I didn't want to see the stupid race-car movie. I wanted to see the movie about the beavers. I'd really been hyping up Beavers in my brain: thinking about beavers, talking about beavers, performing an original one-woman preenactment of Mr. Beaver and Mrs. Beaver talking to each other in British accents. "'Ello, Mrs. Beaver!" "Good morning, 'usband! Would you loik to chew on sticks and wood for breakfast?" "Capital! Cheerio! Oi'll do the 'ishes!" "Oi love living underwater with you as mammals, Mr. Beaver." Kersploosh!

But nooooooo. Instead, my friend just had to cure a whole salmon in his refrigerator, so I just had to go to his house and eat bagels, and then my friends and I just had to watch the ruinous trailer for Beverly Hills Chihuahua—and all the crying and holding one another that ensued made me four minutes late for Beavers. There is no late seating at the IMAX. My only option was to wait an hour for the beaver crowd to clear out and Super Speedway: Racing with the Andrettis to begin.

Let me tell you something about being a grown-up alone at the Science Center: YOU ARE CREEPY. I don't care how interested you are in centrifugal force and photosynthesis and dinos—if you are an adult walking around the Science Center by yourself, something's gone wrong. Here's another thing I learned at the Science Center: Kids don't learn fuck about science. I tried to find out how to clone a sheep from a display where you press some buttons in a sequence and a mad scientist yells at you. I was only on step two when a kid came up and started smashing all the buttons at once, turning cranks and jiggling levers in a frenzy. That kid wasn't listening to the mad scientist. Now neither of us knows how to make clones.

Science taunted me at the naked-mole-rats exhibit ("Naked mole rats can close their lips behind their front teeth. Try it."), and taught me what a can of soda weighs on other planets. (Dear self: Remember not to bring Diet Coke on trip to the sun. That shit is heavy.) It was all medium-boring.

But not as boring as the movie. The thing about car racing is that it's impossible to care about. I mean, aerodynamics are kind of interesting, and Mario Andretti does say some amusing nonsense: "If the modern racing car were an animal, it would be an invertebrate" (what?). But what do I care if the Andretti family maintains its title as Italian-American People Who Are Better Than Other People At Driving Pointy Cars Very Fast? As I see it, there's only one way to make race cars interesting: TEACH BEAVERS TO DRIVE.