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Date:         Sat, 18 Oct 2008 11:44:14 -0600
Reply-To:     Thomas Buese <tombuese@COMCAST.NET>
Sender:       Vanagon Mailing List <vanagon@gerry.vanagon.com>
From:         Thomas Buese <tombuese@COMCAST.NET>
Subject:      Re: your Boat, Ginger Clown the Dream ...
Comments: To: joel walker <uncajoel@BELLSOUTH.NET>
In-Reply-To:  <005501c930c8$295d90c0$0101a8c0@gp207joel>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII; format=flowed; delsp=yes

I am honored to be mentioned w/ these other old volks, but moi, "old & abused"?

LOL,

Mr. BZ-still alive after Buses in Ruins-spreadsheet to follow

On Oct 17, 2008, at 8:20 PM, joel walker wrote:

>> FWIW if you stay lucky you'll be as old and abused as me, BZ, Unca >> Joel and >> the wizard of all thingies electrical the venrable David Bierl some >> day. >> Keep on keepin on. > > being of those mentioned in this rant, i feel compelled to warn all > those young whippersnappers still in training pants that it ain't > necessarily "staying lucky" that gets you this old and abused. :( > > the only thing worse than being in the wrong place at the wrong time > with the wrong people is being in the right place at the right time > with the right people. > both situations can be hazardous to your long-term health. :) > actually any combination of those things can be dangerous ... > wrong place right time right people > right place wrong time right people > etc. > > but we've all got to be somewhere sometime. and no matter where you > go, there you are! ;) and if you can't be with the one you love, then > love whoever's handy. or something like that. > > and always remember ... > > When Confused and When in Doubt, > Run in Circles, Scream and Shout, > Lower the Lifeboat, Fire the Gun, > Salute the Flag ... Well Done!! > :) > > so now i'll leave you all with this little tidbit (by someone other > than Phineas T. Bluster) ... > > O'kane & The People's Truck > by Dick O'Kane <Road & Track, July 1971> > > I should be uplifted by the scene today ... made whole in the soul > while my mind reclines on soft thoughts and nibbles at the little > peeled grapes of delight that surround me. For the vista at this > moment on this day is one many men dream of as they sit starched and > confined on a cold winter Monday. > > The scene is typical enough ... for here. The cafe features the > Mandatory Picture of the king, Optional Suggested Picture of the > king's > father, a sooty Moroccan flag, a roaring, hissing coffee machine with > attendant harrassed attendant, and a flood of blazing, gold-white > sunshine ... hot and fine and welcome enough to bleach out almost any > care. I say ALMOST any care, for I'm beset by a malady, a longing, > a certain madness that comes in recurring attacks, and needs only a > reminder to trip off an episode. Like right now; I should be > transported by the veiled ladies in white, and by the roaring towers > of white spray where the sunlit surf crashes over the ruins of the > ancient castle, but it's lost on me. Because THEY are there at the > curb. > Six . . . seven . . . ten of them. Ten Volkswagen vans. To me at > this > moment in history their presence, their being, the whirring, > clittering > bumble of their hopeless little engines is an affront, a cruelty, a > taunt beyond endurance, because dammit, I WANT ONE! Gone is the low, > snarling red fantasy, vanished in a cloud of rubber smoke and > expensive > fumes, to be replaced by dreams of . . . but you'd laugh. > > Christ, it's like being infatuated with a fat, ugly woman. > > And as with both women and cars, when you want one most, none are > available. > > I suppose I got into this Volksie van thing about the same way > everybody else does. At one point a while back I found myself with > more than an E-Type could accommodate, i.e., a fallen-down farm and > a woman possessed of all the best and worst qualities of mistress and > magpie. See, Jeffi's a compulsive trash-picker, and many's the time > I've answered the phone to an excited description of the perfectly > good > and excessively groovy 7-foot walnut and velvet couch simply sitting > there on the sidewalk waiting for the trash man, and could I please > get > out the Jaguar and come help pack it on home . . . > > Now, an E Jaguar has many remarkable abilities, but drayage is not > one of them. So, typically, when a friend's clapped-out, clattering > Volksie van came up for sale, we bought it, typically, for $400. It > was one of the window vans with seats, about a '64, and we figured it > would be nice to have around ... you know, something to rumble down to > the dump with every few days . . . or maybe to drive to town once a > week to transport a few little sticks of furniture . . . > > Anyway, that was the plan, and it soon got out of hand in > predictable fashion ... Jeffi and I squabbled daily over the thing > while the E rusted silently in the barn. And by the end of the summer > we were so capivated by that improbable conveyance that we were > practically living in it. It may surprise you, but a Volksie van is > one of the most delightful vehicles on the road ... or off. And it is > first, last and always eminently useful and sensible ... a cheap, > practical trundle-all for the Average Man ... a veritable People's > Truck, in fact, designed with the same quaint attention to Common > Sense > that guided the development of the People's Car. > > Research the matter a little and you'll find that there are four > kinds of Volksie vans ... hundred-dollar ones, four-hundred-dollar > ones, > eight-hundred-dollar ones and new ones. A four-hundred-dollar one is > actually a hundred-dollar one for which someone managed to get four > hundred dollars, and an eight-hundred-dollar one is a four-hundred- > dollar one with paint. A new one is any one with a one-piece wind- > shield. And whether you get it new or used, you can take your choice > or your chance and get it with or without windows, with or without > seats, beds, a kitchen, whatever ... there is a People's Truck and > stuff > to go in it for everyone. (Another fact of economics ... when you > have > a Volksie van, everybody wants to buy it, except when you want to sell > it; then you can't give it away.) > > No matter what kind of body/interior it has, you can call it a bus, > a truck or a van and no one will care, not even the parts man. Our > first one had windows and we called it The Truck, while our second one > had none and we called it The Bus. See, it all depends on whether you > come to regard yourself as the driver of a truck or a bus. The > vehicle > itself will force you into one of these roles because you sit WAY up > high over all the other traffic, and the way your hands fall on the > big > horizontal wheel is . . . well, you just get into being a bus/truck > driver, that's all. > > Whether you're bussing or trucking, you can carry a prodigious load > of goods and/or people; in fact, the thing has a bigger capacity than > the average owner will ever use. With seats, it's cozy with nine, or > you can take out the seats in about 2-1/2 minutes and pack in an > entire > sub-culture. Other things you can put in a Volksie bus and take > places > include 12 to 18 great big dogs, sound equipment for a rock group, > nine > weeks' garbage or four weeks' trash, a winter's worth of firewood, two > cows, most of your friends, a young elephant, 16 Arab ladies, or a > big, > hairy motorcycle. Though not all at once. And when you're through, > you can simply hose the whole thing out. > > Best of all, though, you can throw everyone and everything out and > move into your truck to live. That's actually my rationale for > wanting > one here on the west coast of Africa. It'll accommodate a double bed, > your camping stuff and all the crap you acquire in New Hope, Coney > Island or Marrakech. And when you're through acquiring, you don't > have > to pay New Hope or Coney Island or Marrakech prices for a room ... > just > drive until you find a place with a free view. And if the roadside > doesn't suit you, leave it ... the People's Truck stands tall and > proud > on its skinny tires, most of its vitals tucked up out of reach of > those > big pointy rocks, and it can take you pretty far afield without damage > or embarrassment to itself or its load. > > And, mind you, it does all this on dainty sips of the gas-station > man's most humble potion, with an engine that seems to require nothing > more than privacy. > > This is not to say that People's Trucking is ALL roses and light, > though. For all this common sense, economy and space, one pays one's > dues. For instance, consider the shape and size of the thing. It has > all the aerodynamic purity of a sheet-iron cow shed, and if you like > the > sedan in a cross-wind, you'll just LOVE the truck! It doesn't just > meander around the road in the wind, either. It blows helplessly > around like a big empty box, it can meander clear OFF the road in a > trice, and sudden bullish charges into the other lane are commonplace > ... but here, at last, after all these years, YOU get a chance to > frighten all the oncoming traffic. > > There are other wind hazards. For instance, there's headwind, > which > can turn a 2-hour trip into a 4-hour one, and there's tailwind, which > can get you arrested for speeding, as it's the only way you can ever > hope to exceed a turnpike speed limit. Then there's truck wind, which > happens every time a truck passes you, which is quite often. This > requires a high degree of hard left rudder, as the bow wave of a big > truck can blow you right off into the ditch. > > Without wind, the performance of the People's Truck will probably > please Mom more than Dad. The handbook says the one-, four- and > eight- > hundred-dollar series will make a breathless 65, and it will ... on > the > flat with no wind and after about fifteen minutes of gritting your > teeth in a sympathetic effort (sometimes it helps to lean forward in > the seat and bounce gently up and down, too). Once underway, you > drive > flat out, and you soon learn to conserve headway like diamonds. You > find yourself taking all kinds of wild chances, nipping though narrow > openings, passing when you shouldn't, ANYTHING to save lifting your > foot. > > If you do any driving through hilly terrain, you'll learn something > very valuable ... how to enjoy scenery. This is something you'll HAVE > to learn to save your sanity, because there is precious little else to > do ... though on a REALLY hilly road, you can always read. > > Noise is something else you learn to take in stride, but not with > all models. Some of them are all fancy and padded inside and are > therefore pretty silent, but not all of them. See, the average > garden- > variety Volksie van is tastefully trimmmed in booming, clanging sheet > metal, and fast passage over a bumpy road is like rolling down a > cobblestone hill in a galvanized garbage can. > > There are a couple of rememdies for this, though. One is to glue > old carpeting, jute bags and foam rubber all over the interior, which > will quiet things down some, and another is to overwhelm the clatter > with a ruckus of one's own ... like a good, big stereo tape system. > In > fact, one of the most impressive sound systems I've ever heard lived > in > a Volksie truck, along with an oriental carpet, an overstuffed > armchair, > a gigantic brass hookah and a Tiffany lamp. The truck was loud, but > the > tapes were louder, and a twist of the knob would drown out everything > ... > the indigenous clatter, the leaky muffler, the hard metallic vibration > and all that traffic blowing to pass. That's the thing ... you don't > dare get too quiet. I knew another guy who had a panel with a window > in it right behind the front seats, and it made the cab so quiet that > one day he got out on the turnpike, couldn't hear the engine screaming > that it was still in third gear, and didn't even hear it when it > finally > blew up. He thought he was out of gas, and it wasn't until he tried > the > starter with the door open that he heard all the broken pieces > churning > around. > > Yet another hassle you learn to live with is cops. You'd think > that > a vehicle capable of nothing more dangerous than a brisk trundle would > be left alone by the fuzz, but it is not so. Because of its nature > ... > cheap practicality with a highly mobile view ... the Volksie van is > rapidly becoming the Official Vehicle of the International Counter- > Culture, which means young people with hair, bright clothing, rather > loose schedules and other such threats to God and Country. To the > average cop, then, that big tin box full of hair, gasping up the hill > is nothing more than the Main Stash ... a thousand-kilo brick of > Panama Red disguised as a Volksie van, with windows and doors and > freaks painted on it and WOW, we're all gonna make Sergeant! It isn't > "Where's the fire?" anymore, it's "Where's the grass?" and unless you > look like Mr. Clean going somewhere to scrub a floor, you can plan to > spend some time by the side of the road explaining your identity, > destination, political views and whatever's in your pockets with The > Man. > > A friend of mine gets his lumps in by always offering the cop the > T-key to the engine compartment, the cop always goes to look, and he > always gets all smarmy and gresy in the process, but beyond that, > there's nothing you can do . . . except vote for me and Stan Mott in > '72. If elected, we will have all the drivers of port-hole Buicks > stopped and hassled about income tax evasion. > > But these are mere annoyances. The real danger ... the Ultimate > Hazard of People's Trucking is the Sorcerer's Apprentice Syndrome. > Reducted to simplicity, this is where you say to your woman, "Behold, > for I have brought thee a truck ... go ye therefore and collect groovy > things and bring them here to make our house fulsome and glad." > > And she does. > > Giving a truck to a compulsive trash-picker is like giving > automatic > weapons to Attila the Hun. Even with an empty 10-bedroom farmhouse we > were soon overwhelmed with Stuff. After we'd owned the truck a month, > for instance, George gave us a painting for the house ... a small > 2-ft- > by-2-ft painting, already, and we couldn't find a place for it! And > then there was all that stuff in the barn when we left . . . Lord! > Your > only consolation when this sort of thing starts is that you have a > truck > with which to cart it all away again ... on days when your wife lefts > you use it. > > Then there's the heater, and the matter of cold weather . . . but > enough. You should have the picture by now. Still, you can't know > the > true, deep-down nature of the beast until you've lived with one for > awhile ... and then you begin to see that besides all its Teutonic > sensibility and practicality and usefulness, there's just something > about the People's truck that's . . . well . . . SILLY. And fun. > It's > like owning a pack elephant that says and does droll things ... > a cartoon hippopotamus that brings you the paper and reads over your > shoulder and agrees with you about important things, like where to go > today, and where to spend the night and when to leave. I think Lewis > Carroll would have owned one. Dammit, they CAPTIVATE, that's all, and > people respond by painting them colors and naming them things, like > Fantasia and Moby Truck and Brunhilde. In fact, last night while > dreaming over the fire I decided I'd get one without windows next, and > paint it candy-apple red with a gigantic black Maltese Cross on the > side, and put a bit helmet spike on top of the cab and call it the > Iron > Chancellor . . . > > High on a ridge about two miles up the beach, I can see a silver > thread of road glistening with last night's rain, and on the thread > like > a colorful beads are four . . . six . . . seven little dots. More > Volkswagen vans. One of those dudes has just GOT to be for sale, I > betcha. > > Does anybody feel like taking a walk up the beach after breakfast?


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