For the ancient Greeks the image of utter futility was that of Sisyphus, slowly rolling a boulder uphill, only to have it slip back just before the summit and then to have to do it again, and again, and again. Pity poor Sisyphus, and pity those poor Greeks. But pity most of all, modern man. Because we have exercises in futility beyond anything the Greek mythic imagination could ever conceive.

Does anything better encapsulate the madness of modernity than this peculiar exercise in futility: You are on a busy city freeway going someplace unfamiliar and you miss your exit. Suddenly, you find yourself hurtling through space at 60 mph going someplace you don't want to go-- and you can't stop, and you can't turn around. You find yourself trapped in a game moving so fast you have very few options for action, and yet, despite the incredible speed at which you are proceeding, you aren't going anywhere (at least, no place you want to go). You know the feeling? Moments of panic ensue, and, if you are of a philosophic bent, maybe even a thought or two of an ancient Greek rolling boulders.

But if you could reach back in time and tell your myth to poor Sisyphus he would think you quite mad, or think you wholly venal that the gods should have to punish you with such a fiendish torment. And one way or another, he would probably be right.