ask dr. science...
Thursday, October 26, 2006
what size do those "Emily the Strange" t-shirts start in...?
I was getting ready to leave for work this morning and I spotted this drawing in one of Katie's open school notebooks...
I'm not sure what to make of it. Isn't 7 years old a little young to be getting this "goth"? (The text reads - "Belongs to dark woman.")
The "glyphs" are just.... creepy.
I was getting ready to leave for work this morning and I spotted this drawing in one of Katie's open school notebooks...
I'm not sure what to make of it. Isn't 7 years old a little young to be getting this "goth"? (The text reads - "Belongs to dark woman.")
The "glyphs" are just.... creepy.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
a very bizarre afternoon...
So... I'm giving this talk in the Hamptons tomorrow, which means I had to drive to the city today. That's a bad enough way to start the day, sitting in traffic at the Lincoln tunnel. But the fucked-uppedness didn't even BEGIN until I tried to LEAVE work.
Around 3:00 I go to get my car from the parking garage... it's one of those inner-city elevator garages... I park in the same one every time I drive to work. (Once a year, basically) The guy takes my tag, I pay my 20 bucks, and he goes to get the car. I walk over to the sidewalk beside the elevator door, see the thing coming down, the doors slide open and just before he pulls the car out of the elevator, I notice that there is a 12" high steel barrier at the bottom of the elevator that hasn't retracted yet and...
Crunch.
The parking attendant drives my car right into this steel barrier. The bumper crumples like a plastic cup. The guy quickly backs up and gets out of the car and runs his hands over the bumper, which has popped back into shape... "No damage, is fine, see? No damage." he says in a Caribbean accent of some sort. I just shake my head... fine, whatever, my wife already drove the fucking van over the TOP of the bumper, what does it matter if there are a few more creases on the bottom. I grumble into the car and drive away.
Halfway down the block, I hear it... the sound... the unmistakable sound of things scraping on the road that should not be scraping the road. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...
I quickly pull over to the curb and jog back to the garage. "I'm going to have to fill out a damage claim", I say calmly, and the attendant predictably begins to flip out. "What damage? No damage! I see!! Small bump! No damage!!" I explained about the large chunk of car dragging the ground. "You show me! Where is it? You show me!" Ok, mon... I show you... I just have to drive it around the block.
I slowly circle around.. down seventh back up sixth to the garage... drag, drag, scrap, scrape... and go to pull back into the garage entrance. When I get there, there is a guy trying to cross the sidewalk... older guy, 50's maybe, unshaven, glasses, flannel shirt, cargo pants. I was going to let him cross in front of me, but he stopped and let me pull in. There was something... odd about him... I took a second look...
It's David Letterman.
My brain takes a moment to process the sight of a bearded Dave Letterman (clearly on hiatus this week) here on 13th street.
Ok. Well. This is not the time to chitchat with late night talk show hosts... I have to go yell at someone. I get out of the car and show the attendant the bit of dangling vehicle. He seems to accept it happily now, with a smile and a nod as if to perhaps suggest he knocks bits of cars off all the time. He walks off, I'm not sure to where. I walk into the garage office, where someone is standing at the counter.
Yeah. It's David Letterman again. Or it's him still, I should say. He's picking up his car.
I go back to quibbling with the parking lot attendant, who comes up to me with a handful of plastic clips that fell off the plastic piece hanging from the underside of my car and tells me that he can fix it, or take it off, or I can bring it back some other day and they can have a guy...
No. There is no "other day". I live three hours away. I drive into the city once a year. I know you guys have insurance, I know there is a procedure for this, I just need to know what it is. He wanders off again.
The parking lot attendant returns with a incident report form for me and a silver Porsche Carrera for that OTHER guy.
So, I fill out the form... Dave Letterman drives off. I spend 15 minutes yanking the big dangling piece of plastic the rest of the way off my car, and then put it in my trunk.
End of story.
So. This goes on my anecdote shelf right next to the Thunderbird that burst into flames and the Chevy Malibu that lost a front wheel at 55 mph. Why do all my good stories involve vehicular mishaps?
So... I'm giving this talk in the Hamptons tomorrow, which means I had to drive to the city today. That's a bad enough way to start the day, sitting in traffic at the Lincoln tunnel. But the fucked-uppedness didn't even BEGIN until I tried to LEAVE work.
Around 3:00 I go to get my car from the parking garage... it's one of those inner-city elevator garages... I park in the same one every time I drive to work. (Once a year, basically) The guy takes my tag, I pay my 20 bucks, and he goes to get the car. I walk over to the sidewalk beside the elevator door, see the thing coming down, the doors slide open and just before he pulls the car out of the elevator, I notice that there is a 12" high steel barrier at the bottom of the elevator that hasn't retracted yet and...
Crunch.
The parking attendant drives my car right into this steel barrier. The bumper crumples like a plastic cup. The guy quickly backs up and gets out of the car and runs his hands over the bumper, which has popped back into shape... "No damage, is fine, see? No damage." he says in a Caribbean accent of some sort. I just shake my head... fine, whatever, my wife already drove the fucking van over the TOP of the bumper, what does it matter if there are a few more creases on the bottom. I grumble into the car and drive away.
Halfway down the block, I hear it... the sound... the unmistakable sound of things scraping on the road that should not be scraping the road. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...
I quickly pull over to the curb and jog back to the garage. "I'm going to have to fill out a damage claim", I say calmly, and the attendant predictably begins to flip out. "What damage? No damage! I see!! Small bump! No damage!!" I explained about the large chunk of car dragging the ground. "You show me! Where is it? You show me!" Ok, mon... I show you... I just have to drive it around the block.
I slowly circle around.. down seventh back up sixth to the garage... drag, drag, scrap, scrape... and go to pull back into the garage entrance. When I get there, there is a guy trying to cross the sidewalk... older guy, 50's maybe, unshaven, glasses, flannel shirt, cargo pants. I was going to let him cross in front of me, but he stopped and let me pull in. There was something... odd about him... I took a second look...
It's David Letterman.
My brain takes a moment to process the sight of a bearded Dave Letterman (clearly on hiatus this week) here on 13th street.
Dave (me): Oh, umm... Hey, "Dave"...
Dave (Letterman): Howzit goin?
Ok. Well. This is not the time to chitchat with late night talk show hosts... I have to go yell at someone. I get out of the car and show the attendant the bit of dangling vehicle. He seems to accept it happily now, with a smile and a nod as if to perhaps suggest he knocks bits of cars off all the time. He walks off, I'm not sure to where. I walk into the garage office, where someone is standing at the counter.
Yeah. It's David Letterman again. Or it's him still, I should say. He's picking up his car.
Dave (me): These guys busted my car Mr. Letterman, are you gonna let them get away with that?
Dave (Letterman): Don't worry about it, I got it. Forget the insurance, I've got it covered.
Dave (me): Heh, right. Thanks.
Dave (Letterman): What did they do?
Dave (me): They pulled it out of the elevator before the gate was all the way down and... [mimes "smack" with fist]
Dave (Letterman): Ooooh, yeah. Heh, heh...
I go back to quibbling with the parking lot attendant, who comes up to me with a handful of plastic clips that fell off the plastic piece hanging from the underside of my car and tells me that he can fix it, or take it off, or I can bring it back some other day and they can have a guy...
No. There is no "other day". I live three hours away. I drive into the city once a year. I know you guys have insurance, I know there is a procedure for this, I just need to know what it is. He wanders off again.
Dave (Letterman): [surveying damage] All these scratches on here? Did they do this?
Dave (me): No, that's from when my wife backed into it in the driveway with the minivan.
Dave (Letterman): Mmmm...
Dave (me): They crumpled the bumper like a plastic cup, though... now there's a big chunk of the underside handing off.
Dave (Letterman): [peeks under car] Oh, yeah. Nice.
The parking lot attendant returns with a incident report form for me and a silver Porsche Carrera for that OTHER guy.
Dave (Letterman): Well, good luck...
Dave (me): Yeah, I'm not expecting much.
Dave (Letterman): Heh...
So, I fill out the form... Dave Letterman drives off. I spend 15 minutes yanking the big dangling piece of plastic the rest of the way off my car, and then put it in my trunk.
End of story.
So. This goes on my anecdote shelf right next to the Thunderbird that burst into flames and the Chevy Malibu that lost a front wheel at 55 mph. Why do all my good stories involve vehicular mishaps?
