holy crap.

I had no idea what a big freaking deal the Bassmaster Classic would be, and as a result I spent the entire weekend marveling at the spectacle. The picture here, snapped by The Wife on Sunday, is of Kevin VanDam, the dude who ended up winning the tournament and the $200,000 check that goes with the top spot. This was taken while KVD, as he is known, took a victory lap around the Civic Arena, where 14,000 people watched the final weigh-in on Sunday. We’ll come back to that.

Unless you have access to a boat — which Uncle Crappy definitely does not — you don’t really watch any of the actual fishing. Instead, you go to the fishing and outdoors show at the Convention Center and look at fishing stuff. And, you collect the freebies that are handed out at many of the booths. My favorite freebie was a shot of Evan Williams single barrel bourbon, which was being given away at a booth towards the beginning of our tour of the convention center. There were also free fishing hooks, hats, shirts, lures, beer, keychains, maps, pork rinds, energy bars (Hooah bars, developed by the military for the military — the wife tasted one and said biological warfare would be a better application). You could meet pro fishermen — in our case only the ones who didn’t qualify for the classic, because they were all, you know, fishing — survivors (Rupert, the hippie guy) and hucksters of all varieties. Trade shows like this tend to be a little overwhelming because there’s so much stuff, and this one was no exception.

Except that at about 2 p.m. every day the convention center cleared out as people made their way up to the Civic Arena to get seats for the weigh-in. This, boys and girls, is where the unsuspecting and uninitiated get a real look at what bass fishing is about. What I would easily recognize as the home of the Pittsburgh Penguins under any other circumstances had been transformed with a huge stage set, video boards, lights, a kick-ass sound system — oh, and thousands of fishing fans. I watched Saturday’s weigh-in from the floor, after my mother in law and her husband scored passes at Friday’s kickoff. The noise, the lights, the screaming … think pro wrestling with a vague smell of river water.

Each guy rides into the arena on his boat, and hauls a bag o’ bass out of the live well to be weighed. If he has a couple of impressive fish in the bag, he holds them up for crowd, which shouts its approval. (The funny thing about this tradition is that instead of holding up real monsters, like the ones they catch in the south where it’s warm enough that the fish grow nearly all the time, they’re holding up what passed for huge bass in Pittsburgh, not a single one over three pounds. I’m told that’s tiny. And I know some of the contestants looked totally sheepish to be waving these skinny little fish around for the audience.) And the guy who tallied the highest total weight over the three days — this weekend, it was Kevin VanDam — takes home the big check.

I was at work for the final weigh-in, but I got to watch the whole thing on ESPN. And it was just nuts. When the final guy weighed in — and failed to reach KVD’s total — the arena erupted, there were fireworks, exploding streamers, the victory lap. Wow.

While all that was going on Saturday, there were another 70,000 people getting ready for a concert by chinless Jimmy Buffett wannabe Kenny Chesney at Heinz Field that evening. Pittsburgh reached Redneck Critical Mass this weekend, and seemed to survive the experience. And, apparently, we did as well.



A SPECIAL POST FOR THOSE OF US WHO WENT TO HIGH SCHOOL TOGETHER (although the rest of you are welcome to read as well…).

Eighteen to 20 years ago, a language was created by a friend of ours, known on Uncle Crappy as Kewyson. This was a language that was only occasionally witnessed and difficult to recall — mostly because those of us most likely to bear witness years later were in the same state of intoxication Kewyson was in when he began speaking on tongues.

Evidence of this language is extremely rare. Until now.

For those of you who might have missed it, Kewyson and Uncle Crappy traded fishing stories yesterday, based on my post about the upcoming fishing tournament in Pixburke. But at the end of Kewyson’s initial comment, he lapsed into the SECRET KEWYSON LANGUAGE:

Well, no such luck – it was a 12 lbs. markrel – as we trolled by his area he was defengin – who aid, ew always wanted tl gove her away onfriday – but where do owr keep the reet? Thee fish was harpooned on the sid of its boday – That would oule not fo what wee neede.

We ended up not buying a boat afterall-

Rember, yell loud and proud, ‘ Fish On’ )

Wow. “…where do owr keep the reet?”

Kewyson, helpfully, offered a translation a few minutes later, blaming the problem on something that a father of two young children could logically claim: A lack of sleep.

Well, no such luck – it was a 12 lbs. Mackerel – as we trolled by this area he was defending, the hook speared the side of this poor fish just below his fin. When Dr. Koi tried to reel him in, he was being pulled sideways (hence the inaccurate estimates of size). Well, that was the only fish landed that day – and he didn’t even take a hit at the bait!

We still didn’t end up buying the boat – we did, however, take home some mighty nice mackerel, which went for close to $50 a pound that day.

Fish On!

I don’t want to pick on Kewyson — I certainly am eligible for abuse over an occasional lack of coherence — but I read his first post and was overcome by a wave of nostalgia, for the hot tub, for A-Team parties, for Buffett concert preparations, for the actual Buffett concerts … you get the idea.

Thanks, Kewyson, for keeping all of us young.

something fishy.

This weekend is going to be interesting. My mother-in-law and her husband arrive in Pittsburgh Thursday for a visit. They haven’t been up from their home in Texas for a while, but this trip isn’t just social — there really isn’t much social to it at all, in fact.

They’re coming to watch a fishing tournament.

Let me be more specific: They’re coming to watch THE fishing tournament. The 2005 Citgo Bassmaster Classic, the Super Bowl of bass fishing, as we’ve been told. $200,000 for the guy who catches the biggest fish over three days.

Look. I’m one of those guys who either laughs or bitches when the fishing shows are taking up time on ESPN that could be devoted to college football. But this apparently is a huge freaking deal — a multi-million boon to Pittsburgh’s economy, something that’s going to bring thousands of fishing aficionados to somehow watch the tournament. It’s going to be on ESPN2 nearly non-stop this weekend. And The Wife’s mom — and her husband, both of whom fish in tournaments at home — are coming up for the fun.

I’m actually looking forward to this. I mean, I’m looking forward to seeing my MIL and her husband, but I’m also looking forward to the fishing stuff. All kinds of events are scheduled, and we’re going to hit up a bunch of them. There’s a huge outdoor gear show in the convention center. And the daily weigh-ins, held each afternoon of the three-day tournament, typically fill arenas with screaming fishing fans.

Yes. I did just write that. And yes, I really am looking forward to the whole deal.

I haven’t done any actual fishing for years. Dr. History and I used to try when I spent summers with his family in northern Wisconsin. Over several summers, I caught a total of probably a dozen fish, most of them not worth keeping. Or even mentioning, for that matter. But I mention them proudly, mostly because I wouldn’t want it to seem like we were incompetent. Even though we were. We set out one day in two separate boats, intent on holding our own two-man tournament. We switched locations, we worked the structure, we changed up lures so we were fishing with the appropriate stuff at the appropriate times and places.

And neither of us caught a goddamn thing. Very nice. We were ridiculed for the rest of the summer.

I came close, a couple of times, to what would have counted as impressive catch. Once, Dr. History’s sister had hooked a sunfish off of their pier, and the little guy swallowed the hook. While she ran up to the garage to get a pair of pliers, I knelt on the dock, swishing the fish back and forth in the water. Just before she got back to the dock, I saw a long, striped fish swoop from under the pier and swallow the sunfish whole. That was a good-sized muskie, the big fishing prize in that part of the country. Lots of big pointy teeth on those fuckers, and those teeth were about 10 inches from my hand, which was left holding nothing but the nylon line.

My other encounter with a muskie was a little closer to an actual fishing triumph. Dr. History and I got up early and headed to a little bay in Lake Tomahawk to find us some bass. We didn’t find any bass — I never found any bass up there, despite claims by otherwise reliable people who insisted they were present. So just before we were set to bag the fishing in favor of the water skiing and, later, the drinking, I started casting into the opening of the bay, and almost immediately hooked a muskie that was clearly long enough — 32 inches was the standard, I think — to be a keeper. I wasn’t using a leader — a length of wire connecting the lure to the line — because we had been fishing for fish without substantial teeth, and I was concerned that the muskie, which, as I stated earlier, definitely has teeth, would bite through my line, so I decided to try to get it in the boat as quickly as I could.

And it worked. I reeled the fish up next to the boat while the doctor scrambled to get the net. The cotton-cord net, probably as old as we were at the time. The net, which as the doctor scooped up my greatest fishing triumph, that broke, dropping my trophy, which had just chomped through my line, back into the water.

The pros won’t have that problem this weekend, largely because A) I imagine they have better equipment than we did back then, and B) I’m certain they know what they’re doing. But I would get a kick out of seeing at least one of the pros step up during the weigh-in, smile and shrug his shoulders: “Fish? Hell, there aren’t any fish in those rivers…”

fo shizzle.

I’ve seen other sites like this in the past, but this — Gizoogle.com — is the best hip-hop translator of the bunch. Witness yesterday’s Uncle Crappy entry:

The Wife n I had a bootylicious day of ski’n at Hidden Valley today, in spite of tha fizzy that it was windy, cold n tha resort was mak’n S-N-to-tha-izzow all day, which means occasionally being pelted by shawty ice pellets on tha face while crus’n down tha hizzle , niggaz, better recognize.

We learned:

* The Wife has magic skis.

* Hidden Valley has a bootylicious shawty coffee shop across fizzle tha ski S-H-to-tha-izzop. Not mizzy fo` ambience, but outstand’n coffee.

* Uncle Crappy likes weed-smokin’ fizzy.

Mom n Dad of Uncle Crappy didn’t hizzy siznuch a hot day ski’n yesterday. While heezeeing toward tha tail end of they annual trip ta Boyne Highlands in Michigan, Dad took an odd F-to-tha-izzall n fizzle a shawty pain in his ankle, sum-m sum-m he thought at tha time was a sprain . They call me tha black folks president. But when he gots X-rays today, he found T-H-to-tha-izzat tha leg in question wizzas, in fact, broken cuz this is how we do it.

And whizzat does this mean fo` tha Colorado tizzle two weeks hence? Stay tuned.

Remember boys and girls … Uncle Crappy didn’t say it, Gizoogle did…

Sitting in Pittsburgh, waiting for the snow. It’s …

Sitting in Pittsburgh, waiting for the snow. It’s difficult to write a weather story when there’s no weather yet.

This is going to be one of the things I do when I’m not doing something else. You’ll find out a wide variety of things about me, but I’m going to make a couple regular contributions: What I’m smoking, and What’s in my car CD player.

By way of introduction:

I’m 37, and I really should quit smoking. I’m married and we have a cat. I’m a card-carrying member of the liberal media. Musically, I’m a hippie. I love cooking but hate doing the dishes. My sense of outrage isn’t what it used to be. All other sports are things to watch when there’s no football. I like my coffee with cream and sugar. I’m enjoying my subscription to Sports Illustrated. But I’m way behind on my Dick’s Picks and Vault purchases.

And the regular stuff? I’m smoking Camel Lights, mostly because the last gas station I stopped at doesn’t carry Camel Wide Lights. The car CD player has a disc from the live Phish series, the show from Vets in Columbus. I didn’t attend, and I wish I had. I am driving to Philly from my home in Pittsburgh tomorrow to see the Phish show at the Spectrum, and it’s likely that my wife and I will be driving through a pretty serious snowstorm as we go through the mountains on the turnpike tomorrow morning. Welcome to winter.

I’m at work at the moment, and as you might imagine, there ain’t a whole lot going on in the newsroom on the Friday night after Thanksgiving. About three more hours to go…