Archive Listing July 15, 2011 - July 8, 2011
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. First, let me be clear what I'm not saying. I'm not saying
President Obama isn't a sports fan. He is. But I'm taking exception to
this little nugget of propaganda from a venerable sportswriter
at the Los Angeles Times who should know better:
Sure he's a Bulls fan, but a White Sox fan? Judge for yourself:
A few points. The president was never a "South-side kid," as the
picture up top should demonstrate. He was a Hawaiian kid. He didn't
name a single White Sox player in the interview. And he has repeated a
previous interview error that the namesake of the White Sox ballpark
was "Cominskey." Hard not to draw the inference that what he likes
about the White Sox is chiefly their blue-collar (proletariat) identity
versus the white collar (bourgeoisie) identity of the Cubs.
Granted, it's incumbent on presidents to like all sports, which is unfair since
hardly anyone ever does, but that's not what I'm concerned with here.
I'm concerned about a flat-out lie whose teller confidently expects to
be believed because he simply declares it so. That's more than a bit
Orwellian. In fact, it's a lot
Orwellian, given the particular circumstances of this lie. It's so
Orwellian that it's not really about sports but the old Newspeak
definitions of "truth" and "non-person."
But I'll start the discussion a little farther afield because it will
make the ultimate point easier to understand. There's no doubt that
Obama has a strong affiliation with basketball. He likes to play it...
And he likes to talk about it...
And pontificate about it...
Pretty convincing, no? But have you noticed anything in common among
these demonstrations of presidential fandom? They're all one-on-one. The president -- in
a rigged format -- is more or less showing off. Is that really sport, or fan behavior, or
love of the game? I've got two problems with these proofs of Obama's
love of sports. First, it all looks like ego. "Hey, not only am I brilliant, I'm also a cool jock." He just talks too much, on the court and off.
Second, in celebrating basketball, he is reinforcing
what I personally believe is the single most annihilating lie believed by black people in America -- the notion that being
good at basketball is some kind of ticket to economic independence or
cultural emancipation in the United States. It isn't. It's the most
ignorantly seductive of dead-ends.
Rather than posturing about brackets,
I'd expect a president who played prep school basketball and went no
further to insist that young people should get an
education like he got, not harbor infantile delusions about sacrificing
everything for one of 500 jobs that seem to parcel out as much prison
time as they do millions of dollars. Should a president of the
United States endorse Powerball (with a downside of Attica) as an
example of the American dream?
But maybe that's just me. Except that our president seems far less
comfortable with sports circumstances that involve mere fun or
community,
national, or expressly patriotic emotions. Take bowling:
As opposed to this:
Oops. Who brought HIM up? Do we even know who HE is anymore? What do
they mean 'president'? Who? Him? Huh? Well, the sports department of
the Los Angeles Times has no recollection of him. Maybe they remember
this instead:
Awww. So it's actually Clinton
who's responsible for this slight
embarrassment of the all time 'First Fan:'
Always the way, isn't it? In the age of celebrity and blanketing media,
the opportunities for stepping on your own dick are legion. We
understand. No problem. No harm, no foul.
The only thing we're having a hard time assimilating is who this guy might be. If you have any
idea, let us know. Some of the old YouTube relicts would have it that
he was a president at some point too. Frankly, we don't remember him.
It couldn't possibly be possible that he was both a president and a
sports fan -- and athlete -- at a level beyond what the Los Angeles
Times has thought fit to acknowledge. Could it?
Whoever he was -- who knows? -- he must have liked baseball. But a
president has to like more than one sport, the way, say, Obama likes the
White Sox of Cominskey Field. Right, Bill Plaschke?
Hmmm. Somebody emailed us that this mysterious nonperson was named Bush. Doesn't ring a bell, but we
did find this strange article on the internet:
'First Fan' Barack Obama was busy during last year's Army-Navy game,
but Obama is the President of the United States. (If you doubt it,
watch the "POTUS" basketball game above. See?) Truth is, we can't find
out much about the guy who threw a strike at Yankee Stadium and then
kicked a football at the Army-Navy game. Although he seems to be a
jogger
too.

And his wife insists that he likes watching baseball as much as he
enjoys putting on airs in flak jackets about it:
It's a mystery. Seems like we should have heard of this guy, but
frankly, we just can't place him. Have you ever had that feeling that
there's something at the tip of your tongue, or the back of your mind,
that you just can't quite put your finger on?
I mean, do you ever.................................. uh, excuse us.
It's time for the two-minute hate. REPUBLICANS SUCK!!! We'll be back at
you later. With more
about the unrivalled 'First Fan.' Unlike any president we
remember before him.
P.S.
Struggling with that other phrase about presidential sports fans: "ways
that only true sports nuts will understand." uh, I'm a sports nut. Have
to admit it means something unique to me when I think of it in a
presidential context. Something other than "My analysis of brackets is
very intelligent." More along the lines, if I'm being honest, of what
it is about sports that binds the nation together and represents some
kind of shared belief system. I admit I do think about the Army-Navy game,
of contests as preparations for great moral challenges, not dubiously
paid for freak shows. And I think, as I always have, of the one
position in organized sports I always fantasized about more than any
other. Not quarterback. Even on the offense, his first step is almost
always a step back. For him, immediate retreat is the fullest
expression of doing the job right. Not goalie. Same sense of shield
rather than spear.
Pitcher. Even old guys go to sleep with sports fantasies. I am, in my
waning moments at night, Sandy Koufax,
ultimate predator on the mound. Fastball, curveball, changeup.
Unhittable. And pardon me if I think
it's the purest presidential metaphor sports has to offer. The pitcher
sets the pace of the game. He stands above all on the mound. He hurls
each pitch like an idea. which can be ignored, damned, or turned
terribly against him. But he is always the hero of the piece --
conquering or tragic. He never wins with a single crushing blow. He
wins by remaining on the mound, overcoming his opposition, enduring the
innings, surviving the waves of opposition, striking out the most
fearsome of his opponents. In all of sports, there is no position more
like a priest, more completely alone, simultaneously pro-active and vulnerable and defending
against the awfullest thing imaginable with (sometimes superlatively) positive action.
Which is maybe why I respond more strongly than I should (maybe) to the
image of a president who took the mound like the western world's closer
in its darkest ninth inning ever. And threw a strike that thrilled a
nation. Whoever that closer was.
Now that I've made a fool of myself, I'm thinking, "Only true sports
nuts will understand."
In my dreams. But you're all too young to understand my dreams.
I'll begin by citing one of our commenters on the
previous related post, JS:
I know JS thinks I'm occasionally guilty of this as well, but he should
draw heart from the fact that I think he is 98 percent right. That's my
second opportunity for asking all of you to watch 16 minutes (at least)
of the Melanie
Phillips video. In that time, she effectively demolishes the
argument for global warming, the "Bush lied, people died" argument
against the war in Iraq, the victimization of Israel as the source of
oppression in the Middle East, and the arrogant irrationalism of
Dawkins and company in promoting atheism as the 'reasonable' antidote
to malignant religious faith. She also expressly confirms the validity
of common sense in opposition to the anti-rational nonsense promulgated
by the intelligentsia. That's a lot of ground to cover in 16 minutes.
I'll wait while you watch. (Feel free to watch longer. She covers a lot
more territority with a lot more specificity if you have the patience.
If you hang on through the Q&A session, you'll also experience the
unique cultural tic known as the "Oxford
stutter.")
Without quoting word for word, I'll paraphrase a few of the more
memorable points of the video for those who are, well, impatient. They are, interestingly,
all points which have been made explicitly here at InstaPunk over the
years (Lake? Eduardo? Care to fisk this post with IP links? If you have
the time... I understand if not), except
possibly for the first one, which we have only speculated on: in
America, we have cultural wars; in Britain they have cultural collapse.
Others? Science has itself become a religious faith, admitting of no
dissension that is dealt with factually or by any means other than
ad-hominem attack. The assault on formal religion by secularists is
specific to Judeo-Christian religion and is purposed overwhelmingly
toward the repeal of Genesis, because it is the moral order represented
by an absolutist creator god which is most unacceptable in an age which
bases its moral relativism on the absence of any objective truth.
Continuing... Ironically, what unites the supposed rationalists of
secular evangelism
is an apocalyptic 'millenarianism' derived directly from the Old
Testament concept of Original Sin. In short, man must be punished. But
not for sins against God. Because it's western civilization itself
which must be punished in particular for sins against minorities, the
earth, and, presumably, the universe. All of which is, in the
aggregate, insane, irrational, and disposed against civilization in favor of barbarism. One
questioner pointed out that usage of the word 'civilization' was never
plural till the middle of the 19th century. Its historically singular
form was an ideal expressly opposed
to barbarism. The idea that all human organization above the
level of hunter-gatherer subsistence represented some variety of
civilization was the beginning of multi-culturalism -- and moral
relativism.
She also made another point repeated here almost ad-nauseam. That the
age of
reason and science was almost purely a product of Judeo-Christian
believers -- uh, the people who invented reason in the first place and
still practice it -- which means that the concerted attempt we see
today to
synonymize faith with irrational superstition, resistance to science,
and unthinking (conservative) stupidity is both malicious and false
(i.e., The World Upside Down).
Which led somehow to the metaphor of the choir. Phillips says at one
point she realized that the admonition against preaching to the choir
was wrong. The choir needs to
be motivated to keep singing, because all the most highly 'educated'
voices are telling it to remain silent.
But the Oxford journalist is trumped in some respects by JS. And I
think she'd agree. "The problems the Left has caused do not need book
length explanations
or solutions. They are simple to see and simple to solve. They are easy
to recognize and easy to fix." That's her point, made so much more
laboriously, about common sense, which transcends pure reason because
it seamlessly encompasses human wisdom as well as history and nature. A
point I think we made
here
at less than book length.
Which has always been our bottom line at IP. It's the real reason we
get into such big fights with the sophisticated folks who become
mesmerized by the ins and outs of Washington politics, who's up, who's
down, who's got a point this time, who's not phrasing or packaging
things right, and who might have the better argument in the current
political environment.
It's all bullshit. Common sense is still what matters. Big
organizations are soul-destroying, the more so the bigger they get.
It's a corollary of the clichee about absolute power corrupting
absolutely. Our government is too big and getting bigger. Hell, General
Motors was too big, which is why it
failed. AT&T was too big, which
is why breaking it up created a technological explosion whose shrapnel
you all carry so happily in your pockets and purses. Big is Jabba the
Hut. It
fattens, wallows, crushes freedom and creativity. No big deal. Simple
human math.
Which is why human math does
contain absolutes. Lots of things don't have to be nitpicked, refuted,
argued codicil by codicil or misrepresentation by lie into the weeds.
They're
just wrong. Flat wrong. From the beginning. Like the healthcare bill.
Too big, too voracious, too squashing, too sprawling in its inevitable
unintended consequences.
Which is where the New Media have a tough call. We've been
exceptionally tough (and some would say mean) to the ones who choose to
follow the details for us, so that we can fight like The 300 at the
last stand in the halls of congress. But details are their own monster.
They're what old-time fighter pilots called target-fascination. You
bore in so single-mindedly on the bullseye that you wind up flying into
the ground. Alternatively, you begin to believe that being adept at
target practice is a substitute for killing the enemy.
Note that the choice of metaphor here is key. We are fighting a war.
The enemy is every bit as ruthless as the Pacific foe in WWII that
thought nothing of smearing the brains of Philippine babies across the walls of
Manila hospitals. If you get it into your head that you're better at
gunning down training targets than they are, you're not there when they
get out of their planes and hit the newborn wards. That's why we're
mean.
This is not a game. It's not a college debate. It's not an Olympic
fencing match. It's a war. What are the sides?
The answer to that is daunting if not downright terrifying. It's us --
the common sense American conservatives -- against an Islamic fascism
that can't be named, a European cultural and moral exhaustion that
can't be forestalled, a burgeoning population of tin-pot,
appeasement-emboldened dictators
around the world, a secular know-it-all nihilism that can't be
out-shouted, an increasingly supine population of government dependents
and self-styled victims in the industrial world, and a traitorous,
self-hating elite in our own country that has somehow appropriated the
media, the academy, science, the public school system, the entire
federal and state bureaucracy, and even a significant mindshare of
organized Christian churches into a cult of anti-American sedition.
In these circumstances, it doesn't matter that we are technically the
majority, as we are and have always been. It matters that we have let
them gather unto themselves all the reins of power.
To the extent that we consent to dance with them employing all their
tools of distraction -- wit, rhetoric, charge-and-counter-charge -- and
gull ourselves with the delusion they're 'playing' the same way, we
lose. Everything they do is aimed, always, exclusively, at our throats.
They're trying to kill us. And while we struggle to be civil and
'fair-minded,' they're succeeding.
That's why I'm mean to AllahPundit and Ed Morrissey and InstaPundit and
Ace of Spades and Protein Wisdom and every other conservative site that
thinks it's competing for mindshare in an open market of ideas. It's
not
an open market. It's a war. I don't want any internet
accolades or conservative trophies. I want to defeat the enemy.
Utterly. Devastatingly. Forever.
This is a war for survival. We'll win or we'll lose. Which is a way of
saying that I'm not being unreasonable
at all. I have been scrupulously reasonable throughout the history of
InstaPunk. Which is to say that I employ reason to destroy the enemy,
not to persuade the enemy that I'm a reasonable guy. And, just as
importantly, not to persuade my more genteel (thanks, Diogenes) allies that I am
'reasonable enough' to belong in their company. If they're not here to
destroy the enemy, they may as well be Tokyo Rose or Lord Haw Haw. I
have no use for them. Which is why I don't, and won't, play nice in the
"New Media" circle-jerk.
By every precept of reason I know, giving equal time to enemy
propagandists who have never
been rational is not a function of reason. It's how Austria became part
of the Third Reich. Look up the Anschluss.

.
We win. Off to the finals. Something about the number three. You'll
have to ask Mrs. CP. Or maybe Puck Punk can explain. If you can't root
for us against Obama's home team, there's something wrong with you.
. What better proof can you have of gangster politics -- more
kindly,
the "Chicago Machine" -- than the fact that its minions are so
terrified of pissing off the don that they're prepared to make utter
fools of themselves in public by denying even the most obvious of
truths?
That's why I want to give full marks to Doctor
Zero for identifying the real bottom-line cause of the Tea Partiers:
He's right. That's the part of the Tea Party phenomenon that is Obama-centric, though it has
nothing whatever to do with race. The man is 100 percent committed to
lying. Not just the convenient political lies and evasions we were able
to correct for with Bill Clinton, but massive, soul-deep lies about his
intentions, his relation to the country he leads, and to the world
beyond our borders that simultaneously loves, hates, fears, and
(historically) depends upon the United States. Sure, he tells low
political lies, every damn day, but what has people in the streets are
the vastly bigger whoppers that he is the president of all of us, that
he loves America, that he's a capitalist in good standing, and that he
is committed to defending both the Constitution and American citizens
from all threats foreign and domestic. His stock in trade is the BIG
LIE, taken to a scale that trivializes even the standard liberal Big
Lies Democrats have used to demonize Republicans since the 1960s.
More than we've ever needed them before, we need speakers of truth who
aren't frightened into silence by the spreading shadow of Obamordor.
When he maunders on about social justice, redistributing wealth, and
taxing the rich "who got us into this mess," we need blunt
counterweights like Chris
Christie, who this week threw down a heavy
gauntlet of truth.
I love JammieWearingFool's locution, "The Fat Man." It's
surreptitiously Shakespearean, recalling the line from Julius Caesar, "Yon Cassius hath a
lean and hungry look." As Obama most definitely does. I can see the
bumper stickers now: I'M FOR THE FAT MAN IN 2012. Something about prosperity and gruff candor, as opposed to plots and weaseling grudges.
When Obama bows and scrapes to our enemies and brushes off our friends
and ignores the slaps and sleights and outrages committed daily against
the country he's sworn to protect, we need unblinking truthtellers like
Charles
Krauthammer. You have to read the whole thing if you don't take any
other link here. It's that important. I'm not bottom-lining it here.
Can't be done. I'm just showing him off:
As with the Fat Man we can also join The Hammer to our legion of
plain-speaking superheroes.
But we need more than superheroes. We need people in all walks of life
to be proof against 'well-intentioned' (i.e., pusillanimous) compromise.
When powerful men like Eric Holder go around Robin's Hood barn to
defend the indefensible, we also need less powerful men of good
conscience to stand up against absurdity (and atrocity)
whenever and wherever it appears. Here's one important example:
Three cheers for the ACP.
And three cheers withdrawn for the whole "Draw Muhammed Day" debacle.
Check your courage before you
throw your hat into the ring of fire. That's another important lesson.
AllahPundit got snotty with me when I pointed out that I'd notified him of this
post well before he linked to the "Draw Muhammed Day" exercise in
sheep warfare (whose original proposer has since retreated in an ebb
tide of apology and fear). Of course, what happened on May
20 was what I figured would happen. People had enough time to think
about it, get scared, and toss up a cloud of posturing bullshit
demonstrating the rank, stinking cowardice of journalists and bloggers in the west. (Hi, Allah!)
Here's Reason
Magazine's courageous protest drawing:

Note, too, that Hotair
-- which also didn't participate, brave souls they -- called this,
"…clever. A bit of a cop out, but clever."
Yeah. When extortion with the threat of deadly violence is on the
table, the best possible response is, uh, "clever."
The InstaPunk image the fearless bloggers of Hotair assured me they
never saw and so couldn't link:
Here's what I'm asking of you. Find the brave ones. The speakers of
truth wherever they are. Not the ranters or bomb-throwers. The ones
who, as Howard Cosell used to say, tell it like it is. You find me the
heroes, and I'll give the readers here the links.
P.S.
Something else that doesn't pass muster in the 'courage' or 'truth'
department. Linking people who truly
don't give a shit about Islamic extortion while you continue to hide
behind wry platitudes. Hotair just linked this
from Iowahawk. Like they get to borrow his brazen while they hide inside their newfound
"journalistic objectivity." Kewl. Sick-making. If Hotair runs that one Muhammed cartoon its author has
already paid for one more time as proof of their publishing fearlessness, I
promise you I'm going to invent a way to throw up through the
intertubes on a website of my choosing.
Is anybody else getting sick of the NEW mainstream media? Podcasts and contracts and cable news gigs and seeing both sides and patriotic moderation and pure C-O-W-A-R-D-I-C-E when there's really something important on the line. Like, say, the First Amendment. Which is when "clever" is enough. Really, Ed? Really, Allah? So 'clever' of you.
ADDENDUM.
I like the way libs are thinking they've trounced the Tea
Partiers because Rand Paul won his primary. But their only power is
misdirection. They don't understand the problem they're facing. They
think they've found an emblematic victim. All they've found is an
outlier who
may yet win. It can't turn back the tide, which is
pitilessly against them:
Yes, the Pauls seem clothed in mithril. (We suspect they have curly
feet to go with their curly toupees.) And they're fucking crazy. But
they've served admirably as the distractions we need to storm the
supreme Obama soviet.The more they make the Pauls the face of the Tea
Partiers, the more time we have to make the real argument: No traitor
should be president of the United States. We don't need a Sauron.
Not now. Not ever.
UPDATE.
Got a response from Doc Zero, but there's no sign he was aware of the
slam at his host website (or my PS or Addendum). He's not responsible for my piling on. I am. So he
shouldn't be punished at Hotair for saying this on my email:
Though I suspect he will be punished. Let's hope not. I apologize if
I've compromised his New Media credentials. Everybody: pretend you
didn't see the Doc Zero part. The best outcome will be that we never
hear from him again. He'll learn that InstaPunk is persona non grata in
the mainstream blog revolt against the mainstream media. With any luck,
we'll see him soon on Fox & Friends. Unless he's who we think he
really is, namely, an honest man.
UPDATE 2.
AllahPundit is angry. I sent him a link to this post, and he sent me
this:
So I replied thus.
And so it goes.
UPDATE 3.
So now Allah is really really
pissed:
And here's my response:
QED.

. 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
the way
past their blue line, then the offend players must all touch the blue
before
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
a NatGeo
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.
. Today
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
jukebox:
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.