I got such feedback from my farfegnugen column, mostly things like "I can't believe you published a photo of yourself with a mullet," and such. Anyway, I thought I should post it here and the color version of the infamous photo. Here goes... (Nice socks, Michael.)
Farfegnugen: A coming of age
I've had the Patrick and Eugene not-such-a-hit “Birds and the Bees” song in my head for a solid week now as I dream of driving my brand new little Š white? Silver? Black? Volkswagen Rabbit. As long as it's a diesel.I'm listening to that catchy little tune on the Internet now as my 8-year-old dances behind me making pokey motions at my head. She's trying to irritate me, but -- Moohahaha! -- if she only knew.
Gas conservation is important, and I'm as green as any, and the Rabbit is cute, has that Volkswagen reliability and solid suspension to be sure, but none of those reasons is why I want one so badly.It's for exactly what Volkswagen is banking on: Nostalgia.
See, we had a big Crown Royal bottle up in the kitchen cabinet when I was a kid. Whatever change it had in it by the time summer came went to the family vacation fund. In the early '80s, when I was going into fifth grade and my older brother into eighth, summer vacation was in the middle of a gas crisis.But no worries, my dad smiled from ear to ear as he whipped our brand new ride into the driveway. Gone was the Oldsmobile, in was the Rabbit. A bronzy-orange-brownish diesel Rabbit. It was cutting-edge front-wheel drive and everything.
Could we make it across the country, a family of four, in a four-door economy car? Sure! Could we pay for gas with the contents of the Crown Royal bottle and still have plenty left for souvenirs? Sure! Could we get straight to Disney World without stopping even once? Su... oh. Wait. I guess when my parents were planning our “educational trip,” that didn't involve Mickey Mouse.
Washington D.C.? My brother and I were deflated. Well, maybe he wasn't so into Mickey Mouse, but I don't think the White House was necessarily his idea of fun, either.
In the end, that trip was educational all right, but not in the way of learning how our great country was formed.
All the talk of the Smithsonian National Air and Space museum, the Civil War battle grounds we'd visit in Tennessee on the way, and then again in Pennsylvania on the way back could not make us smile as we posed for a pre-departure photo in front of the Rabbit.
Two weeks, two suitcases.
One back seat, two kids.
One big brother, two smelly feet in my face.
One 1983 family budget, two college friends in Virginia we could all stay with.
One couch there, two hours commuting to D.C. proper.One SBD (silent but deadly) filling up that tiny car and we knew it was all over but the crying.
Oh, and there was crying.I'm positive my parents yearned for the trips we made before then, when my brother and I would ride in the camper shell on the back of the truck and all they had to do was slide the rear window shut to keep from hearing us.I know we did. At least we had John Denver and Kenny Rogers on 8-track we could jam out to in the camper. We could stretch out, play cards, not even have each other in our respective periferal vision if we weren't speaking at that point.
No, no, not in the Rabbit. We were one, tightly compacted, happy family. “Blue Eyes Cryin' in the Rain” had been replaced with the steady drone of NPR.
I've taken my kids (and the dog) on cross-country trips in our 1984 Ford Econoline van, a rental mini-van, an airplane, and even in a Jetta I used to have. But not a Rabbit. And that's just the kind of learning how to love your sibling fun I just don't feel right about them missing out on.
And what about when my brother lost his retainer at the space museum and dumpster diving ensued? Or when I planted my feet on the stairs in front of some museum and refused to enter “just one more?” (I think my dad was glad for that one, actually; he opted to sit outside on a park bench with me and watch homeless people with me while my mom and brother went inside.)
Several days of driving two hours into the city in plenty of time to make our 7 a.m. tour had taken it's toll. They wouldn't even let us lie down -- or, try to lie down -- to sleep on the way because they were paranoid about using the HOV lane when four people were not in plain view. Ever try sleeping with your face pressed up against the window in a Rabbit? I'm sure it was at least comical for the people we were passing.
Or the chronic gas that follows too much fast food? Perhaps having to walk alongside a father who, despite his knowledge that ‘80s fashion did not include plaid madras shorts with homemade “Jesus sandals” and socks, packed every pair he owned. Or the three cameras he wore around his neck for each trip?
Or how wonderfully uncarbonated real Amish root beer is? And what Amish cheese smells like after a few hours in the Pennsylvania sunshine because, you know, there's no room for a cooler in a Rabbit.
Or leaving a brand new, plush Garfield stuffed animal at the hotel, only to realize it several hundred miles later?
The utter joy they are missing out on is breaking my heart, and I know that deep down, only a VW Rabbit can make their lives complete.
Just imagine my joy at stumbling across the “VW aims at nostalgia niche” headline. The article quotes, "VW needs more emotional models." (Just how emotional, these people have no idea).
I also found a “create your own Rabbit” tool on VW's Web site. Which I did. Somehow my “starting at $14,900” turned into $26,000, which isn't exactly my idea of an “economy car,” so it looks like we'll just have to wait a couple years.
Now that I'm thinking about it, if I wait until Macy's in fourth grade, Claire will be in eighth, and I can pick up a nice used model. Carry on the tradition, so to speak. It's the perfect plan.
And if they think we're going to Disney World, they're crazy. I don't care if Walt Disney was from Missouri.
