Free The Fran Lebowitz Reader by Fran Lebowitz

is indisputable, and one has only to look around to see that the unseemliness of modern science is basically the product of men whose peevish reactions to household disorder drove them to folly. Even in those cases where a practical touch was indicated one notes a tendency toward excess.
    A typical example of this syndrome is Thomas Edison. Edison invented the electric light bulb, the purpose of which was to make it possible for one to read at night. A great and admirable achievement and one that would undoubtedly have earned him a permanent place in the hearts and minds of civilized men had he not then turned around and invented the phonograph. This single act led to the eventual furnishing of small apartments with quadrophonic sound systems, thereby making it impossible for the better element to properly enjoy his
good
invention. If one follows this line of thought to its logical conclusion one clearly sees that almost without exception every displeasing aspect of science is, in one way or another, a hideous corruption of the concept of reading at night. Reading is not a particularly popular pastime—hence the warm welcome the majority of the population has extended to such things as snowmobiles, tape decks, and citizen band radios. That these newer appliances have not entirely taken away the appetite of the public for electric lamps can only be attributedto their unwillingness to let perfectly good empty sangria bottles go to waste.
    Scientists are rarely to be counted among the fun people. Awkward at parties, shy with strangers, deficient in irony—they have had no choice but to turn their attention to the close study of everyday objects. They have had ample opportunity to do so and on occasion have been rewarded with gratifying insights.
    Thus electricity was the product of Franklin’s interest in lightning, the concept of gravity the outcome of Newton’s experience with an apple, and the steam engine the result of Watt’s observation of a teakettle.
    It is only to be expected that people of this sort are not often invited out. After all, a person who might well spend an entire evening staring at a kitchen utensil has little to recommend him as a dinner companion. It is far too risky—particularly if the person in question is moved to share his thoughts with others. Physical laws are not amusing. Mathematical symbols do not readily lend themselves to the double entendre. Chemical properties are seldom cause for levity. These facts make it intolerable for a gathering ever to include more than one scientist. If it is unavoidable, a scientist may be safely invited to dinner providing that he is absolutely the only member of his profession present. More than one scientist at the table is bad luck—not to mention bad taste. Legend has it that the atom was split when a bunch of scientists working late decided to order in a pizza. Indeed a terrifying story and one made all the more chilling when one learns that a number of their colleagues smarting from the snub of being excluded from this impromptu meal spitefully repaired to an all-night diner and invented polyester.

The Nail Bank:
Not Just Another Clip Joint
    During a recent luncheon with a practicing member of the leisure class the subject of fingernail care chanced (as it so often does) to come up. My companion chided me for what she considered to be the disgraceful condition of my fingernails and suggested quite strongly that I accompany her to the inordinately tony establishment that is responsible for the impeccable condition of her own. Upon learning the cost of such an outing I curled my upper lip in an attractive yet forceful manner and declined her invitation with little regret. I was, however, helpless against the demands of my constantly questing mind and felt compelled to inquire as to what exactly could be done to fingernails to warrant such expense. “Why,” replied my friend, “they shape them, they wrap them, they polish them, and if I need it they