LET T E R FRO M CHATTANOOGA

FATOF THE LANDDale Boone at the frontiers of gluttony

By Frederick Kaufman

... an hungry man dreameth, and, be-hold, he eateth; but he awaketh, and hissoul is empty ...

D -Isaiah, 29:8

ale Boone can eat anything, andlots of it. He holds titles in reindeersausage(28 in ten min-utes) and Russian beefdumplings (274 in sixminutes). On thisbeautiful morning inChattanooga, Ten-nessee, it's hot dogs.Boone is supremelyconfident. Last nighthe prepped himself at abuffet: boiled cabbage,turnip greens, carrots,corn, nothing heavy.Now his stomach isstretched and ready.His boots are shinynew, his overalls fresh-ly ironed. Because heis a showman, and be-cause he is in the lineof Daniel Boone, hewears a coonskin cap.

"Yeeeeee-haw!" he says."This is thebest I've felt in a long time."

The camera crews have alreadybegun to assemble in front of thethree long tables pulled across theparking lot of Coney's Deli Cafe.Banners stamped with the Nathan'sFamous logo cover the tables, which

Frederick Kaufman's review "Our DailyBread" appeared in the January 2000 issue.

Illustration by Olivier Kugler

have not been set with mustard, rel-ish, or anything remotely resemblingthe fixings for a hot dog. All that'son these tables is a dozen clear plas-tic pitchers of water, there to aug-ment the competitive saliva.

Boone, six feet tall and 280 pounds,

struts around Coney's parking lot, paus-ing only to jawbone the TV crews orpose for snapshots. Meanwhile, behindthe Nathan's tables, a sound guyfiddleswith banks of speakers as George Shea,chairman of the International Feder-ation of Competitive Eating, presseshis straw boater onto his slick blackhair and smooths his golden tie.

"This is the beginning of the jour-ney," he says.

What Shea means is that today'scontest in Chattanooga is the firstof aneighteen-event international qualifyingseries in which amateurs and profes-sionals from Europe, the Pacific Rim,and America can qualify for the 88thAnnual Fourth of}uly Hot Dog Eating

Contest held on theBoardwalk of Coney Is-land-the World Cupof food bolting. Thegurgitator who emergesvictorious in Coney'sparking lot in Chat-tanooga today will getthe chance to battle forthe mustard-coloredworld-championshipbelt at the real ConeyIsland. There they willalso face the currentchampion, a five footseven, 132-pound Jap-anese "food fighter"named Takeru Koba-yashi,who, as far as any-one knows, has eatenmore hot dogs fasterthan anyone else on

earth: fiftyand a half hot dogsand bunsin twelve minutes.

For Shea, the yearly calendar re-volves around that Fourth of Julycontest. A long-time public-relationsguy, Shea has been on the Nathan'saccount since 1988, when he beganassisting legendary Coney Islandpress agent Max Rosey (the manwho married couples in diving bells,crowned gefilte-fish queens, put

LEITER FROMCHAITANCX)()A 65

elephants on water skis). WhenRosey died in 1990, Shea took overthe hot-dog eating contest, and in1997, when Shea opened his ownfirm, he took Nathan's with him.That same year, Shea and his broth-er, Rich, created the IFOCE, whichnow sanctions more than 150 annualeating events worldwide. Under theguardianship of the Sheas, corporatesponsorship of competitive eatinghas increased and multiplied. For theFourth alone, Nathan's has beenjoined by French's Mustard,Orbitz.com, and an online gamingcasino called Betwwts.com, whichhandicaps the event.

Some might compare the Sheabrothers' IFOCE to Vince Mclvla-hen's WWF. According to GeorgeShea, nothing could be further fromthe truth: "It's uncontrolled," he in-sists, and what emerges from all histalk of "long-distance eaters," "cross-discipline competitors," "goodhands," and "stomach strength" isthat he really believes competitiveeating is a sport. More to Shea's lik-ing than the WWF comparison isthe analogy to professional basket-ball in its early days.

Either way, competitive eatinghas just begun to glimpse its owngaudy future. Over the past twoyears, front-page stories have ap-peared in the Wall Street Journaland the Los Angeles Times. TheGlutton Bowl premiered on FoxTelevision, Gutbusters and Battle ofthe Buffets on the Discovery Chan-nel and the Travel Channel, re-spectively. When Eric "Badlands"Booker set the new world record inmatzo balls (twenty-one in fiveminutes), it made the CNN newscrawl. Disciplines now includechicken wings in Philadelphia,jalapenos in Laredo, crawfish inBaton Rouge, oysters in New Or-leans, conch fritters in Key West,and chili in Reno. It is a continent-wide spectacle of self-immolatingpower. Not since the glory days ofgoldfish-swallowing has the sportannexed such a large portion of thecountry's collective delirium. Andso the IFOCE sanctions a gamut ofincreasingly baroque competitionsin fields such as cow brains, sticksof butter, and straight mayonnaise.

66 HARPER'S MAGAZINE/OCroBER Z003

Shea Communications operates outof a loft space in Manhattan repletewith hardwood floors and black-turtlenecked staff in ergonomic chairs,the typical offices of a boutique adagency or some actor's productioncompany (the IFOCE is itself repre-sented by the William Morris Agency)."Seven million people watched TheGlutton Bowl," Rich Shea noted twoweeks before Chattanooga, as we sataround the conference table.

"There's a reverence for this ashistory," said George.

"These are the pioneers,"

D said Rich.

ale Boone has come to Ten-nessee with his mother. She stands offto the side of Coney's parking lot,beaming as her boy makes the rounds.

"I have three sons, and he's theyoungest," Cathy Boone says. "One'swith antique furniture, the otherwith the government, in small arms.Getting all those guns and thingsready to go."

Dale is more of a talker, getting allthose reporters and things ready togo. "Dale Boone has offended theentire city," George Shea informsthe herd of local press. "He has toldme in private conversation, 'I'mgonna open up a can of whup-ass onthese dyspeptics and stomach sta-plers in Chattanooga.'"

Scribble, scribble, go the reporters.Yet Shea is careful to let them knowthat Chattanooga does indeed havehope in the form of a hometownhero-James "Chew Chew" Phillips-who will be here any minute now forexclusive interviews.

"I can't wait to see Chew Chew,"snarls Boone. But Chew Chew isn'tanywhere to be seen. In fact,Coney's parking lot is surprisinglydevoid of eaters. Dale Boone mayhave to compete against himself,which is just fine with him.

Then, a sideshow. The dented,honking Toyota Camry of KevinLipsitz pulls into the lot. He hasdriven down from Staten Island,thirteen hours straight. Two yearsago, Lipsitz reigned as pickle-eatingchampion of the world. Pickles areone of the most demanding foods toeat fast. Aside from pH issues, theyrequire a strong jaw, sharp teeth.

"I can't believe he's here," muttersBoone. "Oh, that really hurts me. Ithought this would be a simple one."

First thing Lipsitz does is let thedogs out of the back. Although theIFOCE has refused Lipsitz's requestfor a sanctioned event between hu-mans and canines, Lipsitz still trainswith his dogs. Only after Sabrinaand Rascal have marked the comersof Coney's parking lot does Lipsitzapproach Boone. They exchangegunslinger scowls.

"What you doin' in my territory?"asks Boone.

"You went to Philadelphia," coun-ters Lipsitz, citing what was clearly,to aficionados, a well-known offense."It's payback time."

The cameras swarm for morebravado, but Boone and Lipsitz arerunning out of invective. Luckily,Chew Chew Phillips chooses thismoment to show up. Tall, thin, andbearded, from East Ridge, Ten-nessee, Chew Chew has pulled hislong, straight blond hair back into aponytail. Last night, he took downeight plates from a Biloxi buffet andtwo large pizzas, just to keep hisedge. There is a term that describessuch a solitary eater. Teeth sharp asrazors, hands like mandibles, he isknown as The Locust. "He's theeater who doesn't come into thefold," George Shea says. "He's out onthe hinterlands. He eats for himself."

Every once in a while an eating con-test in the middle of nowhere will at-tract a genuine Locust. He is the pro-fessional gurgitator's greatest fear.

Plates with five hot dogs eachhave begun to emerge from Coney'skitchen. A few more amateur eatershave shown up, signed IFOCE re-leases, and dutifully begun to millbehind the tables. A paltry crowd ofEastgate Mall refugees, attracted bythe TV cameras, shuffles into place.Two oxygen-tank-toting EMS guysstand by, just in case. Shea switcheson his microphone.

"In these uncertain times of terror-ism and economic malaise, fundamen-tal sports allow us to show our love ofnation. I was saddened to hear DaleBoone's long diatribe of hate and vit-riol against the good people of Chat-tanooga. The braggadocio and tone ofdisdain disappointed me." Shea pauses.

"I hope we can use the competitive-eating table to heal the wounds."

The small crowd actually breaks intounironic cheers. The producers fromFox and the NBC affiliate zoom in.

"I think Chew Chew is a greatAmerican," proclaims Shea. "Andthat is the most fundamental qualityof a competitive eater."

The gurgitators line up behind thetable. Standing increases capacity, sothere are no chairs. Now they begintheir final warmups: Lipsitz the picklechamp smears his face and neck withwater from each of the dozen plasticpitchers. Chew Chew, reveling inhometown adoration, holds clenchedfists above his head like a prizefighter.

Dale Boone leans down,

I licks a hot dog, and sneers.

n the last five months, Dale Boonehas traveled to Anchorage, Alaska,filmed a documentary for Discovery,been to New York several times,Philadelphia, St. Louis. He flew to LosAngeles to tape a game show.

He now counts among his friendssuch IFOCE circuit luminaries as

"Cookie" Jarvis, who can inhaletwenty-one cannoli in six minutes;"Hungry" Charles Hardy, whoworks in Corrections at Rikers Is-land and can devour fifteen feet ofsushi in 120 minutes; Eric "Bad-lands" Booker, a six six, 460-poundNew York City subway conductorwho can demolish fifteen burritos ineight minutes; "Gentleman" JoeMenchetti, who holds the worldconch-fritter record (forty-five insix minutes); and griddle king Jason"Crazy Legs" Conti (three pounds,seven ounces, of sourdough pan-cakes in twelve minutes).

"I'm living one of my secretdreams right now," Boone says. "It'sawesome. It's indescribable."

Ever since he was a little boy,everyone had told him to slow downand taste his food. Everyone, that is,except his uncle. Daniel HomerBoone was a tremendous eater, sothorough and unmerciful in his feed-ings that he was banned from severalbuffets in Asheville, North Carolina.Daniel Homer measured six feeteleven inches tall and weighed 435

pounds. His wife, on the other hand,was one inch shy of four feet.

Dale Boone was the only personwho could keep up with his uncle."He taught me how to hold a lot ofcapacity. He was a very big fried-chicken eater. Like I am today."

\(latermelon was Dale Boone's firstcompetitive event, at the annual Lo-cust Grove Day in LocustGrove, Geor-gia. Grand prize: a six-pack of Coca-Cola. The year was 1991, and Boonehad just graduated from Georgia Techwith a degree in electrical engineering.He lost to a twelve-year-old. "It gotme going. I had to come back andprove myself the next year and thenext year. And here's a little knownfact. I have never won the LocustGrove watermelon eating contest."

Dale Boone believes he reachedpeak eating speeds at twenty-one,and he won pizzaeating contests andwild-turkey eating contests andwhatever else could be put on a plateeating contests in and around At-lanta until he retired from stunt eat-ing, married, opened his own busi-ness, and became a vegetarian.

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But just as the pioneer DanielBoone abandoned Boonesboro latein life to settle ever newer territo-ries, the gurgitator Dale Boonecould not deny the imperatives ofhis roving metabolism. In April2002, Atlanta's 790 AM, "TheZone," announced three eating con-tests in a single day, to take placeright there at the station, broadcastto the world. Doughnuts in themorning, pigs' feet in the afternoon,chicken wings at night. Dale Boonehad made no conscious decision tocome out of retirement. Still, it wasinevitable that on the day of thecontest the infamous "Mouth fromthe South" would somehow, someway, be impelled to the broadcaststudio. "I just happened to show upfor the doughnut contest, and Iguarantee you, the people at thetable did not weigh under 300pounds. Very big boys. They wereready to eat."

Dale Boone discovered his old formwas intact. He devastated a dozenKrispy Kremes in two minutes, walkedaway with the prize, and that after-noon returned for contest number two.

"It was one pig's foot and sixteenounces of very sour buttermilk. Nextthing I know, contest started, bang!It took me nine seconds. Nine seconds!"

After two straight wins he had tohang around for the hot wings. Heknew he could eat faster than any-one else in the state and wasn't theleast bit intimidated by the 350-pounder from the University ofGeorgia who rolled into the studio.And everything went according toplan. Dale Boone was swallowingnumber twenty-nine while the oppo-sition was still gnawing number five."The hot sauce was hitting him,"Boone reminisced. "His face was likefive or six shades of red. I took thelast one, I wiggled it in his face. Isaid, 'Come on, fat boy,' and thenjust finished it off and threw itdown." Dale Boone thus became theundisputed AM-radio championeater of Atlanta.

Still, he was not satisfied. He hadheard of other eating contests, brim-ming tables beyond the borders ofGeorgia and the Carolinas. Ameri-ca's borders might be set, our forestsand their inhabitants destroyed, but,

68 HARPER'S MAGAZINE / OCTOBER 2003

deep in his gut, Dale Boone knew ahowling wilderness of American fron-tier was still out there, waiting to beconquered. So he enlisted in a legionof other stunted avatars of industri-alists, frontiersmen, and founders whojourney from state to state despitetheir knowledge that the frontier is nolonger an exterior but an interiorspace. Freak product of American

evolution, they are the di-

B gestive imperialists.

oone got on the Internet andsoon discovered www.ifoce.com.Asluck would have it, the Shea brotherswere organizing a Coney Island qual-ifier in Atlanta later that year, soBoone began to prepare. He imaginedhimself the incarnation of Americaneating, so he put together a specialuniform: A shirt and a pair of pantsmade up entirely of American flags.

Boone rented a limousine withscreech horns, and on the day of At-lanta's first IFOCE-sanctioned hot-dog eating contest, he emerged fromthat limo brandishing Americanflags in each hand. "All the camerasfocused on me," he recalled. "Every-body was rooting me on."

He looked and sounded unstop-pable, but the fact was that Dale Boonehad made a rookie mistake. He hadnot eaten the night before. His stom-ach was not, as professional gurgita-tors like to say, stretched and ready.

"The contest started and it was veryhot. I was feeling really giddy. Lastthing I remembered I did fifteen hotdogs and I think he said I was on fourminutes. The grease hit me. It hit mevery hard. And I mean very hard. Igot so nauseated I couldn't even seestraight. I couldn't even think straight."

The excitement and the heat hadput too much stress on Dale Boone'ssystem. And stomachs have a mind oftheir own. True, he had no one toblame but himself. Still, it was brutal.Rich Shea remembers one of the judgescommenting that Boone was eating"in an unsafe fashion." Next thing any-one knew, it was-to quote DaleBoone-"regurgitarion at the table."

"Everybody's heart just sank. Youcould hear it in the crowd. Theycouldn't believe what happened."

Boone retreated to his limousinein disgrace. And that evening, he

and his wife had a long, serious dis-cussion about his future as an eater."I told her, 'Look, I really have achance to win this thing." But therewas only one qualifier for Coney Is-land left in 2002, and it would beheld in Philadelphia.

Boone had vowed not to give upon that mustard-yellow belt, and heremembered his heroic ancestor,who never lost hope. Taken prisonerby Indians in May 1769, DanielBoone escaped in the middle of thenight to wander the "wildness" ofKentucky, stricken with "dreadfulapprehensions." But one morning,from the summit of Pilot Knob, hepeered through the blue haze downto the banks of the Ohio and vowedto make the land his own.

Dale Boone told his wife, "I'm go-ing to fly myself to Philadelphia."

In the weeks before the event,Boone trained hard at a place on Bu-ford Highway called the Old Coun-try Buffet. Here, between gallons ofwater and endless servings of boiledcabbage, he ruminated over his de-feat. Skipping dinner had done himin, so he determined never to letsuch a thing happen again. He ap-proached the manager of the OldCountry Buffet and learned to his re-lief that there was an Old CountryBuffet in Philadelphia too. Rightacross the street from the Home De-pot where the hot-dog eating contestwould be held.

"They arranged everything forme," said Boone. "So I got a chanceto eat."

It was in Philadelphia that Boonefirst encountered the then reigningpickle-eating world champion,Kevin Lipsitz-and pounded himand everyone else at the table. Ittook eighteen hot dogs and buns, butBoone left town with a trophy and aguaranteed spot at the table on Inde-pendence Day.

On the Fourth, Boone demon-strated a capacity for greatness. Ingurgitator parlance, he hit thedeuce-twenty hot dogs and buns intwelve minutes. He did not beatTakeru Kobayashi, but to callKobayashi the Tiger Woods of hissport would be to insult TakeruKobayashi. Kobayashi eats on a levelof eternal grandeur. No one

LEITER FROMCHAITANOOGA 69

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approaches him. If beating Koba-yashi were what drove competitiveeaters, there would be no sport.

Boone now ranks ninth worldwidein the latest issue of The Gurgitator,the IFOCE's official newsletter (cir-culation: forty-three), and is thefront-runner for IFOCE "Rookie ofthe Year" honors. His colleagues arethe greatest eaters in America. He'slearned all the secrets. He doesn'tmake rookie mistakes. And he hascome to Chattanooga because it isthe business of his life to eat as manyhot dogs as he possibly can as fast ashe possibly can. Dale Boone'sdream-the dream he is living-isthe dream of endless, involuntary

process. When he eats, he

N touches the infinite.

oon, and dogs are on the table.George Shea goes over the rules: Asmany hot dogs as possible in twelveminutes. Hot dogs may be eaten sep-arately from buns, but in order to"count," both hot dog and hot-dogbun must be consumed. No utensils, no"unsafe" eating, no "sleepers" (aban-doning a hot dog in the middle of thecompetition table), no "mules" (plac-ing a hot dog on the plate of an ac-complice), no drugs. "Even a Zantac isforbidden," Shea says.

The contest begins. Immediately,Dale Boone's cold-blooded mastery ofthe art and science of eating hot dogsbecomes evident. He scoops up a dog,snaps it in two (the "Solomonmethod"), and gobbles both halves atonce while dunking the bun with aquick twist of the wrist. As he eats hedances to some secret rhythm, shakinghis booty as he clears his first plate.

He's smiling, confident, the old pro.He eats so quickly and so smoothlythe food does not seem to be in anyway foreign to his body. "When I'mthirsty," roared Mark Twain's Missis-sippi River man, "I reach up and sucka cloud dry like a sponge."

Kevin Lipsitz stuffs three hot dogsinto his mouth as murky water poursdown his chin and arms. "1 eat veryhealthy at home," he said before thecontest. "Carrot juice, organic salads.It's like a treat when 1come do this."

The photographers close in.Boone, who has evaporated ten

dogs and buns in the first four min-

70 HARPER'S YlAGAZNE / OCTOBER 2003

utes of the contest, has alreadymoved on to his third plate. He pullsup his sleeves as he chews and peersat Lipsitz. Boone knows ten hot dogswill not be enough, but he still needsto gauge the opposition. No need togo too fast, no need to press the nau-sea, no need to hit the deuce if six-teen or seventeen will do.

Another minute goes by. The spec-tators have grown quiet, expectant.

"Concentration ... ," Shea whis-pers into the microphone. He, too,remembers that terrible afternoon inAtlanta. "Dale has a hair-triggerstomach. I wish it weren't so."

Now children clutch their parents'necks, suck their pacifiers, turn away.

"Mount Boone may erupt!"A fear-laced fascination envelops

the crowd, and they watch the tableas they would the fateful proceedingsof calamity. The seething and gur-gling Mount Boone, like the fron-tier's legendary Billy Earthquake andColonel Nimrod Wildfire, has be-come natural disaster incarnate.

He's downed more than a dozendogs.

The unforgiving eight-minutemark arrives and, after swallowing amere four and a half hot dogs andbuns, a discouraged and thoroughlydiscredited Chew Chew stops eating.The betrayed crowd jeers, but ChewChew just looks at Dale Boone,shakes his head, turns his back to thetable, and walks away.

Only one of the amateurs remains.His name is Kelvin Bedford, and hereceived his gastronomic educationand training in classic imperialist style,as a gunner's mate in the United StatesNavy. Bedford is focused, efficient, andbrutal. No matter how many hot dogsBoone crams down his throat, KelvinBedford keeps up. He matches numberthirteen with number thirteen. Booneimmediately begins to press numberfourteen past his lips as he scowls atBedford, but Bedford's not looking atanyone. He has closed his eyes. NowBoone realizes he is facing a Locust,and turns his own eyes to the clear,blue, indifferent sky.

Kevin Lipsitz,meanwhile, is holdingthird place. But he has entered a sep-arate realm. His jaws crank open andshut like automated pincers, his handsclench decomposing, dripping buns.

Is this disgusting? No matter. Pro-fessional gurgitators personify disgust.It is their job to channel the wholevengeful host of homicidal Americaneaters, the fabled legionsof Wolverinesand Suckers and Corncrackers, fromthe infamous and despicable fron-tiersman Mike Fink ("I can swallowniggers whole, raw, or cooked") to thelegendary man on William Street who"ate beef till he had horns grow out ofhis forehead."

One minute, eighteen seconds re-main, but neither Boone, Bedford,nor Lipsitz will quit. The Navy manstands at attention, lips pursed,cheeks swollen to the bursting point,seeking some way to power downnumber fourteen.

He is Chattanooga's only remain-ing hope. The crowd pleads, theyscream desperate encouragement,but Kelvin Bedford is drowning infourteen hot dogs and there is noth-ing anyone can do to help.

Dale Boone lurches forward, swal-lows, and thrusts hot dog number fif-teen past his lips. His hands slam thetable, his head flops down, and hiscoonskin cap rolls to the pavement.Yet somehow, some way, he holdshis food. Bowed in peristaltic prayer,his bald head shines wet and whitein the southern sun.

Twelve minutes are up. The con-test isover. First comes silence, a great,awful silence. Then a ferocious whooprises and reverberates from Blockbusterto Kinko's to Blimpie's to Chili's.

"Yeeeeee-haw!"And then Daniel Boone's great-

gre at- grea t -gre at -gre at -great- grea t-grandson becomes the center of thatparking lot in Tennessee. Surround-ed by television cameras, micro-phones, and newspaper reporters, hekisses the huge, four-columned,multi-tiered trophy. "I was in troubleuntil I caught that burp," he says. "Itwas making me cry."

Finally, his last interview over,Dale Boone walks through the doorof Coney's Deli Cafe. George Sheasits in a corner booth, eating lunch,talking business with Stuart Rosen-thal, the owner of Coney's. Rosenthalis pleased. "I think we're going to dothis semi-annually," he says. Sheasuggests beef tongue in the spring,no utensils. Or giant hard-boiled os-

trich eggs, which make an excellentvisual. Rosenthal nods. Then theynotice Boone.

"Congratulations, Dale," says Shea."Want something to eat!" asks

Rosenthal.Boone surveys the restaurant,

from the revolving displays of white-frosted strawberry cheesecake to thegreat, glass-encased wedges ofcorned beef, pastrami, and smokedturkey. On top of a shiny metal grillrotate dozens of Nathan's Famoushot dogs. "America's Favorite HotDog," reads the sign. Metabolismawakes. The world is all before it.Dale Boone's dream revives, and hismouth, slave to involuntary im-pulse, murmurs its unfailing desire.

"You got ice cream!" _

October Index Sources

1 The Gallup Poll (Princeton, N.j.); 2Federal Election Commission (Washing-ton, D.C.); 3,4 New York Times/CBSNews Poll (N.Y.C); 5 Information Secu-rity Oversight Office (Washington, D.C);6 judicial Watch, Inc. (Washington,D.C); 7,8 U.S. Senate Committee on Fi-nance; 9 Securities and Exchange Com-mission; 10 Xerox (Stamford, Conn.):11,12 Citizens for Tax justice (Washing-ton, D.C); 13 'XflRED (San Francisco);14 Reebok International, Ltd. (Canton,Mass.); 15 Sunyoung Pak, Seoul NationalUniversity (South Korea); 16,17 Merck& Co., Inc. (Whitehouse Station, N.j.);18 Health Affairs (Bethesda, Md.); 19National Society for Epilepsy (ChalfontSt. Peter, England); 20 Male Witches inEarly Modem Europe, by Laura Apps andAndrew Gow (Manchester UniversityPress, 2002); 21 Colombian Commissionof Jurists (Bogota); 22,23 U.S. Depart-ment of Defense; 24 YouGov (London);25,26 Palestinian Center for Policy andSurvey Research (Rarnallah); 27 PeaceNow (Tel Aviv); 28 United Nations(N.Y.C.); 29 The World Bank Group(Washington, D.C)/SnowSports Indus-tries America (McLean, Va.), 30 U.N.World Water Development Report; 31Environmental Working Group (Wash-ington, D.C); 32 USDA Food and Nutri-tion Service (Alexandria, Va.), 33 Na-tional Association of State Universitiesand Land Grant Colleges (Washington,D.C.); 34,35 Public Citizen (Washing-ton, D.C); 36 Office of CongressmanSam Farr, 37 U.S. House of Representa-tives; 38 The Republican Party of Vir-ginia (Richmond); 39 Stanley 1. Kutler(Verona, Wise.); 40 Times (London).

LITTER FROM CHATTANOOGA 71

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