Lanes Wednesday, November 19, 2009

Trudging toward it in unison, as if summoned by a call from another world, students, clad in those fetching articles of fashion bridging carefree childhood and poised professionalism, load themselves into the shuttle like magnetic vessels engaging with an airdock. Each brings a somber mood of her own; be it texting their loneliness to their network, soaking in the plastic charm of the magazines they have not the time to read any place els, or stitting half-asleep waiting for the ride to end. And then the ride commences.

Transponders in the pilot's eye initiate the endgine, disengage the intertial damener, and set forth the machine's twelve tons upno a vertiginous experiment with destiny. Paid twelf dollars an hour, abusing the public announcement system withn for radio commentaries and musicalcades, they wobble the craft down roads built for the early horeseless carriages; stopping abruptly to knock down the unwary rider, who , confused at the circumstances, realizes her own powerlessness in the scene. The voyage smoothes out for the stip of land upon which all overpowerer machine-beetles make their passage quickly, and finds its port at the schoolyard where the students report to make their bread, spend their parents fortunes, or pass their fruitless days gathering life-annuling debt.

The shuttle is a mere vessel in this parade of poor logic and gadfly soloquism. I choose to write of it because it is the only icon on the roads and barners of the enterprise, and is therefore worth explaining to children and far-sighted travelers.

-CB Lanes