In June 2016, I will hold an award ceremony, hosted by Morgan Freeman. Categories will include
- Best Rider in a Supporting Role [aka Front Seat GPS Luddite]
- Farthest Ride
- Shortest Ride
- Most Unusual Ride
- Best Fact-Filled Ride
- You-Can’t-Make-This-Stuff-Up-Passenger
These events are short films. Some are cartoons – line drawings morphing from a small child to a full-grown Tyrannosaurus Rex. Others could compete with The Maltese Falcon in the film noir section, circa 1949.
I dub these Sunday morning black-and-white sagas my “Ubers of Shame”. Although it’s not in the Uber customer service directive, I try to help with the hangover. I offer to stop to purchase a can of ‘hair of the dog’; or, if they’re not that far advanced, drop them off at a greasy diner.
I find it amazing that they know where to find their vehicle. I never could find mine.
Lost my red Ford Falcon Futura convertible somewhere around St Andrews Place in Los Angeles, in 1967. I’ve lost count how many times I would misplaced my orange VW with mag wheels, in Newport or Laguna. Millennials will never understand what life was like before the “Find my Car” app.
I’ve just enrolled to be a Lyft driver. Stay tuned as my life gets an anthropological injection of comparative civilizations. My life is rich.