On the TV over the bar, the Yankees are playing the Red Sox. A bearded man sits next to me and orders a martini, very dry with three olives. Discriminating, I think. So, I order the same. We talk. We both hate the Yankees and airports. Turns out he’s a physicist from Cal Tech who is looking for the God particle. I eat one of my olives. “Sounds religious,” I say. He finishes off his martini in one gulp, but doesn’t touch his olives. “The thing is,” he says, “we still can’t account for why this bar and these martinis and even you and I have mass. Everything has a sound, the same sound. Everything’s in motion, but just why these olives are olives and this gin is gin and garbage is garbage, we don’t have a clue. The real question is, why doesn’t everything just fall apart? Why don’t you and I just vanish, poof?” I consider this and suggest that maybe we should order another martini before we vaporize. “Good idea,” he says.

So, we toast to our temporary solidity, then I close my eyes for a few seconds to see if I can experience my God particles. And for a moment I’m a part of one big caldron of God soup, and I feel a great kinship with olives, the Yankees, this Cal Tech physicist. But when I open my eyes the physicist isn’t there. He’s gone. So has his glass and his left-over olives. I feel a little giddy and happy to be back.

Dumbo the movie:
Just me and the flying elephant
no hidden meaning

Bio: Dan Gilmore