Conveyance

For the first time, driving to school the other day, I witnessed with my own two globes my first commercial use of a Segway. I honestly believed, when they first came out, that we had entered some fantastic Jetsons-like future, where everyone would be riding a Segway within the year, and everyone would have flying cars by the time we were out from under the shadow of 9/11.

Of course, conventional society has chosen again to spit in my face and make the "mini" the hot choice of transport and the "flying car" the musings of idiots and Dungeons and Dragons fans. My future, the future that was to become my present, has been robbed from me by cynicism, and I've never felt like more a part of the problem myself.

The other problem I had with this first sighting of Segway-usage didn't surface until much later when, reminded only of my deep disappointment concerning the state of personal conveyance, I began to think of what kind of person would actually need a Segway. They don't move all that fast, you can not take them into the street (unlike the supersonic bicycles of today, which are completely allowed road access for some driver-torturing reason), and they're almost prohibitively expensive to purchase. So who would use such a manner of travel.

Answer: The morbidly obese billionaire.

Really one of my favorite characters in the canon of American culture, the morbidly obese billionaire (having inspired such great literary images as Jabba the Hutt, Dr. Moreau, that weird info-vampire in the first Blade, and that other guy in that Monk episode) is known for having reached such a state of sedentary affluence that, in lieu of any fitness regime, simply allows himself to bloat to the point of nigh-immobility. In the event of their deaths, the room they die in will be cut into like a can of sardines, and their body will be lifted out via crane to be buried in a plot that is conveniently, and thankfully, not that far away. Unless, of course, through will or consciencious family, hook or by crook, somebody goes Gilbert Grape on their fat, dead ass.

However, in life, they are forced with the very real problem of simply getting around. Thanks to modern technology, most of their social and, indeed, physical needs are taken care of to a degree that, fifteen or twenty years ago, they simply wouldn't have been. The morbidly obese billionaire of today enjoys the social interaction and access to any and all consumer products that any citizen can hope to expect, but if he wished to nip down to the corner store for a pallete of Funyuns, he is sadly out of luck.

In comes the Segway, a machine specifically designed to serve the fashionable and financial elite in their quest to eliminate the tedium of walking from their lives (and the more I think about it, the stupider an idea the Segway seems to be. We are becoming, more and more, a complacent and weak society). Your normal morbidly obese billionaire can easily afford a Segway, have someone forklift him from his concrete-reinforced recliner into the more personal means of getting about, and off he goes on his sturdy little companion. No more pains and trials of ambulation for this go-getter! He's out to conquer the world, one creaking escalator at a time.

It only made me more depressed, having thought this through, that the person I saw riding his Segway the other day was some pudgy, middle-aged broker with a black satchel, a short-sleeve button up and an off-the-wall MP3 player. Boo.

So, sadly, I have yet to personally see the wild morbidly obese billionaire, but I think, with my age and zeal, I will see this magnificent beast before my time has come to pass into the clearing. Maybe he'll be riding a Segway. Maybe he'll have a monkey. Perhaps... I'll be happy.

...

In other news, the Mrs. and I have been imbrolio-ing for the past couple of days to a pretty alarming degree, especially considering how well we'd been doing before this, and I feel much better now that we're geting along again. Point of fact, we're planning an extremely romantic and cliche getaway to an island off the coast of our beautiful California next weekend, and considering my pasty self, I'm really surprised to be excited about it.

We're leaving Friday, coming back Sunday, and considering I'm now officially finished with all other educational and occupational obligations (having taken a well-deserved week off after a solid year of faithful servitude) I should be able to enjoy the outing without too much anxiety. I always get nervous whenever I have to plan anything myself without counting on other people to do it for me (read: take the blame should something go horrifically wrong), but we got a pretty good deal considering the weekend and the weather and we're going to have a pretty good time considering the amount of time we'll be spending in what is essentially a PARADISE!

Another fine vacation, for me, would be Greece. I'd love to go back there sometime, be treated to another banquet by my unsung and unknown family, show the Mrs. the Parthenon and the Erectheum (what I made a straight-up model of in grade school using only foam, spray paint, and dismembered Barbie dolls), the Olympic stadium, do all the things I love doing while simultaneously not being able to understand the derogatory slurs thrown at me by other-language-speaking countrymen. I'd like to stretch out on the beaches of Mykonos again. It's been a while since I did that, and I didn't realize what a taste I had for it until I'd done it.

Why do I like the beach? Is it something that has been socially ingrained into me? Do I, underneath my computer-geek, film-student facade harbor a deep sun worshipper spirit? Has years of watching MTV's Spring Break finally warped my mind to a degree only seen before in straining houseplants leaning toward windows for the smallest splinter of filtered sunlight? Have I finally become "too cool for school?"

Yes. Yes I have.

This update was weeks in the making. Enjoy it.