One Hundred Most Perfect Moments

An ongoing series of indeterminate length and interval, recalling moments of true joy or beauty. In the up (and down) life of a middle aged neocon blogger. Brought about by recent events in the atomic world. And the dismal state of thought in the media, and the left blogosphere.

An my overwhelming revulsion at the stench thereof. Bill Keller, editor of the NYT's merrily bathing in his own shite. Or last evening, watching local news on the tele. And the ABC affiliate downplaying/soft pedaling the Sears Tower/Muslim/Al Qaeda story. Giving it token coverage, voiced with incredulous tones (I guess they would prefer an actual successful attack to report?). Or in the next minute, the local NBC affiliate, giving a step by step primer on how to attack LAX. Showing weak and vulnerable points, staffing levels, and "good" targets. Or ....... the past week spent looking, stirring through the muck that is the oceanic cesspool known as Google.

So muddled had I become in spirit yesterday, and future shocked, that I was not able to blog a single word. Merely shuffling about the net looking at stuff. Furniture, toys.

So, let us begin:

Number Ninety Nine.

As a young man of nineteen, was employed in a mid size warehouse. Busting truckloads of auto supplies. No same height loading dock, no forklift, no pallet jack. Sometimes five or more tons of batteries, battery acid, or cases of oil came off the chest high back end of a semi trailer, by hand. Weekends couldn't come quickly enough. Duded up in the lastest shimmery hang glider collar shirt, with razor creased flare pants. Disco Bob was on the prowl. Spurred on by the success of his fellow high school mates at catching, who also were benchwarmers during high school.

Anyway, already had a couple notches on my holster, and was feeling quite proud. The local spot we went scouting the horizon was called the Sugar Shack. Knocking back a thirty two ouncer (28 oz.?) before going in, to get the joints loosened. And stoke the fire of courage.

Met a nice girl there, and we dated for a while. Dinner at El Torito, or a movie in Westwood. Occasionally a cruise to the beach at County Line. One evening, while making ourseleves comfortable in my tiny studio apartment in the Valley. I was nuzzling the plane betwixt her bosom, and was instaneously rushed through space. Transported to a flowery meadow. Simply by the dash of White Shoulders perfume she had daubed there. I was no longer in my seventy dollar a month flat. No longer of this world. Just lost. Amid a field of greenery and flowers. Somewhere unknown. As if by magic.

A perfect moment.