Maureen Dowd on Uber. The Furies breathing down your neck.

Maureen Dowd and Uber. Maureen Dowd on Uber. Maureen Dowd in an Uber. Maureen around town in an Uber. Maureen thinking about Uber. Maureen writing about Uber. Fuck me.

Even in the land of movie stars, you could feel like a movie star when your Uber chauffeur rolled up. Standing in front of the Sunset Tower Hotel, I tapped my Uber app and saw five little cars swarming around my location.

The guy next door – pardonne moi, les petites sans importance – the chauffeur, he pulls up before her and vaults out of his Hyundai with a Panavision camera on his shoulder and a press gaggle in tow. And everybody knows everything about Maureen and can’t stop asking pointed personal questions because the Hollywood! No wait – the internet! Whatever mon readers, what a berserk freewheelin’ world it is, unspooling right before your pot-dabbling correspondent’s eyes. One of these Google Instagram webdrivers could pull out a samurai sword – really!

“Do you know why no one wanted to pick you up?” he asked. “Because you have a low rating.”

(Uber drivers see your rating once they accept the request and then can cancel.)

I was shocked. Blinded by the wondrous handiness of Uber, I had missed the fact that while I got to rate them, they got to rate me back.

Bumbling! Humility! How could you not love her?