When Uber first arrived on the scene, it confirmed my Emerald City, Post-Millennial sense of things: “It’s Getting Better All The Time.”   (Of course, that’s in a trend-line sort of way, as anyone who has lost weight knows.  History is a roller coaster with hills and valleys.)  As far as Uber is concerned, I was an instant devotee.  It knows where you are.  It gives you a special color light to hold up for the driver.  It lets you pick your vehicle.  You don’t have to worry about parking, or frantic one-way city streets.  You don’t even need cash.  What is NOT to like?  I made sure to tip well and be ready for the ride, because I wanted my customer rating to remain high.

But I don’t care about it anymore.  It doesn’t work. It’s not Uber’s fault either.  It’s the Greta Thunberg era of global elites who can’t stand goons like us having a better life.  Cheap, easy travel for the peasants is not high on their list, nor is a single family home, nor is reasonably priced gas at the pump, nor the freedom to jump on a flight without proving this week’s jab-du-jour has been administered.  We have enormous energy reserves, and better alternative energy all the time, but technological manifest destiny, for some reason I can’t divine, is not cool with the Ted Danson & Bill Gates set.  They have their beach homes.  Why would you even presume, Mr. Serf?

Since the dawn of the Commie Virus panic, I’ve had at least four complete Uber failures, and I almost endured an urban stranding or two.  (“Is there a hotel in walking distance?”)

Like I say, it’s not Uber’s fault.  You can’t scare the customers to death and expect them to be there, holding up their unique color tile, in the designated pick-up spot.  No customers.  No Uber.

Thank you, Anthony Fauci.