Posthuman Blues

Hip new buses have descended on Kansas City like the vanguard of a vehicular invasion.





Called "the MAX," the sleeker-than-usual buses ply the pot-holed streets like blue-and-silver troop carriers. I can generally see at least two MAX buses from my window at any given time.

The bus-stops are chunks of Plexiglas that could pass for props from forgotten science fiction movies: booths with jutting canopies set next to scrolling electronic signs that erupt from the pavement like the steeples of subterranean churches. And the benches are surprisingly comfortable.