It's Not Difficult, Guy's*
August 23, 2009
Was everyone in the bass fishing industry absent from school the week that they were supposed to learn about apostrophes?
Clemons, Battisti and I have discussed this on numerous occasions, and the constant misuse of punctuation on bass fishing websites, in magazines and in catalogs drives us all crazy (I also know that it makes my GYCB editor and grammar nerd** Heidi Roth quite upset). We all make mistakes on occasion, but these are just sloppy.
It’s not “Where the Pro’s Shop.”
It’s not “That sound’s like a winner.”
It’s not “Mike Iaconellis’ boat.”
*Yes, the mistakes are intentional.
**I use the term lovingly. Since she is the one who posts these blog entries to the Inside Line website, if the term made it into the blog, I’m assuming she wasn’t too offended.
From the Editor/grammar nerd: "I work with a bunch of guys, I don't offend easily."
''Cue in the'Cuse
August 15, 2009
My one disappointment covering the Oneida event last year was that I didn’t get to eat at Dinosaur Bar-B-Que, a well-known Syracuse bar and restaurant, so I made it a point to try to make it there this time. My plans were temporarily thwarted Friday night when the elite (small “e”) media and eating team consisting of myself, James Overstreet and Rob Russow attempted to dine at the Dino.
Upon arrival at the restaurant, we found a mass of humanity. I entered and learned that it would be at least an hour and a half until we could eat. It was already past 8, and with a 4:30am wake up call we didn’t have the energy to fight the crowds.
Fortunately, we kind of stumbled around the neighborhood until we ran into Ilario’s , an Italian trattoria that proved to be superlative. I went with chicken (the original white meat) while the two media magnates chowed down on 20-ounce veal chops (a size that occasioned the following question – at what point does meat transition from veal to beef?). While they didn’t get the 
ribs they had set out in search of, the bone in chops still provided them with the opportunity to get their full-on Fred Flintstone going.
Today I finished my morning story, hit the hotel health club (penance for all I’ve been eating here), showered, caught up on some work and it was still only 11 am. With a few hours to kill, I declined the much needed nap and instead hopped in the rental Hyundai and made a beeline for Dinosaur. Got there, sidled up to the bar, ordered myself an Ape Hanger Ale and a pulled pork sandwich (the other white meat), and went to town.
I do regret that Overstreet, the only southerner among our original party, wasn’t there to give the meat his seal of approval. Might have to sneak back over for lunch or dinner tomorrow.
A Tale of Two River Rats
August 14, 2009
It’s Friday and I’m still hanging loose in the ‘Cuse. Yesterday’s tournament went about as expected – everyone bitched and moaned that they’d be lucky to catch 10 pounds of Oneida swimmers and then they all proceeded to go out and catch 30 to 40 percent more.
One angler currently at the bottom of the standings is Ohio’s Bill Lowen, who frequently refers to himself as a “river rat.” He would’ve had at least 13 pounds, but an honest culling mistake forced him to forfeit his catch and the day. Bill is one of the nice guys in the sport, always quick with a good word and eager to help. He turned himself in. I can’t imagine how painful that must’ve been. He was just a few places outside the Classic cut entering the event and the day one goose egg effectively means that he’ll be working for his sponsors at the Expo in February.
Bill told me that after the DQ became effective at mid-day, he went back to the launch and cried his eyes out for a half hour. Then he called his sponsors to give them the heads up about what happened. After that he called into the Bass Zone webcast to explain what had happened. No avoidance. No excuses. He’ll be back.
This morning, after talking to Bill and filing my a.m. story, I made my way to the River Rat tackle store, not far from the take-off site. My friend Clark Reehm knows that I am a sucker for small tackle stores, particularly if they carry oddball stuff or high-end Japanese tackle. Last year when we came here I was disappointed that there was only a Gander Mountain and a Bass Pro Shops in the general area, and that only the former was really convenient, so when he told me last week about the “Rat,” owned by local angler Matt Gutchess and his girlfriend Mandy Zinger, I knew I’d have to go there during whatever down time I could find.
It was well worth the trip – lots of cool Japanese tackle, a few specialty items, a wall of Lucky Craft – definitely not the largest store I’ve ever been to, but he had the stuff you’ll need if you fish around here, or anywhere for that matter. He’s the first guy on the east coast to have Bub Tosh’s Punch Skirts and Punch Hooks and I did not leave without exercising my credit card.
If you’re in the area, launch your boat at his ramp or stop by for a little BS. Even if you have no intention of ever coming this way, drop by his website at www.theriverratmarina.com for a little taste of local flavor.
Will the Real Slim Shady Please Stand Up
August 13, 2009
I’m in Syracuse, NY, covering the final regular season event of the 2009 Bassmaster Elite Series. Forget about KVD and Skeet for the moment, in my first full day here I’ve seen the angling equivalent of both Clark Kent and Superman. Granted, they weren’t exactly in the same place at the same time, but
the sightings were temporally close enough that I’d say it’s good enough for horseshoes and hand grenades.
The superhero and alter ego to whom I refer are Tim Horton squared, the Alabama professional angler and the Canadian donut shop. To the best of my knowledge this is their first time in the same area code at the same time (in this case, the storied 315).
If you pour over the bass fishing news sites like I do, you may remember that last year the purveyors of fried dough sent the angler of the same name a letter asking him to stop using his own name in conjunction with his commercial endeavors. Overreaching? I’d say so.
I suppose that either Tim (the angler) got some legal advice or else just decided that Tim (the donut shop) was full of hot air (so to speak), because he never adopted a new name (besides, Skeet, Guido, Woo and OT were already taken) and I still see him in plenty of ads.
Equal Time
August 10, 2009
I recently commended FLW for their acknowledgement of BASS in their writings. Today I logged onto Bassmaster.com and saw that BASS has decided to do the same – recognizing the achievements of Elite Series pros on the other circuit in “Hackney and Ike Shine With FLW” (http://sports.espn.go.com/outdoors/tournaments/elite/news/story?page=b_elites_champ_Hackney).
My friend Alan Clemons hypothesizes (hopes?) that some of the bigwigs at BASS and FLW may be contemplating some sort of joint project in the future. As a result of statements hinting at that by FLW’s Charlie Evans, he followed up with Evans and Tom Ricks (GM of BASS). They wouldn’t offer anything firm, but at least both said something to the effect of “never say never.”
Maybe the Berlin Wall of bass fishing has come down. If that’s the appropriate analogy I will offer no opinion on who was West Germany and who was East Germany.
The Price You Pay In Paradise
August 5, 2009
Greetings from Lewes, Delaware (pronounced like “Louis” not “Lous” or “Lou’s), where I have encamped for five days with various family members and other family-like individuals. Those include one red-headed wife, two parents, a brother, a sister-in-law, a niece who is four going on thirty-five and a nephew whose vocabulary consists primarily of the phrases “What dis?” and “What dat?” Said nephew is less than a year and a half but weighs at least as much as your average beagle. In his hometown of Tokyo that leads shopkeepers and restauranteurs to offer him crayons, since they assume he, like his sister, is a pre-schooler rather than a toddler. Nephew, who is more of a gastronome than an artiste, has consumed no fewer than five crayons (burnt sienna being a favorite flavor) in his short but eventful dining career.
Down the street from us are a family 
colloquially known to one and all as “The Vuls.” Their passports and other identifying documents label them the Findlays of Suffolk, Virginia, and the reason that we call them by this other appellation does not bear repeating. They are led by their father Colin, my brother’s childhood best friend, the skinniest (non-crayon-eating) individual I have ever met, who lived with us more than he lived with his own parents as a kid (sample title from his father’s library from 30 years ago: “The Pocket Book of Cheese.”). His wife Julie, like my sister-in-law a Tar Heel, rides herd over their three not-quite-tall-enough-to-ride-the-scariest-rides-at-funland children – Claire, age six; Anna, “three and a half,” she tells me; and Will, the happiest baby since the great Gerber factory explosion of 1957.
The ostensible reason that we are here is to relax and enjoy each others’ company, but the primary irony of any R&R-oriented family vacation is that family and relaxation are more often than not mutually exclusive. With five rugrats patrolling the house interminably, the average noise level at any given time approaches that of a NASCAR race, a shuttle launch or a thousand muppets beating on a thousand drumsets. So while brother and sister-in-law have rented a house in Lewes (still pronounced the same way) because it is quieter than other nearby beaches like Rehoboth (DE) and Ocean City (MD), the fact is that within our cedar-shingled biosphere the noise level is closer to Alvie Singer’s childhood apartment than Michael Jackson’s hyperbaric chamber, which upon further reflection shows that quiet in and of itself may not always indicate a qualitatively-desirable state.
The second paradoxical situation inherent in a trip to any of America’s heavily commercialized beach resorts is based entirely on calories. At a time and place when most people are trying desperately to squeeze into the smallest expanses of lycra and/or spandex they can purchase, there’s not a single gym within sight. Sure, there are people walking, jogging and bicycling to and fro, but you see more bikes locked up outside the funnel cake store or in front of the ice cream shop than you do in actual motion. The motto of Lewes is “The First Town in the First State,” but in actuality it should be “You bring it, we’ll fry it.” Twinkies, chicken, dough and crabs all get an equal opportunity shot at the deep fryer. And if Crisco ain’t your cup of tea (or lard, as the case may be), it’s practically raining sour patch kids, taffy and no fewer than 50 varieties of fudge.
The third irony (or conundrum or inconsistency, if you wish – ever since Alannis Morrissette, legions of hacks like myself have had to tread lightly around the “I” word) is that there’s water, water everywhere, but I won’t make a single cast. We can literally spit and hit either the ocean or the bay, there’s a pond down the street and virtually every strip mall is this bible-belt of strip malls has a store with “bait” or “tackle” or both in the title. There’s fishing off the beach, fishing from various seawalls and piers and it seems that anyone and everyone who can afford an outboard motor has thereby taken license to call himself a charter captain. Yet despite my desire to fish, I’ve decided that this will be a fish-free week (but for the crabs, shrimp and other finned creatures that I’ve consumed – remember my suggested new motto for Delaware). Of course I was out frogging and flipping on the Potomac on Friday and will be on another river on Saturday and Sunday for a club tournament, so it’s not cold turkey, but it’s still outside of my character. I do like the fact that the surf fishermen have rod racks affixed to the front grilles of their trucks. But for the fact that it would result in all sorts of road grime on your reels, I think it would make quite a statement to pull up to Guntersville or Champlain or Rayburn with a quartet of eight-foot hawg-crushing flipping sticks leading the way, standing at attention and announcing my intentions. Yes, I have a sickness. But it’s nothing that a little rest and relaxation won’t cure.
Kudos to FLW
July 30, 2009
In reading some of the coverage of this week’s Forrest Wood Cup, I’ve been impressed with how often FLW Outdoors has mentioned BASS, the Elite Series anglers and the 2005 Bassmaster Classic in Pittsburgh. For many years, each of the two major circuits pretended that the other one did not exist – they’d write things like “He fished another tournament here four years ago,” or “He has over a million dollars in winnings on another tour.” They wouldn’t give the other guy any ink and in many ways it was insulting to the fan, creating this big elephant in the room. We knew what they were talking about, but they wouldn’t just come out and say what they meant. I don’t know if BASS has come around to this way of thinking – I don’t think they have, judging by my memories of their recent web and print coverage – but I’ll have to go back and check before I make a sweeping statement to that effect.
There are some things about the way FLW handles their tournaments that don’t fit my mold of how a tournament circuit should operate, but with respect to this one point, I have to give them a lot of credit. They’ve improved their on-the-water coverage and their overall web presence and this is hopefully another step on the long upward climb to improving the honesty and comprehensiveness of the reporting about our sport.