Burning Questions on Frozen Bubbles

Several years ago on this same blog, I wrote about bubbles.  We were having a bbq in our backyard and the hot, dry air in southern California evaporated the water from the bubbles leaving only a soapy, spherical residue. This fascinated and amazed me.  I wrote about it here (http://ponderingdave.blogspot.com/search?q=bubbles).

Well, last week this question came up again.  I asked my cousins in Norway if they had ever done this.  They had not but suggested that I check on Youtube.  I was lucky to have found many videos of this phenomenon.  But today I was provided with a link to the following website.  It was like the cosmos has guided me to sites to answer my burning questions.  It truly is a wonderful life. 

http://www.mymodernmet.com/profiles/blogs/angela-kelly-frozen-in-a-bubble

Thanks.
D.

A Significant Buzzing

This afternoon, a stillness hummed over our neighborhood.  A gray autumn day.  A quiet day, the day after Thanksgiving.  Sometime after a lunch of leftover turkey, I was sitting in my very comfortable chair, enjoying the quiet, tryptophan induced restfulness.  My wife decided it was a good time for a walk.  She stepped out onto the porch, quietly stepped back inside the house and mentioned that she didn't know where the bees were but they sure were noisy.  

On occasion, we have heard these bees in our trees in our front yard.  I have not seen a hive anywhere in the vicinity but we sure have heard them.  They show up periodically. It is the strangest thing.  We can hear the bees and we can see them.  But I don't know where they live.  Can't find the hive. 

I have some pictures.  I will post them later. 
D.

Where I Need To Be

In October of 2012, a good three years into my thinking about writing my play, I found the SanDiegoWritersInk.org.  I went to a few workshops there and decided to join.  I became a member just in time for the October Writer’s Conference; four days of classes, workshops and, just general get-togethers.  I immediately signed up for the conference.  

I enjoyed all the workshops that I attended.  I found them informative and instructional and they just seemed to fit into my plan.  

But it was what happened the first day, during a lunch break on my first workshop that really struck a chord.  I had just gotten a sandwich from a local grocery store and was sitting in my car eating my lunch when a news story came on the radio.  There had just been a charity triathlon in Florida and a young cancer survivor was running the last leg – a one mile run.  During that last run, the boy’s prosthetic leg broke.  A screw had come loose and the prosthetic leg just broke in half.  The boy sat there in the middle of the course, crying when a U.S. Marine, also running the triathlon, just happened by.  The Marine stopped and put the boy on his back and carried him to the finish line.  

The boy had lost his leg to cancer when he was six and his family had encouraged him to do just about everything he could.  His dad told him before the race that “this is exactly where you need to be”.  These were words of encouragement for the kid.  Turns out it was.  Exactly where he needed to be.  And so was the Marine.  Exactly where he needed to be.  The moment is a touching moment in sports and life.  (http://myfox8.com/2012/10/10/marines-carry-boy-across-finish-line-after-his-prosthetic-leg-breaks-during-triathlon/) 

But for me?  I took it as a sign that I was supposed to be here at this writer’s conference.  I was working on a play but this conference did not specifically playwrighting, only screenwriting and other genre.  But later in the day, during a break in the courses, a lady walked into the venue, just as I was speaking with the conference director.  This lady was a representative for the Cygnet Theatre in Old Town.  She was there to present fliers for the Theatre’s upcoming Playwrights in Process festival in a few weeks.  Four days, four plays and a few assorted workshops and sessions for aspiring playwrights.  

I am a writer, working on a play, with no knowledge of what a play really is much less how to write one.  I am learning.  Up until this point, I had no idea of the things I needed to do.  I did not know the “process”.  The new playwrights workshop was exactly “where I needed to be”. 

 

Had I not come to this writer’s conference, I would not have received this flier.  I have learned so much about plays and how to write them.  

But that brings me to this past weekend.  I had accompanied my wife on her San Diego Chorus retreat, this "recharge", as they put it.  I am here to support her in her new affiliation.  I have never seen her so happy and full of life.  She is singing her heart out.  And it shows. 

But while my wife is singing with her group, I find the time to write.  During one of those writing sessions, I stumbled across a video on Youtube.  I was actually looking for some music on the San Diego Chorus. 

My play is about schizophrenia, or there about, and a video popped up on my computer.  I don’t know if a keyword from a previous search had lingered or what other search led me from the SD Chorus to schizophrenia.  But who knows how computer marketing works.  At any rate, I found the information that I needed.  

The video on schizophrenia fit perfectly into my own play.  It is a perfect tie in to my story line.  Schizophrenia can be treated, if recognized and acknowledged by the individual.  (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=syjEN3peCJw)  

Now, I understand that I probably could have stumbled across this video on my own, in my home office.  But I don’t know if I would have listened.  Being in a hotel room, I was captive.  And I listened, because, I had the time. It brought me to a place I needed to be.  So, these words have been written.  I must now go and listen to the voices.  I must write my play. 

D.

Lt. Col. Martin Joyce Papers

I am a history buff.  I am also a student of human nature.  I love human stories.  I just recently came across this gentleman's story courtesy a Facebook post from the World War II Museum in New Orleans. Thanks to the museum for letting me know about this.  I enjoyed the Boston Magazine article (http://www.bostonmagazine.com/news/blog/2013/09/03/martin-w-joyce-the-briefcase/). The article tells the story of a lost brief case in a Massachusetts' high school classroom (Wayland High School) (http://www.ltcoljoycepapers.org/). 

All, this is a wonderful story and well worth checking out.

D.

Lunch Time Questions

I was sitting at my desk at work today, having lunch.  I always look forward to the occasional phone calls from my wife.  I get to hear all the news of my wife and my life.  Today she called and told me of an upcoming event.  A very good friend of ours is having a birthday and my wife called to tell me that we would be going to the party at their house or a picnic at the park.  She said "we would be there".  I said, "be where"?  And my wife said, "why?"

She is such a sweetheart.  I love her.

D. 

$159.00 is fine for cell phone use while driving

While driving to work this morning I noticed one of those overhead freeway signs, lit up with the message “Handheld cell phone, ticket $159.  It’s not worth it.”

When I was a kid, learning about the world, I remember several times hearing about a merchant in the 1800’s who came up with the idea of knocking a few cents off and making an item sell for $0.99 rather than a dollar.  This ushered in an era of discounts and value pricing. $99.00 vs $100.00; $19.95 vs $20.00. 

And today, we see that being offered by the state in a contradictory way.  “Use your cell phone and the ticket/fine will only be $159.00”.  Look at the value in that. 

What a world we live in today. 

Use 'em while you got 'em.  

D.  

Tears, A Long Time Coming

I finally figured out my funk. I haven't been feeling like myself in the last month.  Something has been missing.  I know what is missing.  The fact that for the rest of my life I will never be able to speak with my old friend, Bob.  But, in the past month I had not cried for my loss.  The news came from out of town and I was removed from the situation.  And so, it never really sank in. Yet, it all hit me the other night.

 

I was cleaning out my old travel briefcase.  The one I use for itineraries, maps and brochures.  It used to be my 'go to' journal for travel.  I would jot down notes and collect things from my various trips.  Last night I was preparing for a trip, getting itineraries, contact information, maps and addresses to take. 

I was cleaning the detritus of older trips, souveniers and just general keepsakes.  I came across one piece of paper that reminded me of Bob. It was an old comic strip clipping from March, 1996.  Crankshaft by Batiuk and Ayers.  One of Crankshafts' friends, Mr. Meckler, was talking to a younger friend, family member or aquaintence about why he, Mr. Meckler, never made it big as a musician. Mr. Meckler told the youngster "But success isn't what gives life its meaning...The zest is in the rattle of the dice in the cup."  

At that point I just started sobbing. My wife sat there wondering what the problem was.  It broke my heart.  But I remembered how important it was.  I remembered Bob's “Joie de la vie”. 

Bob taught me a dice game in 1980.  I don’t remember the exact date, because, the truth is, we were probably drunk.  The game is called Farkle.  Some people compare it to Bunco.   But it is played with six dice and the player can keep going or stop, depending on their “gutsiness”.  One of the phrases we used to say was “No guts, no glory”.  This was repeated over and over during our games.

At any rate, I had a good cry last Thursday evening.  But I had an overwhelming feeling that Bob was with me at that moment.  I truly did.  I am no longer worried about Bob.  I think he is alright.  I regret the loss of my old friend.  But he was an amazing person.  He had a great sense of humor and a great laugh.  I will never forget that.  Thank you Bob for your friendship and for all the memories. 

For Bob. February 26, 2013

The dreaded phone call came that afternoon.  We all know it is coming but find it hard to accept, nonetheless. 

I received a call on my cell from my best friend’s son, Brian. 

Me:  “Hello”

Brian:  “Hi David, this is Brian.  I need to tell you that my dad passed away this morning.”  And I sat there thinking to myself, “Brian?  Who is Brian?  Oh yeah.  His dad passed away.  Oh wait, his dad is Bob.  Bob, my best friend.  The best man at my wedding.  Sh*t

Me:  “Oh Damn.  No way.  Oh my gosh.  I just spoke with him a couple of weeks ago.  Damn.” 

Brian:  “I know.  I spoke with him this morning, before I left for work.  I wanted to call you because he was very fond of you.” 

And so it went.  Brian told me of the circumstances surrounding my friends last few hours of life.  February 26, 2013.  It was horrible news to hear.

I met Bob in 1979.  We were both working the same hotel in Lake Tahoe, Nevada.  I had been there about a month when they re-assigned me from the coffee shop to the New York Deli.  Bob was my co-worker, trainer and possible co-defendant, if they ever found out how much fun we were having (it was like stealing).  Part of the reason it was so much fun was because of Bob.  He had been a good friend for 34 years.  I knew him through two marriages.  I met his family, his brother and sisters, his kids, his wives (well, two of them anyway) and his grandkids.  He was like a father to me.  We shared many common interests.  

Brian had no information about services or even when Bob’s siblings would arrive.   I told Brian I would call him back in two days. 

The next day, February 27, 2013 was our (Nora’s and myself) 25^th wedding anniversary.  I was heartbroken that Bob would not be there to share in our joy and celebration.  Nora and I were planning a second honeymoon trip.  Our trip would take us to within about 150 miles of my friend’s house.  Nora and I decided that we could make the detour, if needed. Plans were meant to be broken.   

But I had tickets to hear Billy Collins speak on the night of February 26^th.  My wife explained to me that Bob was proud of my literary pursuits.  And no plans were made as yet to make me change mine.  I went to hear Billy Collins speak. I felt bad, leaving my family on the night that we received such news.  But Bob was over 500 miles away.  There was nothing I could do for him or his family.  I needed to honor Bob's faith in my pursuits.

The night the news came, Billy spoke of silences.  I thought of the silent news.  The news that makes you silent, the ‘what else are you gonna do’ silence.  The fnord.  The only look that when something is explained to you, it leaves you without words. The surreal acknowledgement that you don’t belong in this moment.  

The ‘100 Chinese silences’, he said.  And other phrases that Billy uttered, caught my ear, and my mind’s heart. 

Tonight I received word that my best friend had died.  Passed away, ceased to enjoy this life.  A man with such joy does not give up life lightly.  There was no sign of struggle.  And that tells me he was done.  Or his body was done, because it just gave up.  It was his time. 

I found out tonight.  And I was asked if I was still going.  Still going to hear a poet I had barely heard of.  Someone I didn’t know.  In my grief, I left my family in theirs, for someone I didn’t know.  But Billy, you helped me.  You said we turn to poetry in the times when we need it.  We turn to it for emotional intelligence.  Poetry is an invitation to slow down.  I was using my escape to a poetry reading as a way to slow down and take an inventory of all that I had and all that I had lost.

 

My wife had known him almost as long as I had; Crazy Old Bob.  I remember all of his jokes. I remember all the old times.
 

The games, every one he lost.  The first time he taught me cribbage, I beat him.  The first time he taught me and Brian to play liars dice, we beat him.  The farkle game that he loved.  I shall never mention that game again.  I don’t know if I can ever play it again.  

I will miss him. I just don't know what to do now. We are going to be in Monterey on Saturday. I don't know when the arrangements are. So sad. I'm going to bed.

d.

My Friend Bob

Many of you know that I lost one of my best friends on February 26^th.  Heart attack, 8:30, 9:00 in the morning. Right outside his home. They didn’t find him for a half hour. His daughter was going to take him to his exercise class. Very shocking news. Dead. His family had a memorial service for him this past weekend.  My wife and I drove to Sacramento. We think that friendship lasts forever but it has limits.  And then we find they don’t.

 

We tried to call each other at least once  a month.  He came to visit us a couple of times.  We would see him on our yearly trips to Sacramento or Lake Tahoe.  He was a great friend.  And I had just spoken with him two weeks prior.  It hit me hard.  He was my best friend.  He was our Best Man.  I had known him for 34 years. 

My wife and I celebrated our 25^th Wedding anniversary on February 27^th.  We had planned to drive up the coast.  It was a bittersweet trip for us.  We kept in touch with Bob’s son for any details on the service.  They had postponed it until this past Saturday.  My wife and I drove up to Sacramento on Friday.

 

I met Bob in 1979 when I was a crazy, mixed up kid, looking for a way to live my life with joy and happiness.  I was running away to the mountains to find God.  I wanted to drop out, live my life as a hermit, to learn to fish and hike.  Bob became my friend when the hotel I was working for assigned me to the restaurant where he was also a cook. It was different setup than the rest of the hotel.  A lot more relaxed.  For instance, our restaurant didn’t open until lunch time.  We had three hours to set up each day.  And boy did we have fun.

The restaurant was a New York style delicatessen.  They served a lot of NY local sodas.  We had Dr. Brown’s sodas.  One day I decided to try a Dr. Brown’s celery soda.  Bob decided it would be funny to put Tabasco in it while I wasn’t looking.  I took a sip from it while he and our other co-worker looked on, waiting for my reaction.  I noticed it tasted different.  But it was actually quite good.  I think he was perturbed because I didn’t react with a quick trip to the sink.  But we all got a good laugh out of it as I threatened my revenge.

 

Several days later, Bob was making a paper airplane out of a placemat (probably to throw to a waitress), I found the perfect opportunity.  Our kitchen was the envy of other cooks.  It was quiet, clean and we always had cooks from other kitchens stop in for a visit.  This one day while Bob was constructing his airplane another cook stopped by.  I saw the cook come in and I knew Bob had seen someone come in dressed in white.  I quietly whispered “Chef”, and I actually relished the look of panic on Bob’s face as he quickly crumpled his plane.

 

Ah, those were the days.  Lot of fun.  Bob taught me how to have fun.

Time went on and eventually Bob became my roommate.  Or I became his.  The apartment at the “Y” in Tahoe.  The “Y” is actually an “X”, a crossroads of two highways and two city streets.  Nice little neighborhood. 

One day, during the fall of 1980, Bob and I were going to go fishing.  It was mid-afternoon and I had just gotten off work.  Bob wanted to watch the last of the National League Playoffs.  Phillies and Astros.  It was late innings and a tight score.  Now, at the time, Bob and I were rooming with another cook, Wiley.  Wiley and I were about the same age and both looking for the intellectual stimulation that we could derive from games.  We were playing various board games but they were all still kind of simple.  This day, I sat down with Bob to watch the end of the baseball game.

 

I don’t recall the score.  But the Phillies manager, Dallas Green, came out to make a change.  I asked Bob why he was doing that.  I played little league as a kid.  I never understood why.  I  just did.  I wasn’t any good.   But the manager came out and made a strange move.  I thought it strange.  But Bob explained to me the idiosyncrasies of the game. Bob taught me to love baseball.

One day while sitting in our living room I noticed it was large enough to accommodate a pool table.  And so started the days of our bachelor pad.  When my brother’s and I were in high school, working at our various jobs, we had saved up enough money to buy a pool table.  But now we had moved to different locations and that pool table sat in our parents garage in So. Cal.  Heck it was just taking up space. Wiley and I made a trip to SD to pick it up.  We sure had a lot of fun with that.  People walking by the apartment,  looking in.  Years later someone told me that people had complained about the noise.  I was not aware of that.  No one brought it to my attention. 

And so, Bob taught me how to shoot pool. Bob grew up in Butte, MT.  He told me a lot about the gambling halls and clubs.  I think at one time Bob worked some of those clubs.  

Bob taught Kate that it was ok to jump in a lake with her clothes on, after dinner, on a cool summer evening.  

My friend, Bob, taught me a lot of things.  I thank him for that.  I thank him for the 30 years of friendship.  I owe him a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid. 

Bob was my friend, my teacher. He was like a brother to me. I will never forget him.

And now, I realize there is one great lesson that he has taught me.  A lesson I learned too late for some relationships in my life.  But he taught me how precious it is to know someone well enough to call them friend.  Family is given, friends are chosen. I am proud to call him friend. 

David

Anne Hathaway's Oscar worthy performance

My whole family watched tonight's Oscar broadcast.  All of the movies I wanted to win won.  All of the actors I wanted to win won.  I was happy. 

I wanted to offer my congratulations to Anne Hathaway.  (Regular readers know my interest in her career.  We shared a moment in a Chicago airport many years ago.)  Anyhow.  Anne Hathaway, congratulations on your well deserved Oscar win.  Your performance was amazing and it is a pleasure watching you and your career. 

Congratulations to Jennifer Lawrence.  Amazing. 

D.

Karma, Coincidence and Keys

(Note:  This is a little story from when my kids were growing up.  Must have been about 15 years ago.  Enjoy.)
 
I believe in God. I believe in Karma.  I believe in coincidence.

Let me explain a weekend I had several years ago and we'll see if there is something spiritual in it. 

My wife and I decided to go to La Jolla - a well to do village near the beach - with our kids to look at a friends' artwork at a gallery.  We hadn't seen her artwork and were wondering how talented she was.  She is good.  Was selected one of the top 100 artists in So Cal.  Everything was going great.  My wife mentioned that it was her mothers' birthday.  She died when our daughter was six months old so it was kind of hard for my wife.  She said her mom would have gotten a kick out of my son, Timmy.  He is a goofball.  He is a lot of fun.  I told my wife that her mother is getting a kick out of the kids.  She is watching all of the time.  'But I digress.  I figured that my wife would like to go up to the top of the local mountain.  We fell in love in the mountains, maybe that would cheer her up.  Besides the kids had never been up there.

So we go up to the top of the mountain.  It was kind of foggy but it was still nice. We played around there for a while watching my daughter, 7, do cartwheels on the grass and watching her brother try to emulate her. 

When we got to the time to leave, we couldn't get the car started.  I couldn't get the alarm to shut off.  I've got a kill switch and I couldn't bypass it. 

It was hot, and the kids were hungry.  We started to walk down the hill.  Timmy, 3, wouldn't walk.  He has short legs.   I ended up carrying him as much as I could. 

There was a church about a mile down the hill.  Church was just letting out.  We asked about a phone (this was before cell phones) and a lady asked us if we needed any help.  I explained the trouble and she said her husband is an electrical engineer.  He fixed her alarm switch.  Maybe he could fix mine.

He looked at it and cleaned it.  He said that might do it.  So he offered me a lift up the hill. 

When we got up there the car still wouldn't start.  I was really getting mad.  We drove around the hill and on the other side a tow truck had overheated.

I asked the driver if he could help me.  He said that he was broken down.  He couldn't help.  But he knew what the problem was. 

He pointed to the radio towers on an adjacent ridge, about 100 yards away.  Those towers were blocking the transmission from my switch to my car.

He said I had to put the car into neutral and coast down the hill until I was out of range of the towers. 

So I did.  No power steering, no power brakes.  I turned on the radio before I left the top and figured I'd turn the ignition when I heard the radio.  About a mile down the hill I could hear the radio.  Turned the ignition.  Bingo.  Started right up.

I went back to the church and picked up the wife and kids.  

So what do you think.  Coincidence???  Maybe...but.....

Both my wife and I thought that her mom was looking out for us.

I'm going to call it a spiritual weekend.