Mobile Parking Lots and Automobiles
a Peter rant
Recently I had the multiple experiences of being in a mobile parking lot of horseless motor vehicles and other sundry powerful contraptions. While these were not uncommon experiences, they did take me back to my thigh of the great forest where I began my existence; or at least the current one as opposed to past or future ones.
At the exact center of my little place of combined and individual existences, stood the perpetual and obligatory statue dedicated to someone or something that was important to the history of my thigh of the great forest.
In ever expanding concentric circles from said statue, were a number of structures that fit into the categories of businesses, services, houses, mansions, and sundry places of abode or consciousness.
That is to say: within the first concentric circle were the first or primary business shoppes that looked out onto the statute; this, of course, gave people, whether inhabitants or complete or semi-complete strangers the option of either checking out the interior of the shoppe or seeing the statue while listening to the shopkeeper drone on.
More and more places of shopping or window browsing occupied the next couple concentric circles. Being as we were all of like mind and quite sensitive to seeing anything that resembled the backside, the businesses all faced each other, if you can picture that; in other words, the businesses in the second concentric circle faced the businesses in the third concentric circle, and so on.
Next, we had the places of service that are needed in every commune or community or place of consciousness; that is, the medical doctors, the mental doctors, the dentists, and the very mental doctors and self-help gurus.
On successive rings were the houses of the common folk, the hill people, the “I’m-on-a-different-plane-of-existence-than-you-are folks, and other ordinary or not-so-ordinary carbon copies. Naturally, unlike the businesses, these circles of homes either faced each other or did not, as backyards can be quite nice to look at from front yards; right, wrong, or indifferent?
Lastly, there were the mansions, the uber-houses, the places that could easily take up an entire concentric circle all by itself or himself or herself depending on the character or characters of said abodes.
Of course, there was a reason that the mansions were placed on the outer circles: should there be an attack from the elements or from some unsavory forces, the mansions got hit first and foremost. After all: why not the ones who could afford to replace their homes or planes of existence be hit first instead of the other way around? Times were rough.
Quite clearly, as I hope everyone reading this sees, in my former abode of existence everything was within walking distance of each other; even the mansion dwellers were close to the services at the center or middle of existence; of course, they had to be able to access the statue.
That is; that is; that is until someone, no one knows quite sure, decided that walking was no longer a desired means of transportation. One day it happened: the advent of motorized transportation and the end of my little, humble, and perfect abode and plane of existence.
Fast forward to the present: we now have hamlets, villages, small towns, towns, cities, mega cities, and metropolises, all accessible by motorized contraptions with little walking happening anywhere. And, most assuredly, we have the now standard mobile parking lots. Oh yes!!!
Yes, ladies, gentlemen, carbon copies, and all the rest: I know, I know, and I do know that we need motorized transportation. But; wait for it; wait for it; wait some more; do we need mobile parking lots?
Final thought ultimate: when I mentioned my topic of “mobile parking lots” to a higher authority that I value, this entity said in response: “oh, you mean traffic jams.” My reply: yes and no as this was a term of old and alas one cannot spread out mobile parking lots like you could with traffic jams; if some power were to attempt to spread out mobile parking lots they would only get worse.
by Peter S. Lust