Uber of Shame

Uber of Sheep

I can’t believe I . . .

In June 2016, I will hold an award ceremony, hosted by Morgan Freeman. Categories will include

  • Best Passenger in a Supporting Role [aka Front Seat GPS Luddite]
  • Farthest [Furthest?]
  • Shortest
  • Weirdest
  • Best Fact-Filled
  • You-Can’t-Make-This-Stuff-Up
  • Messiest
  • Grateful
  • Repeater

Award Winning Short Films

The screen goes dark and instead of 45 minutes of previews, short films appear. Some are cartoons –  line drawings morphing from a small child to a fully grown Tyrannosaurus Rex. Others could shine in the  film noir section, circa 1949. Think Maltese Falcon.

These black-and-white glimpses into Saturday night’s one-toke-over-the-liners become my Ubers of Shame on Sunday mornings. I whisper, play Symphony Hall softly and try to make them feel better, just short of menudo. I suggest purchasing a can of  ‘hair of the dog’; or, if they’re not that far down the razor blade to full-blown pro drinker, stopping at a greasy-spoon diner. For those whose destination is somewhere in the vicinity of where they left their car, I congratulate them.

More than once, I couldn’t find mine. Lost my red Ford Falcon Futura convertible somewhere around St Andrews Place in Los Angeles, in 1967. Later, I misplaced my orange VW with mag wheels, in Newport or Laguna, or Costa Mesa – name an Orange County city.

Millennials will never understand what life was like before the “Find my Car” app.

Lyft without the Mustache

Breaking news! I’ve just enrolled to be a Lyft driver. Stay tuned as my life gets an anthropological injection of comparative civilizations

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