In a 1990 trip to Disney World, I keenly remember being promised an adulthood of vacationing on the ocean floor, living on the Moon, and driving a damned flying car. I’m almost 30, and I’ll be damned if I’m doing any of that. I mean sure, I have the internet and the ability to grasp the entirety of human knowledge in the palm of my hand, but that won’t deliver me right to the eighth floor of my office. I have to use the elevator. And if the elevator isn’t work, I have to use stairs!
We were promised flying cars; we got a dude riding a swarm of ugly drones
This is not my beautiful future
This is not my beautiful future
Today, I understand the closest we might get to flying cars is someone strapping a chair to a swarm of drones and calling it good enough, like they’re Larry Walter with a budget. I respect the skill and brainpower that went into Thorstin Crijns’s 110-pound multicopter. I understand how great things sprout from hideous prototypes. This could be our first look at something truly astonishing.
But it’s 2015. This should be my life:
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