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I knew, I reasoned, how to be a man. I had been one for quite some time—about a quarter-century, give or take. I tied ties, mixed drinks, held doors, said “please” and “thank you” when the situation warranted. I watched Mad Men for extra credit. Case closed—right?

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Ever since the invention of soap, bubble-blowing has been up there with lemonade, the beach, and long, trashy novels in the pantheon of great summery pastimes. Vats of liquid soap in which a few luckless ants attempt the backstroke, gleeful laughter as jets of tiny bubbles stream out across the grass—and who can forget Mom and Dad cursing violently at the itsy bitsy screws in the tiny little battery compartments, requiring a Barbie-size Phillips head screwdriver that is lost somewhere along with the camping gear?

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