Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Somewhere around 2,000 to 3,000 feet it occurred to me, as I peered through the meager airplane window, that urban planning doesn’t call for shapes in the traditional sense. I always thought buildings were laid out in some kind of, I don’t know, grid or something, but organizing the sprawl is apparently an entirely right-brained pursuit. One neighborhood was shaped into a decazoid, while an adjoining community resembled what can be best described as a rectahedron.

At about 10,000 feet I figured the plane, were its wings to detach suddenly, would basically look like a missile–destination: Earth–and the long drop to a hard stop would be a novel new way of disembarking. Then, at 20,000 feet, I– Oh, a bag of peanuts! And a beverage of my choice? At 20,000 feet I was duly placated, and urban planners were promptly freed to do whatever they pleased. Want to stack houses on top of each other? Approved.

When the plane finally landed, there came a startling realization: it’s not the altitude that disagrees with me, it’s the mode of transportation that makes me queasy. Heights are fine. Velocity is even better. Being strapped to a metal canister a few miles above ground, however, is not the preferred method of locomotion. But a pair of rocket-propelled pants? Infinitely more appealing. I’m not talking about sustained flight here, so much as trousers that could propel you in miles-long arcs, one jump at a time. Imagine the opportunities! We could call them LeeFlys, or maybe Flungarees, and really the only danger would be dying of embarrassment.