The Best Days of Our Lives


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After posting the following on my Face Book Wall last night, it occurred to me that it might kick off a good discussion on OL about the best days of our lives. For reasons explained below, that day in 1966 was certainly one of the best days of my life, and I would be interested in reading similar accounts by other OLers. I understand that some people might specify a marriage or the birth of a child, but I prefer something less conventional, if possible. If a video can be linked to that day in any way, it would be interesting to see that as well.

We all have tunes that are of great personal significance to us, and this one is at the top of my list. It features the incomparable Johnny Hodges -- the celebrated alto saxophonist with Duke Ellington's band -- playing "Passion Flower," a Billy Strayhorn composition.

My story is this: In 1966, while I was a junior in high school, an aspiring alto sax player, and a boy who worshiped both Ellington and Hodges, Ellington's band came to Tucson. The concert was in a night club, however, and I was underage, so I asked my mother to go with me. She happily agreed. We sat in the front row of tables, not more than ten feet from the platform, and we stayed for all three sets. Ellington could not help but notice the skinny white kid who was in a virtual trance for several hours, and at some point my mother slipped him a note saying that my birthday was in a few days (which was true). Then, during the final set, Ellington introduced me by name, announced my birthday, and asked me to choose a soloist to play a tune in my honor. I immediately replied "Johnny Hodges," after which Hodges stepped forward and played the tune you will hear in this video. The only difference is that Ellington accompanies Hodges in this version, whereas when I heard it in person, Hodges played "a cappella," i.e., without any accompaniment whatsoever. I still have vivid memories of sitting just a few feet from Hodges as he played "Passion Flower" and feeling chills go up and down my spine. No one -- and I mean no one on any instrument -- could play a ballad like Hodges could. That was one of the most thrilling experiences of my life, though something better was yet to come: a three hour, one-on-one conversation with Ellington himself that took place in an all-night coffee shop from 2 a.m. to 5 a.m. I will relate the details of that remarkable event in a future post.

Ghs

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I love the topic, George, and your description of your own experience. I can imagine what an amazing and wonderful day in your life that must have been.

When I think of the best moments of my own life, however, the memories that come to mind are so intensely precious that I frankly don’t feel inclined to share them here.

There are certain OL members who obviously live for the chance to spit on the values of other members. And as little as I care about what such people may think or say, I am not going to give them the chance.

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> When I think of the best moments of my own life, however, the memories that come to mind are so intensely precious that I frankly don’t feel inclined to share them here. There are certain OL members who obviously live for the chance to spit on the values of other members. And as little as I care about what such people may think or say, I am not going to give them the chance.

My thoughts exactly. (If the maggots didn't do that it would be a different matter.)

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When I think of the best moments of my own life, however, the memories that come to mind are so intensely precious that I frankly don’t feel inclined to share them here.

I would agree, but the question was offered; and I feel like sharing. Hopefully, it will be like art, a reflection of the reader's own memory of a significant personal achievement.

You know the "College Bowl" quiz show of the 1950s and 60s. In imitation were local high school "Quiz Bowls." In Cleveland, it was called "It's Academic." The actors/MCs from the show came to our high school to conduct a qualifiying test. To build the team, the principal invited the top 10 students from the 12A, 12B, and 11A. (We were on semesters; you could graduate in January,) I was not invited. I had a 2.5 grade point. But I showed up anyway. The format mimicked the show: first hand up called on for the right answer. Of the 500 questions, I had over 200. That was 1966.

In 1992, I took an interest in numismatics. Long oriented to hard money by Ayn Rand, I found the origins of coinage an interesting problem. We do not know why coins were invented thousands of years after Sumerians developed sophisticated fiduciary instruments in clay. According to the Britannica of the time, coins were invented by merchants who sought to avoid re-weighing bullion at each transaction. I was writing an article for Practical Anarchy called "Money Without Banks and Governments." (Read here.) According to the Britannica article, written by Charles Seltman, coins were created when merchants stamped naturally-occurring electrum nuggets. Cititing that off the top of my head, I told myself a joke: If any merchant ever stamped a nugget of electrum, it was to avoid taking back a bad penny. Following that train of though later, I read all the books on ancient numismatics in the Michigan State University library. I summarized my objections to the accepted theory for the origins of coinage to The Classical Numismatic Quarterly. It was rejected. As a professional writer, I had no problem with that. I called the editor to ask him what I could do to fix the article. He replied, "You are reading the wrong books." He supplied me with a bibilography. In the 50 years since Charles Seltman wrote "Money" for the Britannica, some progress had been made. I read the works cited to me by Kerry Wetterstrom. I re-cast the article. He published it. Then, I expanded it to 3000 words and sent it to the American Numismatic Association. It was rejected. The editor of the ANA Numismatist said that my work contradicted all the accepted works. I relayed that to Kerry Wetterstrom, who suggested that I ask the ANA editor to run my article by their museum curator. They did. It was was acccepted. When it was published, Smithsonian curator Elvira Clain-Stefanelli nominated it for a literary award, which it was granted.

Continuing in numismatics, I prepared a presentation which I did not deliver on the so-called "Wildcat Era" of banking in the United States. For that, I bought Murray N. Rothbard's A History of Money and Banking in the United States: The Colonial Era to World War II. Checking his sources, I found Rothbard to be a plagiarist. Worse, he mis-quoted his source materials to align with his anarchist prejudices.

About 12 years earlier was the day my daughter was born. When my wife went into labor, she thought that if the baby were a boy, he would be named "Jonathan." If she were a girl, she would be "Elizabeth." In fact, she is named Selene. ... but that is another story...

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Boy, is George going to get it!

--Brant

the proof is in the pudding

That’s a challenging pudding recipe. It’s hard to imagine what you could say to “spit on” GHS’s story. Meeting an idol that young, getting that much personal attention, I mean wow, you can't beat that. Maybe if you hate the Duke, you could turn it into the sort of thing Perigo writes about “headbangers”, but it’d be pretty stupid.

Alright, I’ve consulted my inner Phil, and I’ve come up with something. GHS acknowledges that he was an aspiring sax player, so let’s try to ruin the memory for him:

Ha-ha, this story just goes to show that “Oists and the Oist movement tend way too often to be unsuccessful to a high degree in achieving their deepest aspirations”. You didn’t “work within institutions or crafts”, did you, you maggot? No, no, you toiled “outside them”, “forever in revolt against the world” and so you “ended up sourly achieving little”. As a sax player, that is. Oh, and your books suck too, especially that Justice Entrepreneurship piece. I’ll get around to rebutting the actual arguments therein when I’m good and ready. I haven't mentioned it lately, so here's a needful reminder: I'm smarter and more knowledgeable than you. All of you. Maggots.

http://www.objectivi...ndpost&p=152015

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I love the topic, George, and your description of your own experience. I can imagine what an amazing and wonderful day in your life that must have been. When I think of the best moments of my own life, however, the memories that come to mind are so intensely precious that I frankly don’t feel inclined to share them here. There are certain OL members who obviously live for the chance to spit on the values of other members. And as little as I care about what such people may think or say, I am not going to give them the chance.

I understand your point, but perhaps I didn't frame the issue very clearly. We live for many days, so the "best days" can include many different days and many different types of experience. What I had in mind could include meeting someone you really admired (per my meeting with Ellington), finishing an important project and feeling that sense of satisfaction and accomplishment that we don't experience all that often, making a difficult career choice and realizing one day that it worked out well, having a Eureka intellectual experience, etc. In other words, I didn't mean to narrow "the best days of our lives" to a mere handful of days. I recall one Christmas when I was around seven that qualifies as one of the best days of my life. This wasn't because I got a present that I really wanted (I didn't); rather there were many relevant factors, and I have often thought about them in an effort to understand exactly why that particular day was so terrific.

I find this to be a interesting psychological exercise -- but then friends have told me that I am excessively introspective, and they are probably right. 8-)

Ghs

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This is not about one of the best days of my life exactly, but about one of most satisfying intellectual experiences of my life. It's an amusing story -- a revenge story, in effect -- and one of those events in which the stars were aligned in exactly the right way.

This occurred during one of the many summer seminars that I did for the Institute for Humane Studies during the 1980s. Those week-long seminars were attended by around forty students, many of whom were ivy-league high-powered types, often grad students in philosophy, history, and economics. Now, I always made it clear up front that I had no academic credentials, not even a high school diploma, even though I knew this would make me a target for some of the testosterone-driven men who wanted to impress the female attendees by showing how much more they knew than the guy who lectured on the history of political thought, namely, moi.

Harvard Law School students could be especially annoying. I once asked Randy Barnett -- himself a Harvard Law School Graduate -- whether one had to be an asshole to get into Harvard Law School, or whether Harvard Law School turned students into assholes. Randy grinned and replied, "Partly both."

At the seminar in question, we were plagued by a ravenous pack of HLS students -- three guys who were good friends and who oozed a collective scent of smug superiority. To make matters worse, the leader of the pack had a PhD in philosophy, so if he disagreed with anything I said, he assumed that I was an ignorant amateur who obviously did not know what I was talking about.

Okay, that is the setup, and here is what happened:

In my first lecture on the first day I discussed some of the common academic myths about the history of classical liberalism. One of these was the claim that Thomas Hobbes was an early "father" of liberalism, because his social contract model was supposedly individualistic. I said that I would discuss the details in a later lecture; for now I just wanted to alert the students that this was an "egregious error" that was unfortunately taught to students in philosophy classes. Meanwhile, I could see the Pack Leader sneering, as if to bare his fangs, but I expected this reaction and figured I would take care of him later.

"Later" proved to come sooner than I expected. That evening, after the formal discussion groups had ended, some of the students gathered in the commons area for an informal chat. In order to understand what happened next, you need to understand the sexual dynamics of those seminars.

Female students usually comprised 30 to 40 percent of the attendees. This was pretty good for seminars of that type, but the imbalance always generated competition among the alpha males for the most desirable females. In this case an especially attractive female -- an undergraduate philosophy major from Yale -- was singled out by the Pack Leader. He wanted to mark his territory before anyone else got to her, and he tried to do this by ridiculing my remarks about Hobbes.

The Female Prey told me later that the Pack Leader started by saying that I was "full of shit" about Hobbes, who really was a forerunner of classical liberalism. This subject came up because the Female Prey, who was working on a senior thesis about Hobbes and who therefore had brought a copy of Leviathan with her to the seminar, was defending my interpretation. When I walked into the room, she was searching through her copy in an effort to locate a passage to support her point, but she couldn't find it. When I asked her what she was looking for, she mentioned a specific passage.

Now for the really good part of this story....

None of the students knew it, and I never told anyone, but I had come to the seminar directly from a week of Knowledge Products recording sessions in Nashville, where I functioned as the technical adviser for our two tapes on Leviathan. I had spent months researching and writing that 90 page manuscript, and in the process I had the occasion to read, sometimes silently and sometimes aloud (to see how the passages would sound), many key passages from Leviathan over and over again -- many dozens of times, in fact. Then, after the scripts had been completed and we were recording them, I worked for hours with many of those passages so the actor who was voicing Hobbes could read them with the correct emphasis and meaning.

Now, I don't have an exceptional memory by any means, but after working with specific passages for that long, I could scarcely avoid memorizing many of them, and I knew exactly where they appeared in Leviathan. (This detailed memory usually lasted for around a month before it faded.)

Okay, you can probably see what is coming next....

I asked the Prey what specific passage she was looking for, and she told me. I said, "Oh, that's near the end of chapter such-and-such." As she located the passage per my directions, I began quoting the paragraph, word for word, from memory. Her jaw dropped as she said, "That's exactly right."

I said, "But there an even more explicit passage here" -- and I took the book, quickly found the passage, and handed the book back to her. "Here it is," I said casually, as I quoted a very long passage nearly verbatim. I noted that I might have missed a few words, but that my rendition was very close.

"Yeah," she replied, "that's right."

I did this a few more times, and as I was quoting additional passages I could see the reactions of the Pack Leader and assholes numbers 2 and 3. They were looking at each other, distressed, as if to say, "What the hell is going on?"

Then the Prey asked, "Do you have Leviathan memorized?. Are you some kind of expert on Hobbes?"

"No," I said, "I know the book pretty well, but I don't care for Hobbes. I know a lot more about John Locke and other liberals than I do about absolutists like Hobbes." (This was true.) I then said that I had to go, but we could discuss this in more detail later on, if anyone wanted to.

I was very casual about the whole thing, as if quoting long and complex passages from Leviathan was no big deal. As I left that room I felt like I was floating on air. I knew that I had so intimidated the Pack Leader that he would never dare to challenge me for supremacy again. And he never did. Indeed, he remained respectful for the rest of the seminar.

To quote Bugs Bunny, "Ain't I a stinker?" :cool:

Ghs

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The best day of my life, up to that time, was the day I graduated from jump school at Ft. Benning, Georgia in March, 1965. It was a three-week course. I took four weeks. If you didn't perform satisfactorily you couldn't go on to the next week. You had to repeat or quit. They would not insist you quit so you could repeat for many weeks. The problem was the 32 foot tower you had to jump out of attached to a harness with the proper form. That was the first week. I couldn't hack the form. I was told I had to repeat or quit. The "quitters" got to do kitchen police (KP) until they were re-assigned. When we went to chow three-times a day we were served by these poor souls. I had had a problem in basic training at Ft. Ord. I had an upper respiratory infection of sorts I couldn't get rid of toward the end of training. I needed rest and couldn't get any in the training regime. I toughed it out until I was assured of graduation and reported sick with my duffel--missing the graduation ceremony and the fat-ass colonel I'm sure who presided over it--and was sent to the hospital. I only needed a few days to recover even though the first day coming back from the john late at night I collapsed on the floor in weakness for a half hour or so. But because I had missed my next training assignment I was put into a KP platoon after the hospital let me go and I had to do KP for about ten days 16 hours a day so I sure knew at Benning what KP meant and wanted nothing to do with that. About 30 trainees quit. WTF? What was the matter with them? It seems I was the only one who didn't quit after failing that first week. They were assembled in formation and I was told to march them across post to X-destination, which I did. I left them at the front of a rather small wooden building and was told to go out back. Out back was what appeared to be a children's playground, fenced in, with slides and things to climb on, colorful but no children, overlooking the AFB. You could see the C-130 transport planes positioning themselves for takeoff in the lower distance. Then I understood that at that time and place it was only for me and that it hadn't been put together for children. There was no wear and tear. A psychologist had been at work. After all the stress of that first week of jump school and not to make it through the first week--yet--I started crying, a little only but still a big relief. The next week I conquered the 32 foot tower just before the rain came down. I stood and watched trainee after trainee jump out of the towers in the rain trying to qualify and go on to the next week. They would jump and fall and hit the end of their rope and travel down a line maybe 200 feet long to the end of the ride. Anyway, during the second week I got to drop off the 250 ft. tower. They would attach an open parachute to you and crank you up 250 feet and invite you to look around "beautiful Ft. Benning" on the bullhorn and release you and you'd float down, something like Coney Island, only better--and more dangerous. A shift in wind or you pulling on your risers the wrong way and you could crash into the steel supports of the tower. This is where they lost too many men and years later shut the towers down. It was much safer simply to jump out of airplanes. (I don't remember when in this training the old sergeant told a group of us that it looked like conventional units--I was on my way to Special Forces--were going to be sent to Vietnam.) Then there was the first of five actual static-line jumps out of an airplane. That was a blast, except the last one was an equipment jump and I was so dazed I saw stars and took too long to get to the assembly area and missed my truck out and had to do traffic duty waiting for the next one. SO: All us graduating trainees were assembled in this big building and our training NCOs (Non-Commissioned Officers) marched down our ranks and pinned on our silver paratrooper badges--"wings."

A few days later I got on a bus for Ft. Bragg, North Carolina and we drove by the wooden two-story barracks of the First Cavalry Air-Mobile and lounging soldiers. The old sergeant had said THEY were going. I wondered how many of them would die in Vietnam. I wondered if I would. You saw the Mel Gibson movie.

--Brant

once a young sergeant

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I love the topic, George, and your description of your own experience. I can imagine what an amazing and wonderful day in your life that must have been. When I think of the best moments of my own life, however, the memories that come to mind are so intensely precious that I frankly don’t feel inclined to share them here. There are certain OL members who obviously live for the chance to spit on the values of other members. And as little as I care about what such people may think or say, I am not going to give them the chance.

I understand your point, but perhaps I didn't frame the issue very clearly. We live for many days, so the "best days" can include many different days and many different types of experience.. .

I find this to be a interesting psychological exercise -- but then friends have told me that I am excessively introspective, and they are probably right. 8-)

Ghs

Your "revenge story" was highly entertaining, George. After reading it, I sat down to try to put something on paper that I thought perhaps I would feel comfortable posting here—some experiences from the days when I was leading an Objectivist discussion group in Los Angeles many years ago. But I ended up writing a brief account of my first serious romantic relationship. When I think of truly happy times in my life, that’s what dominates my thoughts. Once I got started, I couldn’t stop.

Writing about her brought back so many thrilling memories that I wanted to thank you for inspiring me to do it. Oh my god! The phenomenol impact she had on my life when I was 19 years old! OH MY GOD!

However, I don’t really think such stories are what you had in mind, and, in any case, I just don’t feel I can post it here, for the reasons I stated above.

Even so, I like the general idea of this thread so much that I will keep trying to come up with something that I can say—something that, hopefully, isn’t quite so intensely personal.

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> my first serious romantic relationship. When I think of truly happy times in my life, that’s what dominates my thoughts. ..in any case, I just don’t feel I can post it here, for the reasons I stated above. Even so, I like the general idea of this thread so much that I will keep trying to come up with something that I can say—something that, hopefully, isn’t quite so intensely personal.

Again, I'm on the same wavelength as Dennis - and I also do like the sharing positive things idea of the thread and would select some less personal things.

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A term often used by psychologists for this is peak experiences: "Maslow describes how the peak experience tends to be uplifting and ego-transcending; it releases creative energies; it affirms the meaning and value of existence; it gives a sense of purpose to the individual; it gives a feeling of integration; it leaves a permanent mark on the individual, evidently changing them for the better." [Wikipedia]

Lots of stimulating contributions here help me think about my own peak experiences: George mentions being up close with a personal hero (a musician) and a chance to get even with arrogant people who pretend at academic superiority. Michael M. includes a breakthrough in achieving a serious publication in numismatics. Brant mentions toughing it out and successfully graduating from a difficult military school. (ND offered none, instead chose to attack.)

For me, like Dennis, a serious romantic relationship with a girlfriend was high on the list, but the one I'll briefly mention here was three weeks long: It was partly cultural but mostly esthetic.

Someone had told me that if I liked the sculpture and architecture and painting in Vienna, I'd -love- Florence. He was right. I toured all the great museums and plazas and architecture in Rome and Florence. Nothing remotely like the works of the Renaissance geniuses in the U.S. I had never seen anything like the works of Michelangelo, Donatello, Brunelleschi, and Bernini. It was like being on some radiant planet. You only get a fraction of the power of the Sistine ceiling or the David or the Moses or the Laurentian library staircase from a two-dimensional glossy photo.

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The best day of my life, up to that time, was the day I graduated from jump school at Ft. Benning, Georgia in March, 1965. --Brant

once a young sergeant

Nice story. Easy to relate to. Well written. Thanks. Since you don't recognize me, you probably never met my father when you were at Fort Benning.

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The best day of my life, up to that time, was the day I graduated from jump school at Ft. Benning, Georgia in March, 1965. --Brant

once a young sergeant

Nice story. Easy to relate to. Well written. Thanks. Since you don't recognize me, you probably never met my father when you were at Fort Benning.

That would have been a needle in a haystack and no way to look through it.

--Brant

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Today, as I drove to work, I thought of this thread, and was reminded of an unexpected "best day."

A number of years ago, my companion and I were walking down a London street, having spent the afternoon in one its world-famous museums. As we talked, the sun was actually shining and we approached an Anglican Church. I thought I heard something of interest. Somewhere over the ivy walls of the courtyard of the church, somebody was singing something from an opera. We focused our ears. It was clearly a live performance or rehearsal of some kind.

We walked around the courtyard walls, and pushed open a wrought-iron gate. A pretty loud creak announced our arrival. In the space under a shaded tree, a beautifuly young lady was practicing something from Puccini's Turandot, one of the broken-hearted arias. Several others were sitting in the courtyard, listening and enjoying, with thankful looks on their faces, undoubtedly similar to ours. As the young lady noticed our arrival, she turned and nodded to us with a "go ahead, sit down, you are welcome" type of look. The acoustics of the setting were extrordinary, the sky was clear, the stones' ivy was green, and we sat and listened and enjoyed the performance for probably half an hour.

That is how my brand new wife and I spent a delightful afternoon in London, on the third day of our honeymoon: listening to an unexpected and unforgettable wedding gift.

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Today, as I drove to work, I thought of this thread, and was reminded of an unexpected "best day."

A number of years ago, my companion and I were walking down a London street, having spent the afternoon in one its world-famous museums. As we talked, the sun was actually shining and we approached an Anglican Church. I thought I heard something of interest. Somewhere over the ivy walls of the courtyard of the church, somebody was singing something from an opera. We focused our ears. It was clearly a live performance or rehearsal of some kind.

We walked around the courtyard walls, and pushed open a wrought-iron gate. A pretty loud creak announced our arrival. In the space under a shaded tree, a beautifuly young lady was practicing something from Puccini's Turandot, one of the broken-hearted arias. Several others were sitting in the courtyard, listening and enjoying, with thankful looks on their faces, undoubtedly similar to ours. As the young lady noticed our arrival, she turned and nodded to us with a "go ahead, sit down, you are welcome" type of look. The acoustics of the setting were extrordinary, the sky was clear, the stones' ivy was green, and we sat and listened and enjoyed the performance for probably half an hour.

That is how my brand new wife and I spent a delightful afternoon in London, on the third day of our honeymoon: listening to an unexpected and unforgettable wedding gift.

Perfect! -- just the sort of thing I was hoping someone would post. Thanks.

Ghs

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One year, I went to the bank, got an auto loan and then bought a new car. A few months later, the car was caught in a bad hail storm and almost all of the car's panels were dimpled with dozens of little dents. The only panels that had been untouched were the driver's side door and front fender panel. I had full insurance coverage, and my insurance company looked at the damage and decided that the vehicle was totaled -- it would cost more to fix than what it was worth. They gave me two options: they would cut me a check for the full amount of the car and I would have to surrender it to them, or they would pay me what amounted to be about two-thirds of its value and I could keep the car and decide for myself if I wanted to have it repaired or not.

I didn't mind the cosmetic damage, so I chose the second option and did not have the car repaired, but used the entire check toward paying off the loan.

About a half year later, the day after I had sent in my last check to pay off the loan completely, I took a friend out to celebrate his birthday. At the end of the night we ended up at bar, where I had four beers. When we left the bar, my friend told me that I was welcome to stay at his place if I didn't feel safe to drive. I did a little self-analysis of my mental state and basic motor skills, and decided that I was okay to drive.

After driving about twelve miles, a deer ran across the road in front of me, from left to right. Even though she was already across the road and running off into a field, I hit the brakes because, more often than not, I find that deer tend to travel in twos or threes. I slowed to almost a stop while looking the to left. Nothing. It seemed safe, so I stated to accelerate, and then, "thunk," a second deer ran into my car and knocked the driver's side mirror out of whack. I hit the brakes again, looked in my rear view mirror and saw the deer running off into the field where the first deer had gone. I looked at the side mirror and realized that there was nothing I could do about it. I'd need to take it somewhere to get it repaired the next day, so I drove on.

Two miles down the road I came to a small town where several police cars were swarmed in a convenience store parking lot. I knew right away that they were out looking to arrest drunk drivers, and that they'd pull me over because of the mirror. Sure enough, a block after I drove past them, they were behind me with their lights flashing.

I turned onto a side street and pulled over, took out my driver's license and insurance card, and then tried to roll down my window. It wouldn't budge. I then tried to open the door, but it would only open a few inches. By then, one of the police officers was beside my door, and was asking if I knew that my mirror was broken. I told him that I had just been hit by a deer only minutes earlier, and that apparently the deer had done more damage than I had thought. The officer turned on his flashlight to get a better look and told me that the deer had indeed done much more damage than just taking out the mirror. I started to ask how bad it was, but the officer interrupted me and told me that he could smell alcohol, and asked if I had been drinking.

I know my limits, and I was certain that I was fine, so I told him the truth -- that I had been drinking with a friend in a bar, and that I had had four beers over a period of about three and a half to four hours. The officer told me to get out of the car and come around behind it. I told him that I'd have to get out on the passenger side because the driver's side door wouldn't open. I got out and walked to the back of my car and asked the officer if I could take a look at the damage. He walked with me. The front fender panel and driver's door were bashed in. "Wow," I said, "It didn't sound that bad. It was just kind of a light 'thunk.' I thought that only the mirror was damaged."

The officer asked if I had seen the deer and tried to avoid it, and I told him about having seen the other deer that had crossed in front of me, slowing almost to a stop, accelerating again once I had thought that it was safe, but being hit anyway. He had me walk with him to the rear of the car, and then gave me three field sobriety tests -- follow the finger with eyes only; walk nine steps heel to toe while counting the steps, turn around and walk nine more back; and stand on one foot while counting to 30 (I have to admit to thinking of Ayn Rand at that moment, and wondering if her sobriety test would be to present her philosophy while standing on one foot -- "Metasyphics: 'jective realty; Emistepology: reeeezn, hic...") -- and, despite the fact that the street was icy, I easily passed the tests. Another officer then had me blow into a breathalyzer. They both looked at the results, seemed to be disappointed that they didn't get to make an arrest, and then let me go.

As I drove home, it occurred to me that I still had full-coverage on the car, but that the insurance company would not pay to fix any panels that had been damaged previously by hail and which I had not had repaired. But then I remembered that the driver's side door and front fender panel were the only ones which had not been damaged by hail, and that they would be covered. I pulled the car over onto the side of the road to look at the damage again. The door and fender were indeed the only ones damaged by the deer, not a scratch elsewhere.

I felt as if I were bulletproof. Untouchable. Pure exhilaration.

J

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I am going to pick up where I left off on the Duke Elllington story from 1966. Here I will only explain how I came to have a three hour conversation with Ellington. I will recount some details of our conversation later.

I had taken two Ellington albums with me to the night club, along with an 8-1/2" X 11" photo of Ellington that I had clipped from Leonard Feather's Encyclopedia of Jazz. My intention was to get each album cover signed by every member of the band, and the photo signed by the Duke himself.

My plan was successful. The inscription on the photo read: "To my good friend George Hamilton Smith. Best Wishes, Duke Ellington." I got the albums signed by all the band members by following them into the bar during breaks between sets. Each album jacket was covered front and back with the signatures of the band members. All the now-legendary names were there -- Johnny Hodges, Cat Anderson, Harry Carney, Ray Nance, Clark Terry, and more.

Years later I gave one of the signed albums to Roy Childs, a fellow Ellington fan, as a token of my friendship and as thanks for the essential role he played in getting me a contract with Nash Publishing to write Atheism: The Case Against God. Roy told me it was the best gift he had ever received that didn't involve an orgasm.

I mentioned the bar because one musician who was especially fond of bars was Paul Gonsalves, a tenor sax player with Ellington's band. I never cared much for Gonsalves's playing, but I was grateful that he signed my two albums, especially since he could barely hold the pen I gave him. By the time the third set rolled around, Gonsalves was so drunk that he almost fell off his chair a couple times during the performance.

Shortly after the third set ended and while the other musicians were packing up, Gonsalves walked over -- or stumbled over, to be more precise -- to the front table at which my mother and I had been sitting for nearly six hours. My mother was a very attractive woman, so I suppose Gonsalves figured he would put some moves on her. I don't know what he thought about her teenage son sitting next to her, but that didn't matter. He put some heavy and obnoxious moves on my mother as he asked her to have a drink with him. She handled the awkward situation with a great deal of class, which impressed me. I sat watching in disbelief.

Gonsalves wouldn't take no for an answer. He kept pressing, talking with a slur so bad that I could barely understand him. Meanwhile, I noticed Duke sitting at his piano, where he was packing up some scores. He was glaring at Gonsalves, who was too drunk to notice, so Duke finally said, "Paul, please come here. I need to talk to you about something" -- but Gonslaves still ignored him. At that point Duke signaled Cat Anderson, the great trumpet player, to come over. Anderson knew exactly what was going on, so he came over, took Gonsalves by the arm, and led him away.

Ellington then came over to the table and said to my mother, "Mrs. Smith, I wish to apologize to you and George for the behavior of Mr. Gonsalves. He has a serious problem." My mother said she understood, and then asked if Ellington would sit down for a few minutes and talk to me before the club closed 2 a.m. "My pleasure" was his reply.

We had less than ten minutes to talk. I spent most of that time telling Duke how much his music meant to me, and then I asked him to sign the photo I had brought. Then, as the club closed down, he said something that shocked me. "I'm a night person, so I won't be going to bed for several hours." Duke looked at my mother. "I know this is a school night, but there is a 24-hour coffee shop across the street. Would you and George care to join me so we can talk some more?"

My mother said, "George can skip school. I will write a note for him."

And what was I going to say? -- Gee, Duke, I really don't want to miss school . That is way more important than talking to one of the greatest geniuses in the history of music. :laugh:

We walked to the coffee shop in five minutes. I sat directly across from Ellington in a booth. Our conversation lasted until nearly 5 a.m.

I will describe the conversation later. For now suffice it to say that I have never met a more gracious, intelligent, or classy person in my life than Duke Ellington.

Ghs

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On Friday, December 16, 1983, I went to the movies thoroughly drunk.

(To get the proper charge out of this silly tale, you have to realize that it takes a lot to get me drunk, between the physiognomy evident in the avatar at left, and a pronounced dislike for getting more than a relaxed buzz from alcohol. Thus, the adjective has only really applied to about four or five occasions in my life since I could legally drink. ... But I digress.)

It was after the annual Christmas party held by my employer — actually, the larger trade association which controlled the smaller one that directly employed me. All my colleagues had contempt for the pretentiousness and power-sucking of the Bigger Boys, so several of us gathered in the subterranean Billy Goat Tavern to get the taste of the soirée out of our mouths.

(Yes, admirers of "SNL"-when-it-was-actually-funny, THAT Billy Goat Tavern. "Cheezborger cheezborger cheezborger, no Pepsi, COKE" — that one. ... But I digress again.)

After two hours of some of the best beer and conversation I'd ever had, I weaved up the iron stairs to a windswept Michigan Avenue, somehow managed to cross between the Wrigley Building and Tribune Tower without being mowed down, and climbed onto the No. 11 Lincoln Avenue bus.

In one of the few times a single, unaccompanied thought wandered into the foyer of my neocortex, I remembered as the bus passed the Christmas-light-strewn trees: That new movie is playing at the Lincoln Village. I was gonna go see it. Wonder if it'll matter that I'm in the bag.

So I got off and staggered north, to the theater, rather than south to the subway station. I bought my ticket and slumped into the seat, winter coat next to me (it wasn't very crowded), and expected to be mildly entertained as the previews unwound.

Two hours and thirty-five minutes later, I walked briskly to the theater door, stone-cold sober. With the greatest feeling of exhilaration I'd yet experienced, I kept walking, six blocks east, to the John Hancock Center.

I paid for an observatory ticket, itching to get up to the 100th floor. I stood for another hour gazing in rapture at the lights of Chicago, streaming gloriously away in three directions, with the long-conquered lake sitting in azure silence.

What a magnificent civilization we live in, I kept saying to myself.

After climbing down from that emotional high, which I've never had to such a degree before or since about any work of art, I finally headed home.

That was a pretty good day.

... What movie, you ask? Well, do you think I'm going to let you just take in that passive bit of information and pre-judge it? You'll have to at least click here and find out a little about it for yourself.

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Somewhere over the ivy walls of the courtyard of the church, somebody was singing something from an opera. We focused our ears. It was clearly a live performance or rehearsal of some kind.

When I visited Père Lachaise someone, clearly a trained opera singer, was performing the 3rd of Strauss’s Four Last Songs in the distance. I suppose if I’d been hearing the piece for the first time I’d have found it transcendent, in fact I simply found it an odd experience. No doubt my feet were aching, so I couldn’t get in the mood.

(ND offered none, instead chose to attack.)

Did I misread post 3? Where you refer to the OL maggots that are your reason for not contributing to this thread? Then you chime in later to give us this utterly generic “I went to Italy” paragraph, with not a single personal detail or anything that couldn’t be gleaned from a few minutes on Wikipedia. This just isn’t up to the standard GHS initially set, not even remotely.

Hmm, am I going to take the time to write about visiting the Accademia in Florence? I’ve shared this photo before, this was posted above the metal detector as you go in.

FlorenceAccademiaMetalDetector.jpg

So I had a good laugh, enough so as to bother the guards. Now, after that point you turn to the right (you can’t see in the photo), and there he is, at the end of a long corridor. Michelangelo’s David (note, Phil, that if you’re going to mention David, having listed both Donatello and Michelangelo, that you ought to specify which David you mean. Free writing tip, you putz) immediately stuns you by its size, then as you get closer…nah, I’m not going to bother. I have plenty of other vacation stories, there needs to be something unique about it to fit in alongside GHS’s Duke Ellington tale. So I’m not going to try waxing eloquent on seeing David in person. Anyway, after the Accademia I went to what’s maybe the best gelato place anywhere, it was called Vivoli, and it was on the way to the Bargello, where Donatello’s David is housed. Chestnut flavor with stracciatella. I always get a double, some kind of nut flavor with stracciatella. Ah, the food in Italy!

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...I knew that I had so intimidated the Pack Leader that he would never dare to challenge me for supremacy again...
What a great story. It reminds me of one of my favorite scenes from Good Will Hunting:
J

The same thought occurred to me when I first saw Good Will Hunting. The arrogance and mannerisms of the asshole in this clip reminded me very much of the Pack Leader. But I didn't challenge the Pack Leader to a fight. 8-)

A difference here is the fact that I never had to confront the Pack Leader directly. He got the message by listening to my conversation with his Female Prey. More similar to the clip was a conflict that happened at another IHS conference. In that case, there was a direct confrontation, after the guy (a grad student in history who had been exhibiting his contempt all week) sat in the front row during one of my final lectures reading a newspaper that he conspicuously held in front of his face.

During the Q&A the guy raised his hand. I made a point of calling on him first. His question, dripping with sarcasm, began: "Surely you don't expect us to believe....."

My lecture was on the history of state education. I had been researching and writing a book on the subject for over two years by that time, and I was thoroughly familiar with the topic. (I never completed the book, but within the next month or so I will be posting some of the material as Cato Essays.) So after this jerk finished his question, I proceeded to slice and dice him, slowly and methodically, to the point where the other students were laughing at him.

I remained calm and cool throughout, but I was relentless. Never in my life had I taken a student apart like that. But he asked for it, so I gave it to him -- big time.

The interesting thing about this story is that the student actually apologized to me that evening, and he treated me with great respect, even deference, after that.

Ghs

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I love the topic, George, and your description of your own experience. I can imagine what an amazing and wonderful day in your life that must have been. When I think of the best moments of my own life, however, the memories that come to mind are so intensely precious that I frankly don’t feel inclined to share them here. There are certain OL members who obviously live for the chance to spit on the values of other members. And as little as I care about what such people may think or say, I am not going to give them the chance.

I understand your point, but perhaps I didn't frame the issue very clearly. We live for many days, so the "best days" can include many different days and many different types of experience.. .

I find this to be a interesting psychological exercise -- but then friends have told me that I am excessively introspective, and they are probably right. 8-)

Ghs

Your "revenge story" was highly entertaining, George. After reading it, I sat down to try to put something on paper that I thought perhaps I would feel comfortable posting here—some experiences from the days when I was leading an Objectivist discussion group in Los Angeles many years ago. But I ended up writing a brief account of my first serious romantic relationship. When I think of truly happy times in my life, that’s what dominates my thoughts. Once I got started, I couldn’t stop.

Writing about her brought back so many thrilling memories that I wanted to thank you for inspiring me to do it. Oh my god! The phenomenol impact she had on my life when I was 19 years old! OH MY GOD!

However, I don’t really think such stories are what you had in mind, and, in any case, I just don’t feel I can post it here, for the reasons I stated above.

Even so, I like the general idea of this thread so much that I will keep trying to come up with something that I can say—something that, hopefully, isn’t quite so intensely personal.

I understand your reluctance to get into stories about romantic relationships.

I'm glad to hear that this thread has sparked some pleasant memories. It has for me as well. All of us have general memories of good things that happened a long time ago, but rarely do we make a concerted effort to recall the details of those events, including the previous events that led up to them. This is a fun thing to do. Perhaps because of our "therapeutic" culture, we tend to focus more on the bad things that happened to us.

I am very pleased with the stories that have been posted on this thread so far. It is interesting how some of our fondest memories emerged from very simple things. I am reminded of Rosebud in Citizen Kane.

Schopenhauer once speculated on why time passes more quickly as we get older. He pointed out that we have many new experiences in our early years, and he argued that these fresh experiences often leave indelible impressions on our memory. (The first time for this, the first time for that, etc.) Schopenhauer concluded that these unique memories serve as punctuation points, in effect, and they result in making our subjective experience of time pass more slowly. As we grow older, however, such experiences become less frequent. We don't notice a good deal of what happens to us, so many of our experiences merge together into an indistinguishable blur, and time passes quickly.

My hastily written account doesn't do justice to Schopenhauer's explanation, but I think it is good enough to convey the basic idea.

Ghs

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On Friday, December 16, 1983, I went to the movies thoroughly drunk.

(To get the proper charge out of this silly tale, you have to realize that it takes a lot to get me drunk, between the physiognomy evident in the avatar at left, and a pronounced dislike for getting more than a relaxed buzz from alcohol. Thus, the adjective has only really applied to about four or five occasions in my life since I could legally drink. ... But I digress.)

It was after the annual Christmas party held by my employer — actually, the larger trade association which controlled the smaller one that directly employed me. All my colleagues had contempt for the pretentiousness and power-sucking of the Bigger Boys, so several of us gathered in the subterranean Billy Goat Tavern to get the taste of the soirée out of our mouths.

(Yes, admirers of "SNL"-when-it-was-actually-funny, THAT Billy Goat Tavern. "Cheezborger cheezborger cheezborger, no Pepsi, COKE" — that one. ... But I digress again.)

After two hours of some of the best beer and conversation I'd ever had, I weaved up the iron stairs to a windswept Michigan Avenue, somehow managed to cross between the Wrigley Building and Tribune Tower without being mowed down, and climbed onto the No. 11 Lincoln Avenue bus.

In one of the few times a single, unaccompanied thought wandered into the foyer of my neocortex, I remembered as the bus passed the Christmas-light-strewn trees: That new movie is playing at the Lincoln Village. I was gonna go see it. Wonder if it'll matter that I'm in the bag.

So I got off and staggered north, to the theater, rather than south to the subway station. I bought my ticket and slumped into the seat, winter coat next to me (it wasn't very crowded), and expected to be mildly entertained as the previews unwound.

Two hours and thirty-five minutes later, I walked briskly to the theater door, stone-cold sober. With the greatest feeling of exhilaration I'd yet experienced, I kept walking, six blocks east, to the John Hancock Center.

I paid for an observatory ticket, itching to get up to the 100th floor. I stood for another hour gazing in rapture at the lights of Chicago, streaming gloriously away in three directions, with the long-conquered lake sitting in azure silence.

What a magnificent civilization we live in, I kept saying to myself.

After climbing down from that emotional high, which I've never had to such a degree before or since about any work of art, I finally headed home.

That was a pretty good day.

... What movie, you ask? Well, do you think I'm going to let you just take in that passive bit of information and pre-judge it? You'll have to at least click here and find out a little about it for yourself.

I really like this description.

Chicago is just like that. Always love going to Chicago, for just the reason you describe so well.

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