art dead bus

There was not one cup-holder in the thing, besides your crotch. The only safety feature was its engine: since it was too small and weird to actually do much of anything at all, the whole blunt, poky thing could never attain anything like a lethal speed.

You got there when you got there, and when you got there, you sent a postcard. Or called using the name “I’MSAFELOVEYOU!” and your mother didn’t call the state police. You had to be back at a certain time: there was always a remarkably precise time you had to be back by.

I’m not sure of the exact number of vans sold with the mobile wi-fi hotspot option, but I think it was a very small number back then. Not only did the headrests not contain video screens, they weren’t even very good to rest your head on. Everything–even the good stuff–back then was built by people who had gotten good measurements of humans, but had never met one. And were not, themselves, human.

Bench seats were hideous and crude back then: the entire design meetings for those immense runaways of naugahyde lasted 30 seconds.

“Have you joined the two slabs of foam-covered rubber together at a 110 degree angle?”

“Yes.”

“Walk away: now it is art for the ages!”

Ergonomics wasn’t a thing yet, just a weird bunch of fuckers in Idaho doing formalized logic in leg warmers.

Explain that last thing to me, please.

I’m sure it means something.

Right.