The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

News blurb: A Waymo car went up in flames in San Francisco’s Chinatown after a crowd surrounded it, scrawled graffiti, smashed windows and then threw a firework inside the driverless vehicle in the middle of a crowded street Saturday night.

Now, I’m not really certain a driverless taxi cab qualifies as a cyborg or a robot, but it definitely has similarities. But I’m willing to celebrate the good folks of San Francisco for what no doubt will be the opening salvo against the coming Android Apocalypse. Admittedly the cab wasn’t armed with defensive weaponry which will be required gear in the near future. And eventually the robo-cars will outfit with offensive firepower. Start with tasers, tear gas, work up to more lethal strategies if required.

Right now, though, the AI assisted automobile has few defenses, making it a prime target for anti-android citizens. Start with destroying a wheeled droid and move on to whatever iteration the Silicon Tech Boyz inflict on a fairly clueless society whose members mostly trust the puerile billionaires to act in humanity’s best interest. Sure. If you define humanity as themselves….

The Luddites of the early 1800’s battled the industrialization of their weaving guilds by smashing the mechanical looms in burgeoning factories. Didn’t take long to squash that revolt … and it won’t take long to round up these modern technophobes either. But it does strike a blow against the empire, does it not? A small spark that might ignite a revolution. The bots are coming and the android evolution will be like nothing the old Luddites could ever have imagined. First the machines will replace jobs, then they’ll replace us. Probably why the Silicon Valley geniuses are building vast underground bunkers and stocking them with caviar and champagne. They plan to be the last ones standing. Which might be true, but only for a very short time. Their inventions aren’t going to be calling them Daddy when they come calling one last time.

Hits: 24

Google cars came out with some statistics recently. Driverless cars don’t have accidents really … and the few they do have are cars with drivers running into them. Some of the boyz in the Flatheads, our vintage car club, were flabbergasted. They’re old school guyz who revel in memories of souped up engines, backroad drag races, cue ball shifter knobs and dangling dice on the rearview. They love their rods, they love their memories and they go apoplectic to imagine a future of robot automobiles they can sit in the backseat and read a paper. They have fond memories of other uses for that backseat.

“The Age of the Automobile is coming to an end,” I made the mistake of saying to Two Toke Tom at the Diner where it was overheard by half the Flatheads at the breakfast pow-wow where they’d pushed half the tables together to make room for about a dozen car enthusiasts. Their Packards and Chargers and 88’s were lined up outside the plate glass like an outdoor Museum for Testosterone, right next to Tom’s beater with the cracked windshield and the missing front quarter panel, all gleaming with fresh wax and loving care. I might have been wiser announcing we ought to confiscate guns in an NRA meeting.

Freddie, the head honcho Flathead, jerked his head in the direction of my blasphemy. “What are you drinking, man???” he practically shouted. Brenda spilled coffee on Harry’s hand, missing his cup by a quarter mile. “Yeoww!” he hollered in pain. The whole café was now on Alert. “I only mean the day is coming when cars will drive themselves. They don’t have accidents, Fred, and if they don’t have accidents, guess what the insurance companies are going to demand? You want to drive your big Dodge, fine, but guess what they’ll charge your Charger for the privilege?”

“Over my dead fender, Skeeter.” Two Toke raised his cup. “Amen, brother Fred, Amen.”

“All I’m saying, Fred, is half the folks out there on the road these days aren’t driving anyway. They’re text messaging, they’re talking on the phone, they’re wobbling over the center line and they’re drifting onto the shoulder. They go from 60 mph to 30 mph. I don’t know what all they’re doing behind the wheel, but it sure isn’t driving. Might be okay with me if they let the computer do that for em so they can pay attention to their smartphone.”

Fred snorted and the assembled Flatheads snorted in agreement. Brenda mopped up Harry’s table and dried his hand. Harry would live, Two Toke would get a good laugh on me later and the Flatheads would all drive down Memory Lane with rumbling mufflers, KaHooga horns, mohaired upholstery, big fins and whitewall tires like mastodons crossing back over the Bering Strait to a garage somewhere in the Pleistocene.

Hits: 47