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Barbecue for the masses

Joe Stickley's Blue Print takes on MOVE in the world's grossest barbecue eating contest.

Published Sept. 30, 2008

Here we answer the age-old question: Does an eating contest reveal any profound insight into the personality of a band like Joe Stickley's Blue Print (minus Joe Stickley)? The short of it: Not really. It mainly just shows that one member can eat like a horse and the others prefer to enjoy their food as opposed to inhaling it whole. If anything, I think it's fair to say that none of them are vegetarians.

The Competitors:

Jordan Hickey (MOVE)
Wil Reeves (bass, vocals)
Sean Canan (guitar, vocals)
Danny Carroll (drums)
Andrew Weir (keyboards)
Not present: Joe Stickley (vocals, guitar)

I might be a lot of things - professional calligrapher, snowshoe artist, extraterrestrial aeronautics acrobat* and so forth. But after a rather humbling contest on Friday at Smokin' Chick's BBQ on Ninth St., I suppose it's only fair that I relinquish the title of "Barbecued-Pulled-Pork-Speed-Eater" to the better man.

The stakes were high**, the hunger was exacerbated by the heavy, wafting smells of seared flesh and secret recipes. Plastic dishes clattered on the metal of the kitchen window. They were beautiful things and I felt like a new father seeing his sleeping newborn in the basinet of a hospital maternity wing. They're brought to the table, and I'm then reminded that there is indeed a God in the heavens. And he must fucking love barbecue.

There's something of a slow start to the contest with talk of music and insulin, stomachs beneath t-shirts that could hold 30-pound medicine balls without stretching. The timer is started and the contest begins in a flurry of sauce and buns swollen with juice.

I look down the table and feel confident. I'm ahead of the pack, the Michael Phelps of competitive eating. My bites become more refined, less nausea-inspiring (or at least I like to think so. One of the photographers refuses to look me in the eye the rest of the night). I glance down the table, and Sean has matched my progress. I swear out loud through mouthfuls of food - it sounds more like "SJIB!" than "SHIT" - before realizing that there's a family in the corner with a kid. I feel terrible and proceed to say "SJIB!" again.

Sean clocks in at 1:32:10. I blame it on his illegal*** use of water.

But all of this is just pre-gaming, really. Not only is Joe Stickley's Blue Print on the bill for the Roots 'N Blues 'N BBQ Festival, but they'll also be getting VIP treatment. Straight up. What does that mean to you and me? Nothing. What does that mean to them? Free barbecue and a king's ransom of booze (for a reduced price). There's not really any consensus as to which is more appealing. Andrew sums it up pretty well by saying, "Yes."

There's an important distinction to be made here, though. The guys I just competed against are actually the band Bockman. With the addition of Stickley, they become Joe Stickley's Blue Print. Got it?

It might be because my thoughts are clouded, my intestines chock-full of meat, but this distinction is somewhat difficult to grasp and I have to hear it a few times before I can even pretend to get it. I assume it's probably just me.

Joe wasn't able to make it tonight, something about a show, but I'm able to glean the following information from the picture on his MySpace: He has a beard and drinks coffee, and he likes typewriters and television sets like those gathering dust in my grandmother's basement.

The guys have played with Stickley since 2003 when he was just a roommate they put on the bill. They liked his voice. Gradually he started to take a more concrete role in the band as he developed his own repertoire of songs and a fan base that was distinctly Joe Stickley (more family-oriented, the guys say).

"We kind of nurtured him as an artist, as a performer," Danny says. "We are his enablers."

In the post-gorging haze, there's something of a lull in activity. Sean is celebrating his victory. I am sulking. Andrew is shooting insulin. Wil pointed out earlier that Andrew would be shooting insulin following the debacle, explaining its characteristic "Band-Aid" smell. I never end up smelling it - and he wasn't joking. Andrew pulled out that insulin, and I immediately felt terrible for laughing earlier.

Danny is sitting across the table from me, talking about food.

"I can't afford it right now, but (Andrew) may be my personal culinary artist someday," Danny says. "Andrew, would you like some beans?"

Andrew does not want any beans, not after our little contest.

There's a television above my head. I can't see, but the way people in the restaurant are intently looking above my head, I can only imagine that it must be fucking good. Or maybe I have a glob of stray sauce that has become lodged in my hair. I'll take it as a compliment either way.

People start to cry out.

"AERO-something!"

"Something GLASS!"

The answer is AEROBICS CLASS. Everyone opens their mouth and says, "Ohhh."

Danny makes an excellent point: "We all lose at 'Wheel of Fortune,' but we win at barbecue." Everyone agrees.

* The author is none of these things.

** Not really.

*** The author declared its illegality following the contest.