend my title. In order to do that, I had to pull out all the stops. I needed Mr. Chili to come to life. He needed more Chili-Humanoid features to make him more like a giant cartoon that danced right off the celluloid of a Merrie Melodies short and into the hearts of every chili connoisseur at Wheeling’s heritage port.

Thanks to the good people at Stages, I was able to find everything I needed to help accessorize my chili costume and make my idea come to life. I didn’t have time to call Stages myself. I was too busy practicing my elaborately coordinated dance moves. I delegated the task to my loving, caring girlfriend Megan (God Bless her for wanting to stick with this strange chili boy).

Megan and Stages convo:

Megan: Yes, do you have any items to make a chili costume?

Stages: I’m not sure, probably not…but go ahead. What do you need?

Megan: I need green tights big enough for a large man.

Stages: Okay, we have those.

Megan: Oversized, four fingered cartoon gloves.

Stages: Yeah we have those too! This is getting interesting. What else?

Megan: Red chili pepper shoes?

Stages: You’re not going to believe this, but we have a red pair and a green pair.

Megan: I’ll take the red pair.

With the costume elements acquired, chili man was finally complete. Putting on all the parts of the costume felt like I was stepping into a second skin (that was probably due to the tights which left my green derriere exposed to the wind out of the back of my giant red chili suit, a chili fashion faux pas that will not happen twice).

What people might not know, is that days before the Wheeling Feeling Chili Cook off when I first dressed in the Mr. Chili costume, I hiked to the top of a large mountain, watch an eagle fly high in the sky and whispered “Let it begin.” This is my ritual to prepare for the Chili cook off, but I digress.

On the day of the cook off, I got into the Chili mobile (a used tan Honda van). I grabbed two buckets of Mary Vandine’s world famous black and gold chili, a portable karaoke machine and Wheelhouse Creative’s custom-built Ring of Fire game show wheel. Wheelhouse Creative designed the ring of fire to challenge chili cook off goers to a hot sauce shot challenge to win prizes like tickets to summer concerts and amusement parks. I was the Bob Barker (or I guess Drew Carey) of this super spicy show case showdown. I sang. I danced. I perspired. I laughed. I cried, and I got to meet some interesting characters who descended upon the waterfront as the chili cook off went underway. I also got to see Wheelhouse Creative do what they do best and come together as a team. I was but a humble mascot, the real heroes were the great men and women of Wheelhouse who were slinging chili, hot sauce tortilla chips and keeping the true spirit of the Chili Cook off alive. (Special thanks to DJ Josh for supplying the music and Michele Rejonis for keeping me hydrated.)

At the end of a long day of replacing words to party songs with chili phrases, handing out prizes, and churning out tiny cup after tiny cup of homemade chili to chili officiandos, the votes were tallied for which cooks had the best chili and the winners for all the different categories of the event were gathered by the waterfront to be called down for their trophies. I’m sad to say that I did not take home the Mr. Hot Sauce award this year. A man in a Gumby shirt beat me, but I’m proud to say that I did my part in helping the Wheelhouse team win the Best Booth Award. It’s an award given to the booth with the best flare and the greatest sense of showmanship, which I believe couldn’t have gone to a better group of people because having a sense of style and knowing how to put on an amazing event is what Wheelhouse Creative is all about.

When the 17-year Cicadas converged on the Ohio Valley a few short weeks ago, I was rather indifferent with regard to their presence. I find them ugly and noisy, but they’re here. OK, whatever. Its’ not like they bite or sting or are spider-like. I don’t have many Cicadas around my house probably because there aren’t many trees in my neighborhood and we dug up our yard about eight years ago when we installed an in-ground pool, disturbing the Cicadas that burrowed during their previous visit 17 years ago. So, for the most part, I really haven’t been bothered by them. Until yesterday.

During my lunch hour, I decided to run some errands. Driving down the street, every two seconds a Cicada would hit my windshield. And another. And then another. Those Cicada guts don’t clear easily with windshield washer fluid! When I got out of my car to take my clothes into the dry cleaner, I was dive-bombed by what seemed like dozens of the insects. Upon entering the building, the clerk told me they had been flying in as people opened the door to come and go. As I was getting back into the car, I was pelted again by many. It’s like they blindly fly into anything that happens to be in their path. Can they not see with those big, red eyes??? As I looked behind me while backing out of the parking lot, I noticed I wasn’t alone in my car. Staring back at me from my upper arm was…yep, you guessed it. The friendly neighborhood Cicada. It’s like being in a bad horror movie! You just can’t escape.

I was 27 the last time the Cicadas were here, but I don’t recall there being so many or any incidents like what I’ve recently experienced. Yes, they were flying around, but I don’t remember being randomly biffed in the head by them. I recall that they made noise, but I don’t remember the screech being so deafening in places. (As I write this, one of my colleagues just screamed as there is a locust in the office.) Maybe I am not as indifferent about the presence of the Cicadas as I once thought or maybe I am just not as tolerant as I was in my 20s. I must admit I will be glad when they’re gone.

How much longer?

If you can shake your claustrophobia, it’s a chest of rare treasures for book lovers or admirers of the bizarre. It’s quite the adventure to dig through the piles of books to see what you might find. Imagine diving into Scrooge McDucks vault, but replace the gold with books and the vault is the size of the trash compactor on the Death Star  (but with not nearly as much water or threat of tentacle beasts).

A few weeks ago, I managed to catch Paradox just as it opened. By lunch, the place had a least five people scuttling and shifting through the piles of books myself included. As I was digging through some boxes of old pulp and trade paperbacks from the 70s and 80s pondering whether or not I’d like to read about the adventures of an intergalactic drug war against space beetles or a historical analysis of the fall of the Soviet Union, I was overhearing discussion of a recent play that was written by the owner of the store and how well it was received and the need to grab some hotdogs for lunch until a friendly gentlemen rounded the corner and began to tell me how all book stores in New Orleans back in his time looked like Paradox. Just piles of books. Everywhere.

Just as quantum scientists theorize that we could exist in a universe of multiple dimensions and multiple universes, it’s only fitting that there could be multiple paradoxes that exist in our dimension that goes double for paradox realms filled with musty old books. Paradox is a rift in time and space that serves as a dusty purgatory for old books to continue to pile up until the end of infinity. And as the universe expands and contracts, it gives birth to more places like Paradox throughout the United States.

Despite the popularity of e-books, and virtual stores selling used books through Amazon and Ebay, actual brick and mortar used bookstores like Paradox seem to be growing in popularity. However, the only commonality shared between Paradox and other used bookstores is that they both sell used books. Paradox is in its own realm. In a distant time, repositories for used books were run by the state or educational institutions and were called libraries. They would take books and put them in categories and organize them according to an authoritarian numerical system developed by the infamous book segregator Melvil Dewey in 1876. That was before the great book liberation of the 60s. Pick sides all you want, debate the merit of the revolution all until you pull a muscle, for better or for worse, we now have collections of used books without a solid system of control.  There are still a few libraries, or what I call book prisons, out there in the world and around the United States, but their funding is running out—forcing the population to cram books any place they can.

For better or for worse, more books will be flooding out into the street—mixing with the general population, in need of adoption, which might be bad news for shelf builders, but great news for bibliomaniacs like myself.  Just as lonely grandmothers collect cats, I hoard books. I know I’m not alone, but I admire Paradox because few book hoarders have found a way to profit from their bibliomania (a disorder involving the collecting or hoarding of books to the point where social relations or health are damaged).

A person who buys books, more books than they could ever read, and lets them pile up on the floor, on shelves and assorted pieces of furniture is called, and here’s another Japanese term I could never pronounce, tsundoku (I have a book somewhere in my apartment about learning how to speak Japanese, but I just haven’t gotten around to reading it yet—waiting until it comes out on Kindle). So go out and be a tsundoku or embody the spirit of tsundoku (I know it’s a noun, but I’m not really sure how to use it in a sentence) and support your local bookstores. Be brave. Be Bold. Embrace the Paradox.

I recently purchased my first home and it’s an exciting time for both me and my wife. My commute to work went from an hour down to 20 minutes. We have a piece of property that we can make our own. A perfect little place to start a family! And part of the family could possibly include a dog.

EDIT: Now I’m going to stop you right there because I see what you’re thinking and I want to nip this in the bud right now. Let me just get one thing clear. I did not buy a house just so I could get a dog.

Living in an apartment up to this point of my life has been restrictive. It’s a small and confining space. Every time that something breaks you have to put a work order in and hope that maintenance can stop by and fix it. And of course, no dogs are allowed.

EDIT: I know how this might look to you, but I did not go through the entire process of purchasing a house just so that I can have a dog.

There are many perks to buying a house. I now own property. I have a yard that I mow myself. I can now…pay taxes on my house. I can…build a deck. You can’t build a deck on an apartment. The landlord usually frowns on that. I mean think of all of the things you can fit in a house. You can fit a car in the garage, a table to eat dinner with your wife…and a dog bed for a possible dog you may get in the future.

EDIT: I reiterate, the possibility of having a dog is not the reason I bought a house. But think of it like this, an apartment was keeping me from enjoying one of the greatest joys in life, interacting with man’s best friend. An apartment kept me from that kind of bond. You think that’s freedom? You think that is the American way? I bought a house because I’m an American. I bought a house because I like freedom, so sue me!

My wife and I are excited for the years ahead spent making this house a home and on an unrelated note I think we want a chocolate lab.

EDIT: You know, looking back on this I’m a little worried I may have bought a house just because I wanted a dog.

The Christmas season is officially upon us. Retail establishments are buzzing with people finding the perfect – and last minute – gifts for the special ones in their lives, Christmas carols can be heard on the airwaves and Santa’s elves are busy wrapping presents in preparation for the big trip on December 24. As the song goes, it’s the most wonderful time of the year.

Thinking back to when I was a kid, Christmas was a HUGE deal. The season would kick off with the purchase of a new “Christmas dress” – usually red – and new black patent leather shoes to wear to church and to Aunt Ann’s Christmas Eve party. The party also meant my great Aunt Irma was in town from Chicago. She was like a movie star with her hair-dos, stylish clothes – fashion not common to Wheeling. I always looked forward to Aunt Irma’s visits which were synonymous with the holiday season.

And then there were the trips to Cooey-Bentz Furniture to see Santa and to Downtown Wheeling to go Christmas shopping. I vividly remember the twinkling lights that decorated the Market Street side of the then Stone & Thomas building. Of course we couldn’t go to “town” and not stop by L.S. Good & Co. to chat with the talking Christmas tree.

The days leading up to Christmas would be full of anticipation because I knew the gifts under the tree would be much desired toys – a Barbie or baby doll that I’d been wanting for a long time and all of the “to-go-withs” – undies and socks never quite made Santa’s list as they were considered necessities. Some of my favorite childhood Christmas presents I remember receiving include Baby Alive, a doll that ate, drank, peed and…well, you get the picture; Barbie’s swimming pool and townhouse with the elevator; and Milky the Marvelous Milking Cow. (How I went from wanting anything Barbie to a plastic cow that could be “milked,” I’m not sure.) Once I was a little older and realized Santa didn’t bring all of the gifts, I would touch and shake the wrapped boxes under the tree in an attempt to figure out what was in them and, much to the dismay of my parents, sometimes I was successful.

As an adult, I still get excited about Christmas and yes, I’m still touching and shaking the presents under the tree. I’ve come to realize, though, that there is much more satisfaction in giving than receiving. As I reflect on my childhood and how fortunate I was growing up, it makes me sad to think there are children who, on Christmas morning, won’t have the same experience that I did. In an attempt to make a little bit of a difference, every year I choose a program through one of the local charitable organizations who assist families facing challenges during the holiday season. I am blessed and very thankful that I am able to do so. This year, I purchased clothing and toys for Robinson Auto Group’s Stuff the Truck promotion that benefitted the Wheeling YMCA and Youth Services System. I had so much fun shopping for the kids and knowing that a youngster may have a better Christmas morning because of it makes it all worth it.

Even though Christmas is just a few days away, I encourage you to help the less fortunate if you can through numerous organizations like Catholic Charities or the Salvation Army to name a few. It’s never too late. You may help to make a special memory for a young guy or gal who may otherwise have not had a Christmas.