I’m ready for my robot chauffeur

I’ve hated driving since the day I received my license. Unlike most teenage boys, I didn’t spend the night before my 16th birthday sleeping in the backseat of my parents’ Country Squire station wagon, waiting for that magic moment when I became street legal.

I enjoyed driving for a day or two, because mobility equalled freedom. Freedom to get away from my crazy family for a few hours, freedom to leave the neighborhood, freedom to introduce my girlfriend, Dianne, to the wonders to be found on deserted country two-tracks.

But the thrill didn’t last. Well, maybe that’s not true with regard to Dianne and the two-track … but every other aspect of driving soon grew tedious.

Part of it early on had to do with the car I was driving, a 1964 Beetle that needed to be push-started every morning.

A string of equally luxurious automobiles came after the bug. Most of the time I could have afforded something better, but I just didn’t care enough about my ride to spend the money.

I might have invested in a vehicle with more paint than rust, but I sang in a rock & roll band and therefore didn’t need a cool car to get girls. So instead I spent the money on leather pants and new guitars (this was the ‘70s, remember). 

Long trips, even during times I owned nice cars, were nightmare-city for me. The idea of being cooped up behind the wheel of a vehicle just scares the bejeebers out of me.

It’s not that I’m especially claustrophobic (though I am), it’s that I hate paying attention to anything for extended periods of time. This lack of attentiveness was my bane in ninth-grade algebra class and has been a problem for me as a motorist my whole life.

My mind wanders. I miss freeway exits, the occasional stop sign, guardrails along steep mountain passes. My highway speed — when I’m not using cruise control — fluctuates from 32 mph to 80.

I am a menace.

Which is why I’m so geeked by the idea of self-driving cars. I keep reading about them and with every article I read, I get more excited. Several major car companies are testing them, as is Google. Most of the testing is going on in California, apparently; I’m not sure why. 

As I understand it, there have been a few accidents, but none the fault of the self-driving technology. It’s been human error. Humans like me.

Frankly, my robot chauffeur can’t be delivered soon enough. I’m more than ready to stretch out in the backseat, put my feet up and watch the countryside roll by while Robbie does the driving.

My only regret is the technology didn’t come along sooner, back when I was still dating Dianne. It’s harder for cops to shine that flashlight into a moving vehicle.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

If only I could get a message to my 18-year-old self

I’m on Facebook a lot these days. Social networking, for better or worse, has become a big part of the newspaper industry, for which I work. 

Most of what’s on Facebook is, for lack of a better word, a word I cannot use in a family newspaper (the last three letters are “r-a-p”).

I’m especially disdainful of “memes” — those pictures of unicorns or foggy meadows over which smarmy slogans have been superimposed, things like, “Repost this if you have a beautiful daughter” or “Share this and God will send money your way!”  I hate ‘em.

There was one such meme waiting for me yesterday when I logged on. But this meme, unlike most, was kind of interesting. It read: “If you could send a message to your younger self, what would it be?” 

Is there anyone who wouldn’t take advantage of an opportunity like this? I’ve made so many wrong turns in my life I wouldn’t even know where to start.

Problem is, my younger self was an idiot. My current self isn’t much better, but when compared to my younger self, I now seem like the Buddha. Getting my younger self to listen to my current self’s warnings would be a challenge akin to erecting the pyramids. 

But assuming I could smack my younger self around enough to make him pay attention (and I’m assuming I could; I’ve got 50 pounds on that skinny, 18-year-old punk) these are the things I would say to him.

• Do not let that redhead at the hotel bar buy you shots! Your girlfriend will not be OK with what happens later and she will eventually leave you for a fat guy from Indiana who services electronic dart machines. Serves you right, moron!

• If you tell a friend you will provide the music for her wedding ceremony, try really hard to NOT miss it. It turns out there are no “do-overs” for this sort of thing.

• On or about your 45th birthday, you will be tempted to demonstrate for your 10-year-old stepson some “cool moves” on his skateboard. Don’t. And for the love of all that’s holy, if you do, at least do it out back where the whole neighborhood won’t witness your epic crash and burn.

• Don’t marry anyone more than 18 years younger than yourself. I don’t care how cute she is! I said don’t do it!

• You’re going to live longer than you think. Floss every day. 

• Surprise, surprise. You won’t be too old to enjoy the party on New Year’s Eve, 1999 after all. Bring your own champagne, though; the stuff they’re serving at that dive bar you’ll be playing could strip the paint off a Buick.

• I do not care what everyone else is doing in 1982; do NOT cut your hair in a mullet! Idiot!

• If you yell at your five-year-old daughter and make her cry because she won’t hold still for a photograph, I swear to God I will come back in time and beat you unconscious. I don’t care how frustrated you are, there are more important things in life than getting a good shot for the family Christmas card.

• Your kids are going to grow up to be smarter than you; better looking, too. You may as well get used to the idea.

• Don’t buy that pet store! You don’t know anything about running a pet store and you’re going to lose your shirt. Also, look out for that gigantic ball python; she bites.

• Don’t worry about money. It matters far less than you think. Sometimes you’ll have some, sometimes you won’t. It will have virtually no impact on how happy you are.

• On the other hand, when a company called “Microsoft” goes public in 1986, buy at least 1,000 shares and become good friends with a guy named Bill Gates. Yeah, he’s a dork, but knowing him will work to your advantage in the long run.

And that’s about it, I guess. If I could get all this information to my younger self, who knows where I’d be in 2014? That’s assuming I could get young, dumb, me to listen to old, dumb me.

More Reality Check online at mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com. Contact Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.