RIP: My day with the late UGA VI

2008-06-29T02:31:21Z

As University of Georgia Athletic Director Damon Evans said, it's "a sad day for the entire Bulldog nation." UGA VI, Georgia's beloved canine mascot, died Friday night at the tender age of 9. He was the winningest mascot in the school's history. I had the pleasure of spending a game day with UGA VI back in 2000, just his second year on the job. You'll find the story below. Excuse me, I'm going to go hug my dogs now.

UGA VI: Top Dog rules Bulldog Nation

November 28, 2000 — My first glimpse of football royalty came through the foggy rear window of a red station wagon. I pressed my face to the wet glass and peered in. His Majesty — the most celebrated sports mascot in the nation — was sleeping. But this dog's catnap would not last long. The people would soon come calling. They always do. It was not yet 10 a.m., more than two hours before kickoff of the annual Georgia-Georgia Tech grudge match, and the car with the Chatham County plate reading "UGA VI" was already drawing quite a bit of attention. It always does. "Is he in there?" one Georgia fan, a grown man, asked, rubbing the dew off the tainted glass to get a better look. "We've got to have him ready today." The white English bulldog known as UGA VI (pronounced ugg-uh) was ready, his owners assured me. He always is. "He's pretty hyper today," said Swann Seiler, 44, eldest daughter of Sonny Seiler, owner of the school's line of Bulldog mascots since 1956. "Today, he ate two shampoos, and he grabbed my coat and ran with it."]]>

Oops

2008-06-27T11:44:46Z

Take a look at how awful the New York Knicks NBA draft track record is

2008-06-27T09:45:07Z

Let's hope Danilo Gallinari bucks the trend. http://sports.espn.go.com/nbadraft/draft/tracker/team?team=nyk&draftyear=2008

NPR: Take the Poll: Best CDs of the Year (So Far)

2008-06-27T04:00:05Z

Some decent ones to choose from. Some noticable gaps, too. But ... do people still buy CDs? http://www.npr.org/blogs/allsongs/2008/06/take_the_poll_best_cds_of_the.html

My appearance on NBC Nightly News

2008-06-25T14:03:47Z

The internet version, at least. NBC Nightly News recently posted online two pieces on golf in China that feature interviews with Par for China's primary subject, Zhou Xunshu, and yours truly. At least one of these clips — inspired by my ESPN.com work related to golf in China — was supposed to air on the television broadcast with Brian Williams, but the story kept getting pushed back (they flew to Shanghai to interview me in March) because China media coverage rightfully was dominated by various uprisings, boycotts, protests and, most importantly, natural disasters. I'm fine with the small version, actually — it makes it more difficult to determine just how many pounds the camera adds.

The Tour: A documentary short about golf in China

2008-06-25T07:40:47Z

You may have seen this already on Shanghaiist, but just in case. Check out Daedalum Films' recent documentary short entitled The Tour, which focuses on Par for China's primary subject, Chinese pro golfer Zhou Xunshu. (I'm in it a bit, too.)

Photos: Old images of Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania

2008-06-19T08:55:20Z

Photos extracted from the "Bloomsburg Bicentennial" screen saver, created in 2002. Special thanks to the Columbia County Historical and Genealogical Society (columbiacountyhistory.org). If you can identify the subject of a particular photo, please leave a comment on that photo.]]> http://www.flickr.com/photos/danwashburn/sets/72157605688762044/

Barack Obama is a PATRIOTIC AMERICAN. He has one HAND over his HEART at all times. He occasionally switches when one arm gets tired, which is almost never because he is STRONG.

2008-06-18T14:00:11Z

Funny. http://www.slate.com/id/2193798/

Occasionally people send me photos of giant catfish

2008-06-18T04:03:53Z

This one was sent to me from Beth in Horn Lake, Mississippi, with the following note: "This fish was caught in Eudora MS on June 8, 2008."

Why do people send me photos of giant catfish, you ask?

Well, it's the same reason mothers in Alabama email me asking what kind of skeet shooting rifle they should buy their son for Christmas, and the same reason anglers in Georgia write in requesting info on where they can buy a certain lure for alligator gar fish. It's because I happened to write a story about the topic — once, several years ago — and they found it on the internet. From 1998 to 2002, I wrote a weekly column called Sporting Life for a newspaper in Gainesville, Georgia, called The Times. The premise of the column: I try a new activity each week and write about my experiences. I had a great time doing it, and won a few awards along the way. You can check out the entire Sporting Life archive here. And below, reproduced in full, is the two-part story documenting my day spent fishing for giant catfish in Mississippi ... using my fingers as bait.]]> Mississippi Handgrabbing, Part One: Man vs. fish Mississippi 'masters' lure lunkers ... using only their hands as bait Mike Willoughby emerged from the mud-brown Mississippi water as if he were part of a river baptism, as if the very spirit of the Holy Ghost had taken possession of his being. But Willoughby didn't come up from the Big Black River singing. He didn't say, "Hallelujah." Instead, Willoughby grimaced and grunted. He appeared to be in pain. "He come up and bit me and twisted off," the 33-year-old paint contractor from Jackson, Miss., said before groaning again. "Felt like a good fish." Then, Willoughby took a deep breath and disappeared into the water again. He was trying to coax a giant flathead catfish into biting his hand. After his third dunk into the drink, Willoughby spit water, gasped for air and warned us again that the fish was "a good 'un." "Alright, I'm fixin' to come out with him," Willoughby announced before going under a final time. I suppose I shouldn't have reacted with so much shock when Willoughby struggled to the surface with a 53-pound creature in his arms. I mean, I had seen photos and read accounts of men fishing for colossal catfish using only their bare hands. But I always remained skeptical. Even after Willoughby lugged his leviathan to the boat and placed its still spasmodic body into a cooler, part of me -- the logical and rational part -- questioned the validity of the whole venture. To the uninitiated onlooker, what goes on under the cover of muddy water is a mystery. Perhaps it was a trick, I thought. Willoughby was the magician and the Big Black River was his big black hat. But the monstrosity Willoughby removed from the river was far from cute and cuddly. It was slimy and prehistoric and ugly as sin. It looked like Edward G. Robinson ... hit in the face with a shovel. I stared, and the fish stared right back. Its wicked-looking whiskers wiggled with each dying breath. This was most definitely real. And, I realized with mounting misgivings, I soon would be asked to stick my hand in the mouth of one of this catfish's cousins. For nearly three years, I have tried to pin down a story on the fishy type of fishing known as handgrabbing, noodling, grabbling, grappling, stumping, hogging or dogging, depending on what part of the country you're in. Two summers ago, a gentleman named Bubba said he'd help set up a handgrabbing trip for me on the Savannah River in eastern Georgia (which, like most states, considers fishing by hand illegal). But Bubba didn't come through. Last summer, I thought I'd be grabbing in southern Tennessee, but my contact wasn't able to track down the grabbers along the river banks like he thought he'd be able to. And, he said, none of the grabbers had telephones. I began to suspect handgrabbing was a myth, a colorful part of Southern folklore, the equivalent of snipe hunting -- a well-orchestrated hoax designed to make me look like a fool. But that was before a reader e-mailed me the link to mississippihandgrabbing.com, before I spoke to Gerald Moore on the telephone, before I drove 450 miles just so a giant catfish -- or two, or three -- could bite down on my hand. "Oh, it's for real. Trust me," said Moore, 56, known around Jackson as "the master," although he claims the nickname is more for his carpet-cleaning skills than his expertise as a handgrabber. We were riding in Moore's truck on a back road west of Jackson, towing his johnboat to a remote private put-in along the Big Black, a tributary of the Mississippi River. In the backseat sat Preston Pittman, a world-champion turkey caller from nearby Canton, who was tagging along to videotape footage for an outdoors television show he hopes to launch in 2003. Moore turned to me and, with the booming bass of a barker for a carnival freak show, said, "What you're going to see today will fascinate you." Moore, of Madison, owns a carpet cleaning business now, but at various points in his life has been a police officer, a moonshine runner, a Harley-Davidson rider and a country singer. When I met him, he wore faded overalls and a faded blue T-shirt. The American flag bandana he tied around his head drew attention away from his bright white beard. Moore could easily win an Uncle Jesse Duke lookalike contest, and I wouldn't be surprised if they still have that sort of thing in southern Mississippi. When Moore showed up at my motel at 5:30 a.m. June 1, he told me he was up late the night before chasing after his three-legged dog. He caught him about a half-mile from the house. Moore didn't look or act like a man who owned a computer, let alone a Web site. But it's at mississippihandgrabbing.com where you can buy "A Rare Breed ... The Masters of Handgrabbing," the video Moore made with friends Willoughby, Keith Lane and Ricky Liles. Mississippi is the world's leading producer of farm-raised catfish. And Moore believes the state is likely the world's leading producer of handgrabbers, as well. "Of course you have to bear in mind, we're a bunch of rednecks here," Moore said. The weekend before I arrived, a crew from CNN came out to go handgrabbing with the self-proclaimed masters. "We've had all kinds of national attention," Moore said. "We've been on the NBC 'Today Show.' Turner South plays it about near every week. CNN? You can't get no bigger than that." Folks are just plumb fascinated by handgrabbing which, by my count, is only legal in five states: Mississippi, Alabama, Louisiana, Oklahoma and Tennessee. But I doubt people in the other 46 states really care. Handgrabbing isn't at the top of many to-do lists. "It takes a special person to go in there and do it," Moore said. "Not that I'm a bad Joe or anything like that, but you've got to have that certain ..." Moore finished his thought with a powerful grunt that, to me at least, made him sound very much like a bad Joe. "You're basically fishing today and your hand is bait," Moore continued. "There ain't no rod and reel. There ain't no pole. It's man against fish." Or water moccasin. Or snapping turtle. Or alligator. The Big Black River has them all. But usually, Moore assured me, handgrabbers only run into fish. And the fish can be feisty. You would be, too, if someone tried to interrupt your mating season. In Mississippi, it is legal to grab catfish from May 1 to July 15, the weeks when flatheads, and the more ornery blue cats, head to hollowed-out logs -- or, better yet, the cypress boxes placed throughout waterways by handgrabbers -- to spawn, a process that lasts a couple of days. That's the time when grabbers like to shove their hands in muddy holes most people would never think of. And that's the time when catfish are more than happy to bite, which is ultimately the goal of the grabber. Moore and his crew wear nylon gloves, the ones used for filleting fish, but they often don't stop the scrapes that leave scars. Catfish have thousands of tiny teeth that can rip off your hide like sandpaper. "You catch one of them blue cats, and he can tear your (behind) up," Willoughby said. "People think we're crazy as hell." I dug my foot into the floorboard of Moore's truck as we approached our put-in. I was thinking that those people might be right.

Mississippi Handgrabbing, Part Two: Finger food

Hands are bait when grabbing giant catfish Forget about forethought -- or any other type of thought, really -- when you stick your hand in front of a 40-pound catfish, hoping that the monster mistakes your fingers for food. Thinking can only cause problems. It's best to do such things with your brain on blank. So, when I first reached my hand into a wooden box occupied by a big, bad blue catfish, the only thing weighing on my mind was the muddy water of the Big Black River -- and the words of Mississippi handgrabber Ricky Liles. "You've got to get your hand in the fish's mouth," he said. "Because that's the onlyest way you're going to catch him." The folks I met the following day along the banks of the Ross Barnett Reservoir spillway outside of Jackson, Miss., would beg to differ. They were fishing for catfish the regular way, with rods and reels. I told them about handgrabbing, and that I had tried it. When they were done eyeing me as if I was an escapee from the Mississippi State Insane Asylum, they offered their opinions: • "Man, I'm not sticking my hand up in nothing in no water," Cortez Green, 33, said. "I don't care if there's tons of fish in there." • "That's why they made these," said Kevin Primus, 35, pointing to his pole. • "I know the Big Black. Alligators. Snakes," said Ruth Usry, 56, shaking her head. "There's alligators all in the Big Black. And water moccasins." • "I know white people do it," David Moore, 63, said. "Y'all aren't scared of anything." Handgrabbing is not for everybody. It's an activity practiced by men many believe to be either half drunk or half crazy. But it's also an activity that has been around for hundreds of years. In 1775, trader-historian James Adair first documented "a surprising method of fishing under the edges of rocks" performed by American Indians in the South. Today, the idea is still the same. Handgrabbers have just perfected the process a bit. Wooden boxes, dozens of them, lie on the bottoms of the Big Black River and Ross Barnett Reservoir. A large number of these custom-made catfish cabins come courtesy of Liles, Keith Lane, Gerald Moore and Mike Willoughby -- the guys from mississippihandgrabbing.com. The boxes, often made of durable cypress wood, are the size of coffins. They are placed flat on the river and reservoir floors. An opening, big enough for a giant catfish to fit through, is cut into the end of the box that faces downstream. During spawning season, male and female catfish seek the shelter of the boxes -- in pairs, of course. Once the female lays the eggs, the male chases her off and guards the eggs viciously until his fingerlings are hatched ... or until some redneck reaches in the box and puts a halt to the whole process. Many states, in fact, have banned handgrabbing, saying it's not a sporting way to catch fish. "I think the ones who say that," said Liles, 43, of Canton, Miss., "is the ones, really honestly, who don't have the nerve to do it." Liles and his crew contend that they raise far more catfish than they catch, saying that they purposefully leave several of their boxes untouched each season. I asked Ron Garavelli, Mississippi's chief of fisheries, for his thoughts on the matter. He's been on the job for 27 years, and handgrabbing has been legal for all of them. "Let's just say I don't think the catfish population is hurting because of handgrabbing," said Garavelli, whose response to my next question -- Are you a handgrabber? -- came rather quickly. "No," he said. "I'm not the type of person that puts my hands in places that I can't see." Not many people are. If any species is at risk of endangerment, Garavelli said, it is the handgrabber. "It's a dying art," Garavelli said. "I don't think there will be a whole bunch left after this generation. You don't see many young handgrabbers out there." When 56-year-old Gerald Moore was a "young 'un" in Smith County, Miss., he handgrabbed on the Leaf River. "Back then, we didn't know about no damn box," Moore said. "We'd find an old cypress log underwater. We done it for the food." And still today, Moore and his cadre of catfish wranglers do it as much for the food as for the fun. But, Moore will tell you emphatically, they "ain't after the damn blue cat." "We're after the flathead," said Moore, who estimates that each season his group catches more than 3,000 pounds of flatheads, yielding more than 1,000 pounds of meat. "Because, as far as we're concerned, the flathead is the best fish you can put in a frying pan. We don't even keep the blues." Blue cats are harder to skin, and often even harder to swallow. Unlike the flathead, which prefers its meals to be on the move, blue cats often dine on the dead ... or anything else that floats in front of its mouth. "Your blue cat has got probably twice stronger jaws than a flathead, kindly like an alligator," Liles said. "When they bite down on something, they can hold that grip." So, when you are submerged in several feet of water and a blue cat swallows your entire hand, you don't have long to meditate on your next move. You'd be surprised how expendable extremities become when your only other option is drowning. In one such situation, Liles -- who, by the way, can't even swim -- remembers sitting at the bottom of the river, running out of air. His right arm was stuck halfway inside a blue cat in a box. In desperation, Liles placed his feet on either side of the box's opening, and with one powerful push, forced his hand out of the fish's mouth -- through the vise-like jaw and thousands of tiny teeth. Imagine running your knuckles against a cheese grater. "You're going to lose some skin," Liles said. "But, hey, you've got to breathe." • • • In an early-morning haze three Saturdays ago, we traveled a lonely dirt road through cotton fields and backwoods to a steep and muddy put-in on the banks of the Big Black. We got in our johnboats and journeyed 10 miles upstream. Recent rains made the river rise. A white froth had settled on the surface, making the Big Black look like a giant root beer float. Using Lane's mental map as our guide, we made our way back downstream and checked the sunken boxes in our path. The 55-year-old Lane -- handgrabbing for 30 years -- would wade, sometimes neck deep, through the swift water, holding a silver pole like a scepter. When he'd arrive at a box, he'd stick his feet and the pole into the opening. Sometimes the boxes were clean and empty, a sign that the catfish, in Moore's words, had already "done spawned and gone." If a box is occupied, it's often easy to tell. The catfish go crazy. They make their surroundings shake like a subway car. "You can hear it underwater," Liles said. "It sounds like thunder." At that point, the checker becomes the blocker and seals the opening with his feet until the grabber can get his gloves on. Grabbing can be grueling. It is an often time-consuming task performed primarily underwater. And my companions were already short of breath from smoking cigarettes. The grabber wedges his arm past the blocker's legs and into the opening. (It's best to stick your arm in up to the shoulder, so the fish trapped inside have no room to make a run for it.) Then, it's a matter of poking around until you find something that feels like a fish head. Often, the fish head finds you. Ideally, the fish bites down on your fingers and leaves your thumb alone. That way, you can grab on tightly to the cat's lower lip. That's when you've got him. Although, to be honest, it often felt like the fish had me. It's an odd feeling when a known predator puts its mouth on you. It's a sensation that's hard to put into sentences. "Well, it's ... it's, uh ... well, I really don't know how to describe it," said Lane, of Waynesboro, Miss. "It's just something biting you." If it's a small fish -- and in the world of handgrabbing, that means about 30 pounds or less -- the grabber will pull it out of the box and come to the surface with the fish in a headlock. For the big ones, the ones that would likely fight their way out of a simple wrestling hold, grabbers carry a brass spike attached to a long piece of rope. The spike goes through the fish's lower lip and out its mouth. With the rope looped around the lip and wrapped around the grabber's hand, escape is almost impossible. "This is the golden rule," warned nationally known outdoorsman and novice handgrabber Preston Pittman, who came along on our adventure to film footage for a new outdoors television show. "It's a long walk home, if you let one get away." The first nine boxes we checked that morning furnished us with four flatheads, including the 53-pounder Willoughby pulled out on our first stop of the day. Box No. 10, I would soon find out, had my name on it. "Just stick your arm in there and see if you can feel him," Lane said. I took the plunge, but the cupboard was bare. Mr. Catfish was holed up in the far end of the box. That's when Lane's pole came into play. A couple pokes, and the catfish had changed its position. "He's up there now, over my foot," Lane shouted. "He's over my right foot right now." I went under again and felt the fish's head right away. It was kind of like coming across a ripe melon at the grocery store. At that moment, I was thankful that the water was so muddy. I had no desire to stare into the mouth of whatever was now attached to my arm. I was in relatively shallow water, so I could bring my head up for air. "I've got it," I gasped. Liles stuck his hand down to feel the fish. He paused, and then announced to the group gravely, "It's a blue." Willoughby looked concerned, which didn't help me much: This blue was biting my hand. "Don't have him string it if it's a blue," Willoughby said. "Just let him come out with it." I went under again, prepared to do my best Sergeant Slaughter impression and put the damn blue cat in a "death grip" like Moore told me to. "Are you sure it's a blue?" Lane asked Liles. There was so much worry in his voice, I likely would have polluted the river had I not been underwater when he said it. After a short underwater struggle, I shot out of the Big Black with a big blue in tow, my left arm wrapped tight around its repugnant mug. Soon, I was laughing. And so was everyone else. I was accepted. I was part of the group. My rite of passage weighed 25 pounds and was still trying to eat my right hand. "My man!" Willoughby exclaimed. "Got him a blue!" Later on, another box had my name on it. It housed two flatheads, a male and a female who weren't happy that I interrupted their party. The second, and larger one, bit me hard. I uttered some words that Pittman will have to edit out of his TV show. Near the end of the afternoon, a man yelled to us from the only other boat we passed that day. "How did y'all do?" he asked. Moore remained poker-faced. We sat on coolers that contained 14 fish, a catch that weighed close to 350 pounds. "Just some small ones," Moore said. "Nothing big." As we drove off, Moore turned to me and cracked a sly smile. With the slime of a 30-pound flathead still glistening on my T-shirt, I smiled back. I was finally in on the joke.

Video: SNL's "www.clownpenis.fart"

2008-06-17T23:10:53Z

For some strange reason, this Saturday Night Live sketch came to mind yesterday while I was on the step machine at the gym. It's always made me smile. The SNL clip is hosted by Google Video, so it is possible people in China won't be able to see it without use of a VPN. Here's a transcript:

Dillon/Edwards Investments Father.....Chris Parnell [Scene of father helping son ride a bicycle for the first time, then, cut to the living room of their house] Father: Trust, an important part of building a family, and an important part of building his future. That's why I rely on Dillon/Edwards and Company. For nearly a century, investors on Wall Street have trusted Dillon and Edwards with their financial future. And now all of the resources from America's oldest investment firm are available on-line. [Father is at the computer as the website appears, along with web address]Dillon and Edwards on the Internet, at www.clownpenis.fart. A lot of investment companies rushed onto the Internet, but Dillon and Edwards took their time. Sure, when they were ready, there was one web address left, but it's one you can count on. Announcer #1: For mutual funds, count on... Announcer #2: ...clownpenis.fart. Announcer #1: Online brokerage... Announcer #2: ...clownpenis.fart. Announcer #1: Retirement and tuition planning... Announcer #2: ...clownpenis.fart. [Caption: Dillon/Edwards Investments-www.clownpenis.fart] Announcer #1: Dillon and Edwards Investments... Announcer #2: ...at www.clownpenis.fart.

Dan Washburn

If and when we ever move back to the US, I have a feeling our car will look something like this

Anta Running Shoes: We'll let you know how quickly they fall apart

Is Obama a Mac and Clinton a PC? - New York Times

Christian Site's Ban on 'G' Word Sends Homosexual to Olympics

New iPhone Can Decouple From AT&T, for a Price