Good Thing We Don't Get Our Lobsters From the Gulf

It's taken three months, but someone (in this case in an article for The New York Times) finally asked where our outrage over pollution in the Gulf of Mexico was before the Deepwater Horizon catastrophe. In the time that the broken-off well has been gushing oil into the sea, no one (at least among the publications that I read) had made the comparison to that other, infinitely larger horizontal pipeline, the Mississippi River, that's been discharging its filth ever since we first began fouling it up a century or more ago. The Mississippi constitutes the largest drainage basin on the continent, meaning that every bit of runoff - the fertilizers and pesticides from farms and golf courses, every drop of oil that drips from a car onto a parking lot, and even the pharmaceuticals (human-filtered and otherwise) that get flushed down the toilets - between the Rockies and the Appalachians ends up discharged straight into the Gulf, creating, according to the NYT article "a zone of lifeless water the size of Lake Ontario just off the coast of Louisiana." You know the saying- "Every time someone pees into a storm drain in Pittsburgh, a fish dies in the Gulf." Okay, you've never heard it before, but it happens to be true. We've capped the oil leak (for now), but as of yet nobody has suggested we plug the mouth of the Mighty Mississippi with shredded tires and golf balls. Boy, that would sure ruin Mardi Gras next year.

---

In other news, the lady and I are taking a trip to New England about a week from now and it may include some camping on the Maine coast. Knowing that we'll have to feed ourselves at some point, and not being too excited about the idea of eating the same old camp fare, I came up with another possibility: Since most camp food involves a boiling pot of water anyway, and since we'll be in Maine, why not... and you're probably way ahead of me on this one... go ahead and shout it out if you know it... think Maine, the cold waters of the Atlantic, dinnertime... LOBSTAH!

Courtney thinks this is a terrible idea.

I just figured since cooking a lobster is no different than boiling a hot dog (except the hot dog died long before it hit the water, and probably in a much more gruesome, unsanitary fashion), it would make less sense to not take advantage of the fresh, local (and oh so delicious) catch. One of the campgrounds I've been looking at even sells the large crustaceans in its camp store, along with bug spray, postcards and marshmallows. Sure, it has the potential to be a tad messier than the average hot dog, but that's part of the fun.

And no, this is not one of my patented schemes to save money and deprive my lady friend of a romantic dinner. On the contrary, what could be more romantic than watching the sunset from a rocky outcrop over the sea with a bottle of wine or a bucket of cold local brews while tugging the meat from the steaming, splayed-open carcass of a crustacean while it looks up at you with its beady, lifeless eyes?

Yeah, that's what I thought, too.

By the way, if any of you have been to Boston or Maine or really any part of New England aside from Vermont (we won't be making it there on this trip unfortunately), now would be the time to tell me about anything that we absolutely must see while we're there. NPW can abstain from this part of the discussion (or not, if her enthusiasm simply can't be contained), since she will be sharing her local expertise in person.

Go West, Young Man! And Then Go Northeast.

Have you ever seen an RV with one of those maps of the USA on the back with all the states filled in that the RVer has visited? You'll find it just below the sweet airbrushed panorama of a dolphin jumping over a sea turtle or a wolf howling plaintively at the moon as a giant comet streaks by, unless it's a rental, and then you'll just see 1-800-GO-RVING and a back-up camera. You'll know they're full-timers if they're showing off both their map of interstate conquest and appreciation for soft-focus animal portraiture.

I've always wanted an RV (Because what's better than owning your own home and being able to park it wherever you want?), but so far I've had to make do with my compact pickup truck. I know what you're thinking- "What better canvas for a mural of a wolf fighting a grizzly bear or a galloping herd of wild mustangs than the back window of a pickup?!" Believe me, I've thought about it, but my truck has a sliding window, which is good for breezes but bad for murals- it would break up the flow, you see. Yeah, there's plenty of room back there for Calvin to be pissing on random shit for sure, but that's not my style either. Actually, my ride is devoid of all personal expression, unless you count the gigantic dent on the side which clearly implies "Yep, I'd rather pocket the insurance money than have a dent-free car." I'm waiting for someone to run into the other side so I can buy a kayak.

While I don't have an RV on which to display my intracontinental travel tick-list, I do have a blog. So here's my map, graded in color. In blue are the states I've both driven and slept in. In purple are the states I've only driven through, not stopping long enough to sleep. Red states are the ones I've visited only from the inside of the airport. White states have yet to feel the tread of my shoes or tires, along with Alaska and Hawaii.*

The reason I was thinking about this is that I should be filling in a few more states with blue or purple before long, because the lady and I are planning a trip to New England in August that could see us knocking off perhaps five more. Exciting, no? That would only leave eight states entirely unvisited for me, but I have no reasonable expectation of ever seeing North Dakota. Who does, really?

*Also, my truck and I have both been to Canada, but not at the same time.

The furthest I've ever been from home (even though we were homeless at the time), Redwood National Park, California.

I also have a post up today at the Greenists, if anyone's interested.

For My Viewing Pleasure

But I'll give you the opportunity, as well.

As promised several weeks ago, I put together a video of the trip Jacob and I took on the Chattooga River Trail. It features waterfalls, a bit of wildlife and, as usual, too many shots of people walking. Also, music.

Chattooga River Trail from dennyswaitress on Vimeo.

Things I've Done (and Eaten) Over the Past Week

-Realized it's July.

-Ate three different kinds of tacos with Traveling Em: pork, goat and beef tongue. Both the goat and the tongue were firsts for me. Goats are cute and it's a bit unsettling putting something that was in another creature's mouth into my own (except for the Dutchie, whatever that is, which should always be passed on the left hand side), but the tacos were excellent. I highly recommend Mr. Taco in Roswell, although I couldn't tell you why they went with Mr. instead of Sr., since the menu was in Spanish and the TVs were tuned to Univision.

-Watched some soccer. Turns out it's not so bad once you make peace with the fact that there is only marginally less chaos on a pitch (that's soccer for "field") full of international stars than one with a bunch of grass-stained eight-year-olds. The difference is subtle, but it's there. Actually, I've watched damn near every match (that's soccer for "game") of the World Cup and my appreciation of the sport has grown considerably, from "Maybe if they could use their hands they'd actually score a goal now and then" to "This would actually be a decent way to spend two hours if the players didn't act like such pussies every time they got kicked in the shins, the matches didn't so frequently end in a draw, and the officiating wasn't so random and inconsistent." A game that can end in a tie? Really?*

-Spent the 4th of July (also known as the day we asserted our right to call football soccer, the ultimate middle finger to those limey bastards**) at a cabin in the woods, where I ate meat, drank beer and climbed a waterfall. In that order. Photos here.

-Cleaned the apartment in anticipation of Courtney's return from D.C. I like to give the lady occasional reasons to keep me around (see also the sweet potato waffles I'm about to make her for dinner.)

-Drank beer, ate wangs (which of course is a typo for "wings," but I'm leaving it) and watched more soccer with Traveling Em and Courtney at Taco Mac, where the tacos are nothing like the authentic little tongue-stuffed gems at Mr. Taco but the draught list is incredible.

-Wrote a blog post in list form. Just what is it that you want from me? Narrative? Structure? Write your own damn blog then! (I did manage to include the descriptor "tongue-stuffed." That's got to be worth something.)

*Actually, I was totally digging the World Cup and the game itself, but being critical of soccer is the American way. And the players really are total pussies.

**Actually, soccer is a term coined by the English themselves; we stuck with it once a different variation of the game was created that involved use of the hands, an oblong ball, Don Knotts and a mule.

Ned Beatty Was NOT Invited

Although Burt Reynolds would have been more than welcome to come along.

My friend and fellow blogger Jacob and I took a little three day backpacking trip this week down the Chattooga River Trail. Although for many people it's a running gag to invoke the first few notes of "Dueling Banjos" when entering the woods or venturing into a particularly rural part of the country, a trip along the banks of the Chattooga makes it a little less funny because this is where the classic 1972 film Deliverance was actually shot.

While it would have made for a more interesting blog post, I'm happy to report that nobody squealed like a pig nor were we forced to kill any toothless hillbillies with a bow and arrow. But we also didn't get to enjoy the company of a cocky and strangely bare-lipped Burt Reynolds either, so I guess there's always room for improvement.

What we did enjoy was a trail that follows one of the most beautiful rivers in the southeast, if not the country. And I'm not the only one who feels this way: The Chattooga was designated a national Wild and Scenic River in 1974. It is well known among whitewater enthusiasts for it's wild, roadless nature and imposing rapids, and I'm sure this is well-deserved. For now I'll have to take their word for it, though, because the lower half of the 30-mile trail kept us well away from the river, up on the ridges among the impenetrable forests. We could hear what sounded like some serious cataracts down on the river and the occasional whoops and hollers from exhilarated rafters, but the action was well out of view.

The upper half was a different story: the trail spent long stretches winding beside the river and we encountered a slew of waterfalls and trout-filled pools. Our campsite the first night was actually located on a tributary between two scenic waterfalls, the lower of the two cascading directly into the river, creating a nice deep pool that was perfect for a pre-dinner swim. Not too shabby as campsites go.

Other highlights included a close encounter with a copperhead snake, Mark Doucette's left-behind fuel canister (writing your name on your litter must be worth a merit badge), a spirited thunderstorm that drove us to seek shelter in a conveniently located and temporarily unoccupied camp kitchen (probably saved my camera) and innumerable downed trees and a washed-out bridge resulting from the deluge.

You can see some pictures of our journey here. I highly recommend it. And coming soon, I should have another shaky video set to music you've never heard of. I can feel the anticipation building already.

Greetings From Nordstrand!

Not really, but this morning's World Cup match between Denmark and the Netherlands, besides proving once again that I will watch anything competitive, even when accompanied by an incessant buzzing that probably hints at what it's like to have kazoo-blowing wood nymphs infest your inner ear, reminded me to take another look at my family history.

See, I had a source that possibly put my paternal lineage in Nordstrand, a peninsula in northern Germany near both Holland and Denmark. I just hadn't bothered to connect me to it. Through the magic of the internet and thanks entirely to someone far more driven than I who happens to share my last name, I now know who my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was and where he came from: Nordstrand, when it was a part of Denmark. I'm a Dane (or at least part Dane,) which means I'm retroactively pissed that my guys went down 1-0 to the Netherlands. Damned orange-clad tulip-sniffers. Legos rule, windmills drool.

Arguably more interesting, I also learned some cool stuff about all 10x great-grandpas. Some high(and low)lights:

-9x shipped to America in 1638 with a Swedish fellow named Bronck, whom he also leased farmland from. Bronck's name was attached to a river that ran beside the farm and was eventually misspelled as Bronx.

-9x also was convicted of selling his wife (my 9x great-grandmother,) resulting in his banishment from New Netherland, which I believe is how most people end up settling in New Jersey.

-4x was murdered by his wife and a minister, the two of whom were alleged to be intimately related.

-3x met a similarly violent end to his father's, bringing a pistol to a shotgun fight. He took one barrel's worth in the stomach, expiring several hours later. He apparently had it coming and was known to have previously killed two men himself.

And those are just my direct ancestors. Along the line there were also soldiers (Revolutionary War, Civil War- both sides,- and one guy who fought in the "Mormon War" in Nauvoo, Illinois,) scalpings by indians and a stolen keg of gin. Pretty cool, if you ask me.

Obviously, the genes for violence and adultery have skipped me entirely, although I did recently attend a seminar on the marketing and selling of wives. Couple that hobby with my blue eyes and Lego skillz to rival any Zack (He's a Lego maniac!), and my connection to the motherland is clear. Now all that's left is for me to spearhead a revolt that wrests the state of Schleswig-Holstein from Germany and returns it rightfully to Danish rule, inspiring statues in my Scandinavian image and songs celebrating my name. That way when I visit I'll never have to pay for a beer. But the gin's on me.

STAY

Famous by association. Or maybe reflected glory. Either way, I know a real, published author. I just finished a wonderful new book by our dear friend- fellow blogger, founder of theGreenists.com, famous novelist- Allie Larkin. And none of that has anything to do with my review of her work (Okay, it might- I'm only human. But I tried to set that aside when reading the book.)

Honestly, Stay is not the sort of book I'd normally pick up off the shelf. It's about relationships. Love. Heartbreak. There's an adorable dog on the cover. The last book I read before Stay featured triple-homicide, prostitution and lots of unpronounceable Swedish place-names. Stay doesn't offer any of that, although some consonant-heavy Slovak does pop up from time to time.

What Stay does have plenty of are remarkably well-drawn characters. Every one of Allie's players could have easily been one-dimensional caricatures, the kind we see time after time in books and movies, but she manages to give every one of them the complexity that both the characters and the readers deserve. It's not so much that the characters aren't what you think they are at first, it's that that's not all they are. Except the dog. The dog is exactly what you think.

Altogether, I'm really impressed with the book. Allie has a gift for details and dialogue, both of which she uses to build an entirely believable world that brings the reader into the story. And it's funny. Really funny. You should read it. I'm already looking forward to the stories Allie will be sharing with us in the future.

A Free Man has an interview with Allie over on his site. Check it.