Posthuman Blues

The great thing about living on the 9th floor is watching the car wrecks. I'm not kidding. I mean, I rarely see them happen, but I commonly hear the telltale SQUEAL-THUNK of frantic tires and colliding metal and stop what I'm doing to observe the aftermath. There was a crash just a couple minutes ago in the intersection below my kitchen. I'm listening to the sirens now. Last night there was another one in almost exactly the same spot. White cars each time. It's like there's some electromagnetic anomaly buried in the street that causes drivers to space out and lose control.

And while I stand in my kitchen laughing with smug disdain, I'm not without sympathy. The truth is that driving scares me. I'd rather not do it, given the choice. I wish we had telepods like the ones in "The Fly": instant, petroleum-free molecular reconstitution for the masses. But on the other hand, look what happened to Jeff Goldblum. Do you honestly think public telepods could be kept insect-free? I personally doubt it.