The Driver of the Driverless Car

As the driver of a driverless car, put me squarely in the camp of those who neither like or dislike Bono but who regards all celebrity with the gimlet eye of suspicion.

And who, I wonder, will play the role of Gwyneth Paltrow in the upcoming mini-series, The Ivanka Trump Story?

I’m not in the mood for love, I’m in the mood for cancellation. I’m pushing all the appropriate buttons, including Control and Delete.

It’s my problem so I’ll own it, the classic dilemma of a liberal humanist: a desire to identify with the poor, the downtrodden, the less fortunate, but not wanting to be poor myself.

To paraphrase WB Yeats, there are no wheels for the wheels to come off of. That there are no wheels gives me kind of a good greasy, easy feeling. I can ride along, with Yeast, all I have to do is look out the windows, not get my hands dirty by going under the hood, or of ‘things of this nature’ as Schwarzenegger likes to say.

Well here I am, nearer and nearer my final destination, still here, still waiting for the light to change, waiting and waiting, using up all my time waiting. I still don’t really know how I came to get where I am going.

I am the driver of the driverless car.