January 23, 2011 - January 16, 2011
. In the case of you do not know about that picture,
it is from the crush of the InstaPunk Phyler make by my Montreal
Candians in Thursday night. In that picture, I think it is when
the Phyler goalie start to cry about all the goal that are score to
him. But I must make the digression. I do not come to make offend
on the fan of the Phyler here. I already say that I know my Habs
win the Stanley Cup this year and I am sorry about the sadness of the
Philadelphia persons. Instead I come to address two issue.
First, I need say the Punks tell me they are happy to hear the new writtings from me, but about the fact checkings maybe I am not so careful when I write. They say the post before have many error about things that are not so true. I try to take a note while they tell me all these things for make a corrections, but I already am go to the liquor store for the evening and find it hard to hear everything what they say. One note that I do take on my sheet is about the mistake with who the Philadelphia football team make a trade on. I say they trade the Michael McVick, but they actually trade his brother, Donovan. But still Michael McVick is the one who kill the dogs, and I am many anger about that. Which prove a rule about why you should not trust the persons of Irish.
There are other mistake, too, but you see I am not serious journalist of the big times, like your Keith Onothermann. I am only Puck Punk, with knowledge and love of the hockey, which I try to tell you about because so many American miss this wonderful sport. So I start to think maybe American does not care about the hockey because you do not have the understandings. Even InstaPunk say he is l'confuze about the rule in the hockey. So I decide I must explain to my foreign friends about some important things and then we all will love the hockey.
1. Offsides - Always I am watch a game of the hockey when the offsides is call and my American friends say, "Huh? What happen?" or as the internet American say, "WTF?" Then I explain about how is so simple.
As you see above, there is the big red line in middle of the ice. Then
the two blue line on each side of red middle line, and
the space after the blue line with the goal make the offend zone. No
man is allow to be all the way across the blue on the offend
unless the puck go across first. If the defenses get the puck back all
past their blue line, then the offend players must all touch the blue
they can go back to the offend zone, and when they go back the puck
again must go before any offend player. If the rule is break, then the
offsides is call and a faceoff happen.
I try to make the explain of this to my American friends, but I make only half through my talking when a glaze come on their eyes and they yawn, then they tell me the hockey is so hard to understand and they ask for me to stop the talking. But when we watch the anyfell football and I ask a question like, "Why is this team allow to advance the ball just because their ball kicker falls down?" they only answer me, "Shhhh! I try to watch game!"
And at least the hockey offside only makes a faceoff. In the anyfell the offside make the ball move more close and close to the In Zone, where the goal happen. Why? No one can explain this. And still my American friends say they are confuse about why players in the hockey some time will not cross the blue line and some time will, or why it is l'import for the defenses to push the puck across the blue line, for then all players on the offend must skate away, then skate back in, and they can get tired. So during this times of the frustrate, I only grab another Molson and try to enjoy the game to myself.
2. Power Play - when a penalty happen, there is the power play. This mean the one who make the penalty must sit in the penalty box for 2 minute and his team is short the one man. The other team now have advantage of one man and if they score the penalty is over. The most a team can be down at one time is two man.
If it is a very bad penalty, like making the hate crime, then the time
in the box will be for 5 minute no matter even if the team score. This
is many rare, and l'especial in the playoff, because it is a big hurt
for a team to make defend of the power play for 5 minute.
3. Icing - Another thing that every body always question to me about. But it is very easy to make the understandings of it! Remember the big red line on middle of the ice? Well there is a smaller red line on each side of ice that cross the goal, near of the wall. If a player on the offend shoot the puck to other side and it is not yet cross the big line in middle, then it cross the small red line near the goal, and the puck is first touch by a player of the defend team, then it makes the icing and a faceoff must happen back on other side of the ice of the team that shoot the puck.
This rule happen so a team can not score only one goal, then only throw the puck away across ice for rest of game while on the defend. There is one exception of this: if a team is defend on the power play, they are allowed to shoot puck out because they are down of persons.
This is where the strategy happen for playing the hockey.
4. Cross-Checking - Very most simple: this is when you take both hands on the hockey stick, then push them out to hit the oppose player with the middle part of the stick. Like this:
So there are good explaination of the most confuse rule in the hockey.
Now we all are watching this weekend, yes? You are many welcome.
Yesterday was my dad's birthday. He'd be 88
if he hadn't died more than
ten years ago. It was also a day when Mrs. IP had jury duty and was
staying home till court convened, so I dallied longer in the morning
before getting to work. Over one cup of coffee too many, I stumbled on
documentary about a P-47 that went down in an Austrian lake on the
last day of the war in Europe. The P-47 was my dad's plane, 88 missions
worth. An international team was determined to raise it from the lake
bottom and restore it. I was hooked. The lake waters were ice cold and
short on oxygen, which meant that the wreck was probably well
preserved. As proved to be the case. The plexiglass cowling was intact,
the cockpit dials were remarkably legible, and even the lacquered
aluminum skin of the fuselage retained all its old stencilled numbers,
lettering, and American star insignia. It came up upside down but in
far better condition that it looks to the naked eye
I was struck by the fact that this is not my first P-47 coincidence. I
just happened to be living in Dayton, Ohio, when Wright-Patterson Air
Force Base (in Dayton) dedicated a memorial to the Twelfth
Air Force my dad served in. He flew out (commercial) for the
ceremony and that day I had my first look at a P-47 in the Wright-Patt
museum, with him there. He hadn't laid eyes on one since 1946 or
thereabouts. I also got to shake hands with a few of his surviving
fellow pilots. Seeing the old men and the plane on which their lives
depended was a strange experience. It's at such a long remove from
actual events, so evidently mothballed and still, that it seems
simultaneously unreal and hyper-real, as if the vivid past really can
bump the prosaic present into a roaring, screaming, rat-a-tat hell if
you close your eyes for just a moment. It's awkward to shake their
hands. There's nothing you can say. They know something you'll never
know and even trying to put that into words would be sacrilege. You
wind up wishing you weren't young and your clothes didn't fit.
More coincidence. A few years later I was serving as a consultant to Whirlpool Corporation, which had an air-conditioner manufacturing plant in Evansville, Indiana. I went there to conduct training and help coordinate labor management communications. That's when I learned that the huge brick facility with its serpentine connecting bays had been built in the first place to assemble P-47 fighter planes. The plant was dark and logistically difficult in terms of modern manufacturing requirements, filled with U-turns and cul de sacs that only made sense when you imagined their original purpose. How odd that this Jersey motorhead would somehow get to see the plant (and descendants of the people) that built the plane that kept his father alive so that I could be sired after the war. No, it's not all about me. It's about the chain of events, including U-turns and cul de sacs, that occur by apparent happenstance to give you a fuller picture of the continuum of which you are only the wagging tail. I was supposed to be seeing Just-in-Time appliance manufacturing. Mostly, all I could see was P-47s creeping though darkness to the skies of Europe.
And then one more. My dad was from southern New Jersey and he took his flight training at Thunderbird in Arizona, but it's also perversely the case that one of the premier P-47 training bases during WWII was in Millville, NJ, less than 20 miles from where he, and I, were born and grew up. Millville has never forgotten this important moment of its history, which is why the annual Millville Air Show is one of the biggest and best attended in the nation. Which I'd never attended until my Navy-loving wife (I could tell you why but then I'd have to kill you) made us go see it back in 2007. Where I saw my first P-47 outside of a museum, prepped and ready to go on the flightline
And then, by God, flying.
My dad was dead by then. but not that day, not for me.
Life is a curious thing. I never consciously sought out any of these encounters with the past. He tried more and more over the years to make his life story about something other than the war, which he had every right to do. He had many accomplishments of his own, and he suffered from the survivor's guilt we've all seen in veterans who can't be convinced that the best and bravest didn't die in their place. But my own life keeps bringing me back to this aspect of his experience, which I know, as a son knows his father, both hurt him grievously and annealed him to the ordinary hurts of so-called real life. He may have wanted to turn his back on so much fear and pain and testing ordeals, but I can't. I feel the phantom every time I mount a motorcycle. If I screw up or get unlucky, I could die today. But nobody's shooting at me when I ride. And I'm not shooting at them. A way to stay humble as the wagging tail of the continuum.
Almost done. But one final 'coincidence' in yesterday's accidental television rendezvous. The pilot whose plane went down in the Austrian lake survived. He appeared in the show and recollected his rescue. Ditching a P-47 in the water is an incredibly tricky thing. The huge engine almost immediately plunges from the surface in a water dive. The waters that day were brutally cold. He sank ten feet or so three times in heavy pilot gear and fought his way back to the surface but didn't think he'd survive a fourth dunking. But Austrian civilians saw him in the water, and two boats raced to his aid. In fact, two women outdistanced a surviving male (a teenager at the time) who was rowing toward the downed pilot and plucked him from the water.
Which was eerily reminiscent of my dad's closest call in the war. He strafed a German ship in Naples harbor, got away with it, and decided to attempt a second pass. They blew him out of the sky and he had to ditch in the water. Same crisis. P-47 diving nose first toward the bottom and an over-clothed pilot struggling to stay afloat with one leg full of shrapnel. He got rescued by a Navy PT boat, which braved all kinds of enemy fire to salvage my dad from what he called "the stupidest thing I've ever done." He never regarded the Purple Heart he received as anything but a dunce cap.
I can see his point. That's how he was. Surprised and mortified when he wasn't entirely sensible. But it's not sensible to volunteer for what you've coldly determined is the most dangerous role in the war, is it? That part he never successfully explained away.
Happy birthday, Dad.
I mowed half the grass. One acre down, one to go. Not as young as I used to be. The cut above
struck me just right. I think one of the younger commenters told me I
needed to hear the Zac Brown Band to avoid being an old fart. Done! I like it. But
maybe I'm the only one who remembers the
Marshall Tucker Band. Come to think of it, I want to go play pool in a
no-good dive bar. I know the perfect one. They'll have this on the
And I'll beat the locals at 8-ball. Like a drum. Like I always do. There's good. And then there's better. Life is a great big pitcher of cold beer.
. The spring rains were like the winter snows, unusually
heavy. We had lakes in the yard for weeks and the grass grew and grew
and the garden became a jungle. All you can do under such circumstances
is wait for better days. They always come in time, just not always in
the time you want. A week ago we started turning the corner. I was able
to do the first cut, but only at the highest mower setting (just south
of more chewed than mowed). But it was progress. Then there was the sad
story of Penny
I told you about the other day. Nature is a perverse bitch sometimes.
She punishes, she teases, she injures you, and then suddenly she smiles
like a siren. This is what we saw out back just two hours after
consigning Penny to the ground.
We've had all kinds of shows here over the years -- turkeys, red-tailed
hawks, competing groundhog studs holding court from under separate
outbuildings, hummingbirds, woodpeckers, and a gazillion songbirds,
including the world's reddest cardinal, but apart from tracks we'd
never seen deer from our bay window. Until last weekend.
Maybe needless to say, the deerhound
commenced to bark from his inside post, but after a few pauses and ear
swivels, the visitors continued to make themselves at home munching on
our overgrown greens. We watched them for twenty minutes or more. Then
they meandered away. More like vanishing than leaving.
Meanwhile, Mrs. CP was (almost) equally mesmerized by the results of her new "two-feeder" strategy for attracting goldfinches, which at times had as many as ten of the yellow ones chowing down at the same time. Here's the video she was able to record, well under the peak number but you know how it goes when you're trying to photograph amazing events. The key players rarely cooperate. Your guess is as good as mine with respect to the samba soundtrack. But it's certainly cheerful, and we both needed cheerful.
The nature of a country weekend. I guess.