Where is Patrick Johnson?

He said he has another 3 months. But he also said he's enjoying the break. I got the feeling he might not be as involved in the future as he has been days past.
 
bamadog said:
Please acquaint yourselves with the name-calling that became a signature of his posts on NPR.
He couldn't carry an argument with logic and facts so he'd call his adversary a "doofus" or "moron" or "racist" or "bigot", you know, typical liberal elitism, until finally, after several warnings, the hammer came down.
Click to expand...

"Typical liberals" usually reserve such labels for moronic, racist bigots. Old post, but I couldn't help myself. You can only explain something to someone with logic and rational arguments so many times (only to see them ignore these valid arguments and cling to their ridiculous beliefs) before you start mocking them. Just the reality of the situation. If people don't like being called out as moronic, racist bigots....they should stop being moronic, racist bigots. But they hardly ever do.
 
mikepage said:
Bingo.

Patrick is among the top few most intelligent, open-minded, and fair minded contributors this forum has seen in the last decade.
Click to expand...

With respect to pool-related subjects, I agree wholeheartedly. When I saw he was banned I tracked down what happened. It was over on the NPR board. Reading the NPR board is like watching cable talk shows with the arguments and talking points going back and forth at high volume, and Patrick was a enthusiastic participant. Too enthusiastic, as it turned out.
 
Btw

Pat is doing fine. I saw him yesterday hanging out with 1pocketghost and mentioned to him that there was a thread asking about his whereabouts. He seemed somewhat surprised at the notion.

He kind of teared up a bit actually...


...not. :D

Seriously though, no biggie as far as I could tell.
 
lfigueroa said:
lol. Just wait until Freddy trots out one of his wrist turn affecting the OB theories, or dogs that can count stories ;-)

Lou Figueroa
Click to expand...
Do you mean that the wrist turn really CAN'T affect the OB???? I know you can definitely get more twist when you rotate your back foot 30 degrees inward...;)

Doc
 
sixpack said:
He said he has another 3 months. But he also said he's enjoying the break. I got the feeling he might not be as involved in the future as he has been days past.
Click to expand...


I think too heavy a hand has been used in this case. I read what happened and it reminded me of something I can still recall from my first semester of high school.

(insert flashback music):

I went to St. Ignatius College Preparatory in the city by the bay -- San Francisco, California. It was, and probably still is, the "elite" school in the city and everyone from the mayor's kid to the progeny of all city's movers and shakers attended. It was operated by the Jesuit order and they ran a pretty tight ship. Except, one of the things they always pushed was excellence in athletics. And to this end they always seemed to bring in "outside help" to run their teams. This "help" might have been a bit rough around the edges and outside the Jesuit's generally genteel approach to schooling, but our football and basketball teams were perennial winners at various levels of competition.

Our football coach was one Vince Tringali.

Coach Tringali was a cross between Vince Lombardi and General George S. Patton and looked and sounded like a dark curly-haired George C. Scott in "The Hustler." How he ended up at St. Ignatius, I have no idea because while he was, no doubt, highly intelligent, he was not a man of, how shall I say this... great finesse.

As I recall, Coach Tringali was required to assume some academic responsibilities in addition to his coaching duties. Somehow, the cerebral Jesuit faculty decided that Coach Tringali was ideally suited to teach exactly two classes: American History and Freshman Typing. That's right: Freshman Typing. We were all required to take a typing class because, of course, we were expected to hand in all our written work, neatly typed. (Our math assignments were on blue graph paper, but that's another story.) And so, the very first day of school, sooner or later every member of the freshman class ended up in a room populated with several neat rows of wooden desks, upon which there sat an equal number of manual typewriters.

Now Coach Tringali was a no-nonsense kinda guy and even though we'd all been in the institution for less than 24 hours, we had all already heard enough about him to be scared sheetless. The story circulating that afternoon was that Coach Tringali had taken one unfortunate student attending the morning edition of American History (who had incurred one grievous infraction or other -- maybe chewing gum) and pushed him to the floor, picked him up by his ankles and held him out of a third floor window until the scofflaw had promised -- in tones earnest enough to be convincing -- that he would not be a recalcitrant.

It was the final class of the day during a particularly cold September in San Francisco. We were all seated behind typewriters, chattering away, when Coach Tringali made his entrance. We immediately fell silent. Coach Tingali peered at us over the top of a pair or black framed glasses and curtly said, "Put a piece of paper into your typewriter and bang away. Knock yourselves out. But when I tell you to stop. You're going to stop."

Well, this was easy enough instruction to follow and so we all began to merrily bang away at the keys of our instruments, listening to the clacking, the little bicycle-like bell go "ting" when we reached the far end of the paper, and then the nice ratcheting sound of the return lever in action. Some of the more creative types actually typed out some bawdy limericks, or pounded out a reasonable likeness of the theme from "The Lone Ranger." And then, after about two minutes of typewriter mayhem we heard from the front of the class one softly spoken word, "Stop."

Like a hail storm coming to an abrupt end, the room turned to total and absolute quiet as we awaited further instruction from Coach Tringali. And then, from the back row, like a perfectly hit note on an idiophone, came one, lone, solitary sound:

"Ting."

Coach Tringali cocked his head to one side as if he had just heard the call of an incredibly rare bird. It was as if he could not believe his ears. Slowly, he walked to the back of the class and I thought the poor kid who had set off the typewriter was just going to either pass out cold, wet himself, or maybe both. The whole class had turned in their seats to silently watch the drama unfold.

The school building at the time was several decades old and it used those big cast iron steam radiators to heat the rooms. As Coach Tringali leaned over the poor guy in the last row, he took the kid's hand, held it over one of the nearby radiators and slowly lowered it. There was not a man in the room who did not fully believe that Coach Trinagai was capable of carrying out his justice and that it would be just a matter of moments before we all heard a scream of agony and the odor of burning human flesh.

But, for reasons unknown to us, Coach Tringali stopped with the perp's hand mere inches from the coal-hot radiator. Maybe he was actually worried about causing serious damage to the kid, or maybe it was just the end of a long day and he was tired, or maybe... he just realized that sometimes you don't have to actually burn someone's hand to make your point.

Lou Figueroa
 
Last edited:
1 Pocket Ghost said:
Pat's one of my good friends, and, one of my One Pocket students...that said, I'm actually waiting for him to call me back right now to see if we're going to meet up for dinner...and he's playing regularly - I just gave him another of his One Pocket lessons this past Sunday...and while I'm on the subject, Pat's One Pocket game has been nicely and steadily improving - I'd say his game has gone up about 2 balls since we've been working/playing together.

- Ghost

PS, He got a pretty harsh ban from 'the man' = several months worth...:eek:....:o
Click to expand...

Are you soliciting action match games for Pat just yet? :wink:

Tell him JoeyA and the forum says, HI!

Joeya
 
great story!

lfigueroa said:
I think too heavy a hand has been used in this case. I read what happen and it reminded me of something I can still recall from my first semester of high school.

(insert flashback music):

I went to St. Ignatius College Preparatory in the city by the bay -- San Francisco, California. It was, and probably still is, the "elite" school in the city and everyone from the mayor's kid to the progeny of all city's movers and shakers attended. It was operated by the Jesuit order and they ran a pretty tight ship. Except, one of the things they always pushed was excellence in athletics. And to this end they always seemed to bring in "outside help" to run their teams. This "help" might have been a bit rough around the edges and outside the Jesuit's generally genteel approach to schooling, but our football and basketball teams were perennial winners at various levels of competition.

Our football coach was one Vince Tringali.

Coach Tringali was a cross between Vince Lombardi and General George S. Patton and looked and sounded like a dark curly-haired George C. Scott in "The Hustler." How he ended up at St. Ignatius I have to idea, because while he was, no doubt, a highly intelligent man, he was not a man of, how shall I say this... great finesse.

As I recall, Coach Tringali was required to assume some academic responsibilities in addition to his coaching duties. Somehow, the cerebral Jesuit faculty decided that Coach Tringali was ideally suited to teach exactly two classes: American History and Freshman Typing. That's right: Freshman Typing. We were all required to take a typing class because, of course, we were expected to hand in all our written work, neatly typed. (Our math assignments were on blue graph paper, but that's another story.) And so, the very first day of school, sooner or later every member of the freshman class ended up in a room populated with several neat rows of wooden desks, upon which there sat an equal number of manual typewriters.

Now Coach Tringali was no-nonsense kinda guy and even though we'd all been in the institution for less than 24 hours, we had all already heard enough about him to be scared sheetless. The story circulating that afternoon was that Coach Tringali had taken one student in the morning edition of American History (who had incurred sone minor infraction or other -- maybe chewing gum) and pushed him to the floor, picked him up by his ankles, and held him out of a third floor window until the scofflaw had promised -- in earnest enough tones -- that he would not be a recalcitrant.

It was the final class of the day during a particularly cold September in San Francisco. We were all seated behind typewriters, chattering away, when Coach Tringali made his entrance. We immediately fell silent. Coach Tingali peered at us over the top of a pair or black framed glasses and curtly said, "Put a piece of paper into your typewriter and bang away. Knock yourselves out. But when I tell you to stop. You're gonna stop."

Well, this was easy enough instruction to follow and so we all began to merrily bang away at the keys of our instruments, listening to the clacking, the little bicycle-like bell go "ting" when we reached the far end of the paper, and then the nice ratcheting sound of the return lever in action. Some of the more creative types actually typed out some bawdy limericks, or pounded out a reasonable likeness of the theme from "The Lone Ranger." And then, after about two minutes of typewriter mayhem we heard from the front of the class one softly spoken word, "Stop."

Like a hail storm coming to an abrupt end, the room turned to total quiet as we awaited further instruction from Coach Tringali. And then, from the back row, like a perfectly hit note on an idiophone, came one, lone, solitary sound:

"Ting."

Coach Tringali just sort of cocked his head to one side as if he had just heard the call of an incredibly rare bird. It was as if he could not believe his ears. Slowly he walked to the back of the class and I thought the poor kid who had set off the typewriter was just going to either pass out cold or wet himself, or maybe both. The whole class had turned in their seats to silently watch the drama unfold.

The school building at the time was several decades old and it used those big cast iron steam radiators to heat the rooms. As Coach Tringali leaned over the poor guy in the last row he took the kid's hand and held it over one of the nearby radiators and slowly lowered it. There was not a man in the room who did not fully believe that Coach Trinagai was capable of carrying out his justice and that it would be just a matter of moments before we all heard a scream of agony and the odor of burning human flesh.

But, for reasons unknown to us, Coach Tringali stopped with the perp's hand mere inches from the coal-hot radiator. Maybe he was actually worried about causing serious damage to the kid, or maybe it was just the end of a long day and he was tired, or maybe, he just realized that sometimes you don't have to actually burn someone's hand to make your point.

Lou Figueroa
Click to expand...



Lou,

A great story that illustrates your thought well. I have noticed other very strong posts from you lately. I gotta tell a little story too though.

Many years ago I owned horses. Like most loving pet owners I first thought that they were thousand to fifteen hundred pound dogs or cats. After awhile I learned that they were herd animals and that no two animals in the entire herd were exactly equal. When you build a working relationship with a horse the same is true. You become part of the herd. You can be above the horse, you can be below the horse, but the horse's mind is not wired to accept an equal. Stud horses of course want to be superior, that is the way they are wired.

I had a very well bred, super intelligent, foundation stud horse. Fantastic athlete too, I could go on and on about this horse. One of the few animals that I have truly loved in my life. However, he was a stud horse. He could no more accept me as an equal than he could fly. The two times that he seriously challenged me I unloaded a can of whipass cream on him that would have had PETA or the humane society up in arms. However horses are quite capable of deliberately killing people and when they are serious about it there isn't a thing you can do. I had to get his attention. We couldn't have any misunderstanding as to who was boss, nor could we be in a constant battle to try to determine who was boss.

Sometimes the mod's have to get somebody's attention too when they don't take gentle warnings.

Hu
 
crying-toddler.jpg

:wink:
 
DangerousDave said:
You can only explain something to someone with logic and rational arguments so many times (only to see them ignore these valid arguments and cling to their ridiculous beliefs) before you start mocking them.
Click to expand...
Since you believe PJ's actions were justified, I'll make the prediction that you'll be joining him on vacation soon.:thumbup:
 
Yeah, PJ could behave like maddening rolling sphincter particulate matter at times ;), but he often challenged people's pool ideas/perceptions. I think many people learned a thing or two from the discourse he doggedly incited. I certainly did. I hope he comes back.

Everybody is different and we should learn to take the good with the bad and be grateful we got some good.
 
KoolKat9Lives said:
Yeah, PJ could behave like maddening rolling sphincter particulate matter at times ;), but he often challenged people's pool ideas/perceptions. I think many people learned a thing or two from the discourse he doggedly incited. I certainly did. I hope he comes back.

Everybody is different and we should learn to take the good with the bad and be grateful we got some good.
Click to expand...

I agree with everything you said, including whatever a sphincter particulate matter is.:eek:

I also believe that Patrick could stand to come back to AZB a kinder, gentler sort of poster. OK, maybe not that goody-two shoes kind of guy but at least a little MORE TOLERANT of others.

JoeyA
 
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