volkswagen hippie van
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volkswagen hippie van Post Review
Volkswagen hippie van🚐☮️❤️ Photo By: Joseph Hill🙂📸🚐 #SMF2021 #SandhillsMotoringFestival #Volkswagen #hippievan #Peace #Groovy #beautiful #carshow #PinehurstNC #May https://t.co/og7kc5bm83
Okay hear me out... fresh start!!! Let’s just drop everything, get a cute little volkswagen hippie van and just start a new life together🌼 anybody down? https://t.co/q5nfphghZm
A cool @VW I saw at work painted as a minion🤣 #vw #hippie #van #Minions #minion #Halloween #campervans #cars #Volkswagen #menlopark #facebook #funny #cute #Camping #TuesdayMorning https://t.co/JbFrIEuSTo
Twin Cities VW Club show yesterday at Westside Volkswagen. Hippie, hippie van. https://t.co/W6t5KwvzG4
I delivered to the sickest house yesterday. It had two huge stone dinosaurs in the front, an old Volkswagen hippie van, and a sign That said free Brittney. I wish I could’ve met who lived there lmfaooo https://t.co/s4whUaVsMl
( ++. ) ——— ; she won't be happy until she owns a volkswagen hippie van. https://t.co/4U1xDS4ww6
This guy sounds like TommyChong. And he owns a weed farm and a Volkswagen Hippie Van named Mothership. https://t.co/s3Gjv6GZU5
Do you know? MPV stands for Multi Purpose Vehicle, also sometimes called minivans, or people carriers. One of the earliest versions of an MPV, long before anyone thought to call them MPV’s, was the Volkswagen Type 2, which some may remember as the ‘Hippie Van’ of the 1960s. https://t.co/dXFe8JI8EM
.@Volkswagen van 2 Versions: Normal and Hippie, by Alexandre Martin - https://t.co/PGfiSOhUei Textured with #SubstancePainter #vfx #3dart #digitalart #MadeWithSubstance https://t.co/mcrtYJTfpe
THIS is an awesome paint job! #VW #Beetle #Van #VWBus #VWBug #Volkswagen #Hippie https://t.co/HmUhwEAoRO
volkswagen hippie van Q&A Review
Will the Eurovan ever come back to the U.S.?
The Eurovan was discontinued because it was unsafe (poor crash test results), relatively expensive, and far less utilitarian than competing vans. In fact, VW replaced the Eurovan with the Routan (a re-badged Chrysler), and now they're getting rid of that too: Volkswagen Routan Axed After All VW is getting out of the minivan business forever, and that's not a bad thing. The segment is shrinking as consumers reject minivans for sexier "crossovers" that offer much of the same functionality without the stigma. As for the death of the VW hippie van, good riddance. That was an ugly chapter in automotive history IMHO.
Have you ever almost died and had something inexplicable, miraculously save you?
I hope this answer is on point enough for everyone. It’s not like I was diving out on the ocean somewhere and got attacked by a killer shark and had to swim two miles with half a leg missing. I totally lucked out, but I got myself into a situation where I could have been killed or seriously fucked in multiple ways, had one inexplicable thing not transpired. Here’s what went down. Highway robbers (or god knows what they were) somewhere in Nevada set up a road block in the dead of night around 1 a.m. on a flat and lonely stretch of highway back in 1981. For some reason I had to be the one heading straight toward it in my trusty old Volkswagen van containing everything I owned. I was fresh out of college on my way to California from South Dakota, full of audacity and naivete and ready to start living my American dream. I’ve always enjoyed driving at night, and I’m a night person, so driving at that hour would not be unusual for me. But I had been driving all night, and maybe that explains why I didn’t see the road block in front of me until it was too late for me to stop. Yes, rationally I would have to say it was the long monotonous night time drive that put me into such a trance-like state, but I don’t really know. Truth is I didn’t mentally connect with the fact of that road block in front of me until it was too late. All I had time to do was swerve quickly and instinctively to the right and drive along the shoulder since both highway lanes were fully blocked by two other vehicles, one parked parallel smack in the middle of the right lane, and the other parked perpendicular against the flow of traffic, just next to it in the left lane. As I swerved and began speeding passed the car in the right lane, barely missing it in the process, a shadowy figure bolted out from between us in a harrowing but successful attempt to dodge the crazy menace that was my sweet little hippy van. After passing the blockade I slowed down a bit, probably to 40 or 45 MPH as I tried to comprehend what had just happened. I also had to settle the debate in my head as to whether I should go back or not. Why? Because one of the vehicles, the perpendicular one, had a flashing red cherry on top. That’s why. I thought I might be in some serious trouble for driving through there like a maniac. At that point I had no doubt this was a police matter. And I’m a law-abiding guy, so I would normally return and explain my situation to the officer hoping for a little understanding. But something kept telling me to stick with the program and JUST KEEP GOING. So I sort of defied my own nature and did just that. Only later did I start to piece it all together and conclude it must have been a robbery setup. No cop or Sheriff would park like that to pull over another car, especially not on a dark country highway in the middle of nowhere. And those red flashing cherries are easy enough to get at any novelty store. At least they were back then if memory serves. No question about it, I had just dodged a bullet of sorts, multiple bullets actually. I almost crashed into the blockade. I almost killed someone on that road shoulder as I zipped by. And thank god that shoulder had no other obstacles or steep ditches to worry about. As for the jerks who set the whole thing up, robbery is only one possible scenario, the most optimistic one actually. I can think of far worse outcomes that could have been my fate. Ironically, inexplicably, the critical moment of action that saved me was the moment I was least in control of the situation. For if I had been alert and in my right mind, as you’re supposed to be behind the wheel of a speeding vehicle, I would have certainly stopped for that blockade. Was it God that that cut me some slack that night, or just dumb luck? I believe it was some kind of help from the other side.
Have you ever been in a situation where you thought you might die? What happened and what did you do? What did you learn as a result?
By the time I was 17 I'd been away from my suburban New Jersey home for a while, living in Oak Creek, a tiny coal mining town 8,000 feet up in the mountains of northwestern Colorado. Although rent was only $35 split 3 ways, I'd yet to score the gig mopping up The Wagon Wheel Cafe at the end of the night, for which they'd feed me twice a day. There were no jobs in town -- aside from working in the coal mine, which was for men, only -- so I'd hitchhike to work as a waitress in the larger ski town, 40 miles away, over a high mountain pass. I'd moved to Oak Creek the previous summer, and had survived the 40-60 below zero winter, chopping wood and coal to toss into the ancient parlor stove that strove to heat the living room I slept in, that being our only form of heat for the old insulation-free miner’s shack we called home. A cook stove in the kitchen -- also fed by wood and coal -- heated up pipes leading to a small tank, which was the only way we had hot water, meaning in the summer, there wasn’t any (or cooked food, either), as it was too hot then to light the stove. Although we had hot water in the winter, there was no shower or bathtub, so we bathed down the street at a friend's house, and my first winter shower froze my hair solid to my ears during the 5 minute walk home, leaving scars that still show today. I confess that I couldn't much tell the difference between 40 and 60 below, but that type of uncalled for winter left me more than ready for summer, and the summers were magnificently lush and green, thick with wildflowers, sun showers often ending in the only distinct triple rainbows I've ever seen. It was in the midst of celebrating summer that I got caught in a blizzard while hitchhiking to work one day. Yes, I said ,blizzard,, in ,July,! That perverse weather left me on the side of the road with my thumb out, wearing only shorts, a t-shirt, sandals, and a grimace. When a beat up Volkswagen van finally stopped for me, their Mexico destination sounded far more enticing than waitressing at a diner and hitchhiking home at the end of my shift in 10 foot drifts, so it took little convincing for me to crawl under blankets in the back of the van and settle in for whatever adventure might befall me with this man, his girlfriend, and Mexico. In those days you could always count on a ride from a Volkswagen, and a Volkswagen ,van, -- the ultimate hippie mobile -- usually meant getting high, as well. Back then, all Volkswagen hippies (and most Volkswagen owners were hippies) had one of the original "For Dummies"-type books, decades before that series began. I think it was called "How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive", and was written in a way that even those with no mechanical experience could fix their damn cars. Brady Flowers was such a hippie, a bedraggledly-bearded softie who didn't seem cut out for road life, and Mary Lynn was not his girlfriend, but a friend, only, who was accompanying him to Mexico from their home in Minnesota where her bee-keeping father had loaded the van full of buckets of honey, to augment the jumbo jars of Brady's homemade peanut butter. No complaints from me, as the blankets had warmed me, even though the heat in the van wasn't working, and the two of them had immediately lit a joint to celebrate my arrival. Brady had some money, which was good, since my pockets were empty, though I was more than willing to pitch in all I could, in other ways. This is how it was back then. I'm not talking, necessarily, about sex, but about a group mentality of helpfulness, of everyone adding what they could. There was an automatic trusted kinship among outsiders, and for men -- years before country redneck mullets -- all it took was long hair and a Volkswagen to fit the bill. In retrospect I'm wondering if Brady may have let himself be gay in another time and place, or maybe just a techno nerd, had computers existed at the time, but I was used to rugged, arty men who knew how to fix and build everything, so he came up as a minus, though his interest in ,me, was immediately apparent. Mary Lynn, like me, was kind of a tough hippie chick, also broke, and the two of us bonded immediately, as rulers of the scene, without the bucks to fund it. Soon after getting warm and high, I fell asleep back there in the van bed, and slept until woken by Mary Lynn's screams. While I'd slept, we were caught in a blinding summer blizzard that stomped on the calendar and put to shame the version from which I'd been rescued by the van. The scream had been prompted by a skid that landed us in a rut, with the van wedged halfway on the edge of the haripin-curved road, the other half swaying in the breeze of the 14,000 foot mountain pass leading into Silverton, Colorado. There's a blur taking over where things should exist between being picked up in shorts on that snow-blinded Colorado highway, and coasting into Zuni, New Mexico, but let's attribute it to a marijuana haze at the time, and not Absence of Adventure. I know we were towed out of our pinch by a hippie couple on their way home to Silverton, but that's a tale for another day, as being dragged into what was then pretty much a ghost town, slipped me into a zone of magical repetition in a way I was unfamiliar with at the time, but was soon to be made conscious of at our next stop. In those days I still slept, ,hard,, to the degree that torturing my corpse became a fun party game. Childhood had taught me to separate misery from bliss in a comatose state from which it was impossible to wake me mid-dream, and at the time, childhood was still upon me. So it took another sort of urgency to wake me next, and this one was due to scent, not sound. I came to in the back of the van, scrambling for understanding, as a powerful odor entered my unconscious. This may have been the first time I experienced an altogether unique smell whose ability to make me transcend time was somewhat overwhelming. It was dark out, and the van had stopped, which is probably what woke me -- but that smell! Before I'd even fully come to, I heard myself screaming, "Zuni, New Mexico!" because some part of my brain had placed the smell before it entered my consciousness. In the summer of 1964, my family took a road trip out West. (Who knew this Jersey girl would wind up settling in a similar landscape?) The particulars were spotty even back then in 1972, but unbeknownst to me a certain scent had lodged itself in the limbic region of my brain, though as a child I'd simply accepted it, and never discovered its source. I lived all up inside my head as a child, and didn't communicate much with the foreign species known as my family, especially since I'd already discovered -- the hard way -- that none of them was conscious of smell the way I was. ,Emily Fisher's answer to They say smells/sounds are strongly linked to memory. What are some of your favourite smells and sounds that trigger happy childhood memories? Somewhere beneath my consciousness was the awareness that the earthy/erotic odor which had awakened me had been detected only once before, and that was in Zuni, New Mexico, on our family trip, half my lifetime ago. "Zuni, New Mexico!" I shrieked again, and both Brady and Mary Lynn looked at me, astounded. "How'd you know where we are?" Brady asked, knowing I'd been fast asleep for hours, and unaware of the circumstances that had led us off our beaten path. "I smell it! I smell it! We're in Zuni, aren't we? What's that smell?" And they offered me the response I'd received my whole life whenever I've asked that question -- "What smell?" But I was older now, in charge of my own life, and refused to take this shit lying down. "Where the fuck ARE we?" I demanded, "Let me out!" So they did, and as far as I could see, we were ,nowhere,. It was dark, but as I adjusted to the light of a nearby campfire, I could tell we were out in the desert brush somewhere, not in any town. The overwhelming unmistakable smell activated me, and I was determined to use the communication skills I'd lacked as a child to get to the bottom of it, so I ran toward it's source: the fire. Four scruffy men sat passing a joint and a whiskey bottle around a campfire, and whatever it was they were burning was creating the smell I couldn't breathe in deeply enough. I barged into their ring of light and demanded, "What IS that? What are you burning? What's that ,smell,???" "Pleased to meet you, too," one of them barked as he handed me the joint. I snatched it, distractedly, sucked on it and passed it on, wondering, for a moment, if I'd get whiskey, too. Then I remembered my purpose, and once again demanded an answer. But they were high, they were drunk, they were camped there working on some construction site in the hot sun, in the middle of the desert summer, and they didn't care. The more insistent I became on an answer, the more they just laughed at me. At first I thought they were purposely refusing to tell me, but eventually I realized they had no idea what I was talking about. "Wood," they kept saying, "we're burning ,wood,." "And grass," another added, "didn't you ever smell that before? Here, have some more." He handed me the joint, as another man passed the bottle. "Fuck! I've been around campfires my whole damn life, and smoking pot for nearly half of it -- that's not what the fuck I'm talking about! I gotta know what that smell is!" I yelped. But my ornery eagerness only gave them more reason to mess with me. "It's his old lady!" one dude shouted, more drunk than high, "she ain't been bathin' lately!" "It's the smell of time slipping away," sighed another, more high than drunk. "It's my brain, on fire." "It's ,me,, baby, burning for ,you,!" It was clear these men weren't going to be of any help, and I was just about to give up and head back to the van when I heard another voice, coming out of the dark, nearby, beyond the ring of fire. I hadn't caught what he'd said, so stumbled toward his voice, a little high and drunk myself by then. "Who is that? What? What'd you say?" "Piñon, it's the piñon," a man said, softly, and though I couldn't quite make him out, I detected the Indian lilt of his voice. Lured by that, I sat down beside him, out of the blinding bright of the fire. He handed me a label-free jug half full of clear liquid, and as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that yes, he was Indian, quite small, and older than the others, maybe by a lot, though it was hard to say. I may have yet been unfamiliar with the road rule that it's impolite not to drink anything passed to you, but I was years from legal drinking age, so was used to slugging down whatever I could, without question. Every culture has its version of moonshine, and until that moment I'd thought of anything clear as flavorless; nothing could have prepared me for the gut-clenching knife swallowing of whatever the fuck was in that bottle. When I'd regained my breath, I gasped, "What's piñon?" "It's the tree we have here," the man said, "a pine, about the only one that'll grow around here. Where you from?" Even at 17 that was a difficult question for me to answer. Though I'd done some traveling, I'd only officially lived in one house until I left home, but still, was I from suburban New Jersey, or the mountains of Colorado? I chose the latter, as it felt more apt. "But I came through here with my family when I was little, and I remembered the smell, never forgot it. I knew right away I was in Zuni." "Piñon grows all over here, not just in Zuni -- you knew you were in Zuni for more reasons than that." "What kind of reasons? I asked. "I knew in my sleep! I smelled this smell and I knew!" "Your soul was open to knowing, that's why. My people have been connected to this tree for a long time," the man said. "It feeds us and keeps us warm. We use the sap as medicine and as glue. There's a lot of sap in this tree, and that's what you smell burning. We use it in ceremonies, for a lot of different things." I settled in for stories, forgot about Brady and Mary Lynn, about the drunk construction workers. This man was also on the crew, but was certainly not ,of, the crew. While I'd been passed out in the back of the van -- in what was then my unwakable fashion -- Brady and Mary Lynn had stopped for gas, and then been unable to restart the van. So of course Brady had dug out his bible -- "How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive" -- and was puttering away, when a Chevy Blazer full of construction workers on a beer run pulled over to ask if he needed help. Understand that a Chevy Blazer full of construction workers on a beer run is pretty much the direct opposite of a scrawny bookish hippie with peanut butter in his beard, bent over the oddly-engine-placed butt end of a Volkswagen van. And hippies, back then, were made to be stomped by "real men". It was apparent to me when I heard the tale that it was only for entertainment purposes and the possibility of some hippie chick pussy that these men offered a hand, but I guess they assessed the problem (which now escapes me) quicker than Brady and his bible were able to do, and towed us back to their campsite, with me passed out the whole way. Their campsite, near to where they were working, was directly in the middle of fucking nowhere, but they had a big ol' tank of water out there, some tables and chairs, and a number of working vehicles, capable of making runs to town. As Brady set to work with his hippie bible, trying to rebuild whatever part it was that had failed, we became an amusing diversion for the crew, and, of course, there was always that possibility of pussy; having women at the camp was an unexpected bonus. In order to avoid trouble, Mary Lynn sold herself off as Brady's woman, so that left me as the possible pussy. But I was no Minnesota beekeeper's daughter, I was a wise ass Jersey girl who even at 17 was fully able to hold her own with a crew of horny construction workers in the middle of the desert. God bless New Jersey. The fuckers were being well paid, and had an endless supply of beer, whiskey, and weed, so I became the stray dog, constantly sniffing around for leftovers. With Brady's money, Mary Lynn and I would head into town whenever a ride offered itself, and stock up on food, while he stayed behind with his head up that van's butt. Brady plodded along with invisible momentum, only halfway oblivious to the endless jokes about him -- the other half simply put up with the kind of taunting he'd clearly spent his life turning his cheek over. He was a breed I'd come to know since I left home, the type of well-meaning loser who'd been ostracized as a weakling most of his life, then grown out his hair and beard as a way to upgrade his status to acceptance, in the hippie world. Me, I was a bad-ass in search of any cheap high, unconcerned that we were spending day after endless scorching hot day stuck in the desert in the middle of the summer, as long as the buzz kept up and I had enough paper on which to scrawl my thoughts. And so it continued, for how many days I couldn't say. Brady never left the compound, simply attached himself to that engine and book, determined to fix the damn thing himself and hopefully to prove his manhood to these Neanderthals along the way. Sometimes when I'd catch a ride into town with the crew I'd have a list from Brady of parts to order from the closest garage, and then there'd be the waiting period, as the parts trickled in. How long were we there? A week? Two? I really don't know. One day drifted into the next, but there was a nice selection of books in the van, pens, and plenty of paper, so it was all good, even if it was probably 120 degrees in the middle of the day. We'd attached some stakes to a blanket and hung it off the side of the van, moving it throughout the day as the sun moved, in order to provide ourselves at least a modicum of shade. The shade was for me and Mary Lynn, lying on pillows under that blanket in the hottest part of the day, naked, flicking water onto our bare bellies in the hopes a breeze may meander by and provide some evaporative cooling. Brady, on the other hand, clothed from head to foot and in a thick beard, had only a floppy hat to protect his crusty chalk-white skin from the sun, as he slaved on that engine from sun up to sundown, day after day. Then one day the crew didn't return back to camp in the evening. When we woke up the next morning, there was no sign they'd been back in the night, and we noticed all traces of them had been removed from the campsite except the giant tank of water. It wasn't until the following day that we realized they weren't coming back, that we were stranded out there in the middle of the desert, 20-30 miles from any civilization, with nothing but peanut butter and honey to put in our stomachs, washed down with warm stale water from the tank. The absurdity of the situation was amusing, for a while, even though our source for reefer and booze had dried up. It almost felt like now, ,now,, we can get down to what ,really, matters, the meaning of life, the simple complexities of the cosmos, ONENESS! We 3 were, after all, moderately intellectual, psychedelically inclined hippies, and the removal of the barbarians from our midst -- although they were our lifeline -- had its metaphysical benefits. Of the many books cluttering the van, there was all of ,Carlos Castaneda - Wikipedia,, and a sprinkling of ,Ram Dass - Wikipedia,. I seemed to have been ,born, with some sort of other worldly consciousness ,Emily Fisher's answer to What's the most statistically improbable thing that's ever happened to you?,, but coming up in suburban New Jersey had not exposed me to a drop of like-mindedness, and I'd had no idea there even were others who shared my perceptions, let alone that my innate thinking was, in some ways, an actual school of thought. The fact that this Ram Dass -- of whom I'd never even heard until then -- had begun as a ,Jew,, before he'd had his mind blown, added another layer of personal significance for me. And so, while Brady continued to do whatever the fuck he was doing to that van, I lay naked in the brutal heat, shifting with the shade, and expanding my mind with the increasing knowledge that my soul was not alone. The intensity of the dry heat, along with like-minded companionship, and the creeping understanding that we might just be existentially ,fucked,, broke down what few boundaries there may have been between us. Although he, too, had a metaphysical bend, Brady was a plodder, whereas Mary Lynn and I were more plotters. While Time continued its inconsistent, uncountable course, Brady persisted with his engine tinkering, as though nothing had changed for us, whereas Mary Lynn and I increasingly ventured into uncharted territory, discovering where our minds and bodies might wander if left to the mercy of the desert's unforgiving sun. With nothing but peanut butter, honey, metaphysical literature, and some nasty tasting water to boost our morale, we simply ,let go,, eagerly and fearlessly. One day, during the sun's most brutal attack, the size of our dilemma caused me to giggle, Mary Lynn caught the wave, and before long the two of us were out of control, laughing to the point of peeing. Since we were both naked, lying on the ground, there was no reason to hold in this pee, and once we realized nothing stood between us and ultimate release, we were automatically boosted to the next level of consciousness, where only bliss remained. Mary Lynn and I turned alternatingly eerie, frantic, fascinated, nonsensical, and blasé, as we gobbled excess peanut butter and honey in order to stave off possible starvation, washing them down with tank water, which tasted increasingly of gauze pads. "How do you plaster face on sideways?" I asked, between incessant giggles. "Lopsided is slice-worthy," Mary Lynn would reply, definitively. "I've composed a letter of complaint, and will mail it posthaste. Have you presently anything for the post?" I questioned, acutely under the influence of the Victorian novels I'd begun to devour, Henry James in the forefront. "Alas, my quill is bent," replied Mary Lynn, "and my attitude follows suit." "Therefore, it is upon my own, and with great diligence that I, the mailbox, approach," and I headed off into the shimmering heat, certain, by then, that I saw a tall, dark blue, curved-top container on the horizon. Not only did I think I saw it, but it was there when I reached it, and I dropped in the letter I'd worked on for hours. When I returned from the mailbox I opened the subject of mirage for discussion. "Um, Mary Lynn?" "Yeah?" "I see that mailbox in the distance, and I dropped my letter in it, though I know, logically, that is insane. What do you make of this?" "Dear friend, I, too, see the mailbox, amidst the wiggliness of the air, and know not what to make of it." "Are we, perhaps, ,dying,?" I asked between delighted shrieks, "or are we merely temporarily swayed by brain-frying heat?" "The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind," Mary Lynn shot back, unoriginally. "Ahh, I see, once again, I'm on my own," I mumbled, stuck somewhere between laughter and tears. Meanwhile, Brady, whom we'd considered an obvious weakling, showed no sign of heat-exposure, though he was not only the one with the lily-white skin, but was out ,in, it, all day. "Brady! Brady!" we chanted, "how does your garden grow???" but his single-mindedness persisted, seemingly unaffected by our increasing openness to embracing the mirage, and he refused to acknowledge us. "Does he even know we're ,here,?" I asked. "Does he realize we've been ditched?" countered Mary Lynn. "Is he sticking to the engine the way we are to the mailbox? Is that ,his, form of collapse???" I wondered, the chances of our likely demise beyond the reach of my adolescent mind. However inconsistent Time had been previously, it was now altogether nonexistent, so I can't say how much of it may have passed before our water tank ran dry. But when it did, we were startled into reality. We could no longer stay there. We didn't have a flashlight, and the moon was in its dark mode, so there was to be no traveling in the cool of night. Therefore it was in the latter part of an afternoon that we headed out on foot, in what we hoped was the direction of town. Things get foggy here. I know Mary Lynn and I were no longer amusingly clever. I know that Brady, the apparent weakling of the crew, still seemed physically unaffected by the brain numbing heat (maybe neither gay nor basic nerd but the as yet unheard of Aspie?), whereas we women, though trying to spare our energy by not talking, were fully capable of moaning and groaning. I know we walked until it was too dark to see, then bedded down, bone weary, dry mouthed, but restless, unable to sleep, snapping to weak attention at every unplaceable desert sound. We were lugging some peanut butter and honey, but soon realized it’d be a death sentence to eat any since we had no water. So we left them there in the dust, one less weight to carry. I also know that I, the bad ass Jersey girl, was the only one to drink out of the drainage ditch we eventually came across on Day 2, or was it 3? Foggy foggy foggy, on Day 3 or 4 we finally hit a road, though it didn’t seem to include any vehicles. I was starting to feel sick, lay down on the side of the road, and have no idea how much time passed before the first vehicle showed up, though it was at least half a day. I’d begun to dry heave by the time we finally heard wheels approaching. Lo and behold, it was a Winnebago, the ultimate cush ride in 1972, and one I’ve never heard of stopping for hitchhikers, let alone stankin’ half dead scraggly hippie ones. It was the Winnebago of an older couple, though who knows what that means to a teenager. They instructed Brady and Mary Lynn to only take a few small sips of water and wait awhile for their stomachs to adjust before taking more. But Brady and Mary Lynn hadn’t drunk from the drainage ditch. My stomach was beyond all that. It isn’t the distance of 46 years that has broken my memory of the next little while, as proven by many distinct early childhood stories I’ve posted here. It’s more that I was overtaken by an increasingly high fever which seemed likely to be drainage ditch related, not heatstroke. Somehow, I got back to Oak Creek; the kind couple must have driven me there. But I only remember being in the Winnebago, then coming to, going in and out of consciousness on the floor of my friend Jimmy’s pad, the floor of what had been the lobby of one of the town’s many whorehouses back in the day, when what was now barely more than a ghost town — perhaps only still breathing because of the hippies and recent Vietnam vets beginning to trickle in — was a filthy thriving coal town, bursting with sin, littered with bars, houses of ill repute, and at least one opium den. By then green goo was gushing out of my butt nonstop, soon no longer smelling of shit. The rest is just going in and out of consciousness, coming to when someone or other would throw me a bottle of Kaopectate, or some Dramamine, since I was puking, too. Folks peeked in to make sure I had water, and I was aware of the dehydration problems from puking diarrhea — especially considering I’d ,begun, dehydrated — but ingested water quickly turned to more green butt gushing. I remember when I began to be equally awake as asleep in the daytime, weak as fuck but finally coming back to life. Later, no one was able to tell me if it had been 2 or 3 weeks since I came in dry heaving and fell to that floor. But finally I became conscious enough to realize I couldn’t move my legs without it feeling like a red hot poker was shoved up my asshole. This answer would also match the question How did you learn the meaning of the word “hemorrhoids”? Maybe I was too young and obstinate to think I was dying at the time. Maybe, like many other events in my wayward youth, this, and my stubbornness, were all that kept me alive.
What type of car is a hippie van?
It is traditionally an early 1960′s Volkswagen Transporter Van (or *Kombi as they were called here in Australia!). The really good ones were decorated externally with artworks-flowers, peace signs, and colorful motifs with bright patterns. Internally there was always a bed or some fold down arrangement that would allow sleeping, and a familiar aroma wafting from the cabin would be patchouli oil, sandalwood, lemongrass, or some other fragrant incense flavour. The more flamboyant the better! Peace! 🏄🎵🌲
Are you a hippy?
I was actually asked this a couple of months back by a 14-year-old. I was acting as a substitute teacher in a primary school, here in Finland. At recess, I was walking the hallways when one of the boys that I had just teached stopped me and asked really genuinely: ,“Hey Simo, are you really, like, a hippy?” They had joked about it in the previous class, and I had smiled about it. “Well, what do you mean by that?” I asked. “I mean, do you like, smoke weed and drive a Volkswagen hippie van?” I’m 21. And they assumed that I owned a car. (Not to mention that they thought that I could, as a substitute teacher say to them “Yes, I do use drugs”). I almost lost it, but managed to answer with a somewhat straight face: “No, neither of those things describe me, so if that’s how you view a hippie, then no”. And he walked away somewhat satisfied with the answer. But the joke here is that in many other ways I am a hippie. I was ready to answer yes, but really wanted to see what the word meant to him. I care about environment. I’m a liberal. I’m all about peace, youth taking political stances, protecting human rights and most importantly, wearing bright colours and a long hair. So by some definition, ,yes. I am a hippie. But apparantely, not by all of them.
What is the craziest trip you have ever made?
Highway robbers (or who knows what they were) somewhere in Nevada, USA set up a road block in the dead of night around 1 a.m. on a flat and lonely stretch of highway back in 1981. For some reason I had to be the one heading straight toward it in my trusty old 1960s Volkswagen van containing everything I owned. I was fresh out of college on my way to California from South Dakota, full of audacity and naivete and ready to start living my American dream. I’ve always enjoyed driving at night, and I’m a night person, so driving at that hour would not be unusual for me. But I had been driving all night, and maybe that explains why I didn’t see the road block in front of me until it was too late for me to stop. Yes, rationally I would have to say it was the long monotonous night time drive that put me into such a trance-like state, but I don’t really know. Truth is I didn’t mentally connect with the fact of that road block in front of me until it was too late. All I had time to do was swerve quickly and instinctively to the right and drive along that shoulder since both highway lanes were fully blocked by two other vehicles. One was parked parallel to the direction of traffic, blocking the right lane. The other was parked perpendicular, in the left lane, effectively blocking the entire two-lane highway. As I swerved and sped passed the car on the right, barely missing it in the process, a shadowy figure bolted out from between us in a harrowing but successful attempt to dodge the crazy menace that was my sweet little hippy van. After passing the blockade I slowed down a bit, probably to 40 or 45 MPH as I tried to comprehend what had just happened. I also had to settle the debate in my head about whether I should go back or not. Why? Because one of the vehicles, the perpendicular one, had a flashing red cherry on top. I thought I might be in some serious trouble for driving through there like a maniac. At that point I had no doubt this was a police matter. And I’m a law-abiding guy, so I would normally return and explain my situation to the officer hoping for a little understanding. But something kept telling me to stick with the program and JUST KEEP GOING. So I sort of defied my own nature and did just that. Only later did I start to piece it all together and conclude it must have been a robbery setup. No cop or Sheriff would park like that to pull over another car, especially not on a dark country highway in the middle of nowhere. And those red flashing cherries are easy enough to get at a good novelty store. At least they were back then if memory serves. No question about it, I had just dodged a bullet of sorts, multiple bullets actually. I almost crashed into the blockade. I almost killed someone on that road shoulder as I zipped by. And thank god that shoulder had no other obstacles or steep ditches to worry about. As for the low-lifes who set the whole thing up, robbery is only one possible scenario, the most optimistic one actually. For I had very little cash. I can think of far worse outcomes than losing that. Ironically, inexplicably, the critical moment of action that saved me was the moment I was least in control of the situation. For if I had been alert and in my right mind, as you’re supposed to be behind the wheel of a speeding vehicle, I would have certainly stopped for that blockade. Was it “God” who cut me some slack that night, or just dumb luck? I believe it was some kind of help from “the other side.” Unfortunately, I don’t have any pictures of MY hippy van. But here’s what it looked like. You gotta love it!
Why did the American hippies adopt the VW Beetle as their car of choice?
There were three basic reasons that were present. Gas was 13.9 cents a gallon which was more than any true flower power children could afford as they were vagrants and did NOT hold even a part-time job. That was an essential tenet of hippiedom, no work. Then the Volkswagen had been in the US long enough, to become cheap on the used market. AND they got UNHEARD of gas mileage back then. Remember a TRUE American back then drove a 17-foot “lead sled”(named for the leaded gas in use) that weighed 4900 lbs and got 10 miles to the gallon (that’s generous, my mother Chrysler station wagon with dual air conditioner for 6 MPG). Then, of course, there is the Hippie van. As there were only “super-large” gas-guzzling American station wagons, no SUVs, the obvious choice was the Volkswagen Van. You could carry around the whole tribe for the cost of one vehicle. It was a marriage made in heaven.
Does liking black make you goth?
No, there’s much more to goth than simply liking black. It’s a subculture, but most importantly a mindset that sees beauty in the darkness and macabre. I love tie-dye, lava lamps, hippie vans, green Volkswagen Beetles, ,Scooby-Doo,,, ,and all things psychedelic; I still manage to be goth. I love unicorns and Disney, but I’m still a goth. I read Gothic literature, research anything dark or macabre, sometimes sound like a serial killer because I know so much about death, obsessed over mummies in fourth grade, made a million zombie jokes when I found out my university had a body farm ,and ,a nearby cemetery, love horror movies, love witches and research paganism, and enjoy most forms of rock; a million other little things make me goth. Yes, I love black. A large portion of my wardrobe is black, one of my cats is black, my video game consoles and VCR are black (other options were available), and the car I’m getting in the morning is black. You know what my favorite color is? Sage green.
What is something your parents did that, even as a child, you knew wasn't good parenting?
Well my Mom and Dad divorced when I was three years old. Actually it would be more accurate to say he threw us out. Anyway in the summers I was sent to my dads after things calmed down. This particular tale is one of many. It was 1980 and I was 10 years old. I remember driving up to the mountains with my Dad to go to a get together that happened once every year. It was a gathering at the Frog Pond at little ranch in Atascadero Ca. It was a big gathering. The group mainly consisted of hippies and some Hells Angels thrown in to flavor the festivities. It really was sex, drugs and rock and roll. Cocaine, weed and alcohol. As soon as I got there I found my “cousins”, kids I’d see every year at the Frog Pond. My Dad stripped off all his clothes, did a line of coke and joined the party. I still remember him stripping down naked and jumping in the pond, swimming with his friends. Somebody in our pack had stole a big old jug of apple jack. It wasn’t too long before we were all pretty drunk running wild under the canopies of the huge oak trees. Smoking cigarettes and acting cool. I remember us coming up on some deer and rabbit carcasses hanging from a tree. It was shocking, I had never seen anything like that. They were skinned, being prepared for the night barbecue. We played hard all day and into the night. I had my first kiss in the back of a Volkswagen van that a pretty girl and I were hiding in that night. At some point my dad tracked me down in the morning hours and drove us back down the hill back to his little home in Los Osos. My dad in those days was a big intense man who was usually very stern and unkind at times. But that night I remember that he had a sparkle in his eye and talked very slowly and kindly about his day, he proudly asked me about the little girl he caught me with, he was quite drunk. That was the first time I’d seen him like that and the first time I remember him being nice to me. Its crazy to think back to those times. My Dad gave his life to God many years later. He’s a completely different fellow these days. We are great friends. I still remember all the crazy times we had at the Frog Pond all those years ago.
What are some good ideas for displaying LEGO sets that have been completed?
Recently I wrote about my geeky toy collection and the 60's Era bookcase which I use to showcase my two newest LEGO® models: Wendi Tibbets's answer to What is the most "geeky" thing you own? I've rearranged it so that my 1962 LEGO® “hippie” van sits beside a hardbound copy of Ken Kesey's ,One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest ,(1962), and my 60’s Era Volkswagen Beetle headlights a copy of Hunter S. Thompson's ,Hell's Angels: The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs ,(1967). I think it lends a humorous and quirky personality to an otherwise banal bookcase. Let's go beyond simple shelving and get creative,, ,folks! Building A Vignette— It is simple to build an interesting vignette around the themes of your LEGO® builds. Here, I've simply added a couple of, ,theme-appropriate books next to the models: The LEGO® 60’s Era Volkswagen Camper van model (pictured above) LEGO® 60’s Era Volkswagen Beetle model, quirky and fun. Of course, you're going to spend more time and put more thought into building your displays than I did in the three minutes it took me to throw together these illustration photos. Your displays reflect the special decor of your room. They should be thoughtful and interesting focal points. Accessorize! Adding simple accessories to your vignettes set the scene. For instance, if you're building an architectural model such as the LEGO® Architecture New York City, you might choose to display it next to some Broadway ticket stubs and a tiny Statue of Liberty. You might even choose a big plastic apple, (The Big Apple—get it)? ,A book on the Empire State building would be an equally interesting choice of accessory. Photo courtesy of the official LEGO® store Had I chosen to display my models in a vignette, I might have gone all out and included a daisy in a bud vase, a lava lamp and some love beads. However, for this photo example I kept it simple: Accessories don't need to be expensive. Keep it simple. It is a good idea to use a tray with a lip for your vignettes. LEGOs® are fragile once you build them, and it is easier to transport them if you can easily lift them on a tray. Additionally, a wheeled model won't roll off the edge of your table if you keep them on a tray. You can buy inexpensive gooseneck lights with clamps on the ends and clip them to the tray’s edges in order to light up your display. The tray's edges protect your wheeled models from rolling away. The DIY Build and Ikea Storage— Ikea has great shelving units with sliding windows which will contain your builds very nicely. I tried one in our game cabinet to see how it looked: I think it looks cool, but I'm certain my husband wouldn't want my toys invading our mutual space. I put the instrument back in its rightful place after I snapped this photo. It fits the decor of our room much better. Here is a DIY website which will walk you through some simple hacks so you may turn your Ikea furniture into LEGO® tables: Lego Tables: Ikea hacks & storage | Keep Calm Get Organised Finally, if you don't have room to display your models, simply snap a photo of your completed build and mount the photo on your wall— it's a creative and ,whimsical, way to display all your favorite completed LEGOs® without compromising any additional square footage. This photo would look great in a child's bedroom. I wish you a creative journey and happy building, and may you never set foot upon the sharp edge of a LEGO® brick.
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