…and the Zombie Apocalypse Rides Again.
There is beauty in simplicity. And virtue in economy. We desire freedom but seek truth. On the journey to enlightenment, the classic Beetle was the transport of truth for hippies (and circus clowns).
The Type 1 offered few (or rather… no) amenities. It was as unpretentious as it was adaptable. Add fenders flares… a roll bar, and play in the dunes. Hand paint with peace signs and flowers for totin’ hand-outs back to the commune. Or simply drop the top for the beach babes heading back to their Bus camped beneath the moon.
Shade tree repairs were not just standard, but invited. And for idle hands, an experience far more profitable than any stuffy classroom indoctrination. On a lazy afternoon, the entire vessel… stem to stern… could be disassembled, baptized in the spring-fed stream, then reborn with a just a handful of (un-American) wrenches.
Its air-cooled weed-whacker motor was measured in CC’s (which is all you need to know about any Zen-like power-to-weight ratio). Though on the plus side, summer radiator coolant or winter anti-freeze was never a bummer. …or a fully cranked battery, or a starter, for that matter, ’cause she was light enough to roll start. (Been there, done that.)
And if need be… float.
Even with street mods, it never possessed the escape velocity of a Corvette 454, or the awesome off-road footing of, say… The Mighty Dodge, but it always had what was needed when it was needed.
But most importantly, the coughin’ an’ sputterin’ unrefined Beetle was a middle finger to the establishment. You know the ones… the button-down Cadillac cruisin’ capitalist, the married mother of three in her respectable family wagon, the flat top GI in his tri-powered GTO.
And it was loved.
Today, the children of the flower children would never be caught dead in such a crude conveyance.
Not that they are any less idealistic, but everything their radical forebears ever marched for, or sat in against, is now legal (or socially acceptable).
Out of causes, they’ve had to invent their own.
They chased “the sound of one hand clapping” into a cultural cul-de-sac, and rather than lighting the candle of truth… became Zombies Without a Cause.
Rejecting the teachings of their elders, the snowflakes embraced the religion of social media: Faith is unreal, reality is digital, and god fits in the palm of their hand.
And must be obeyed.
So, the undead devoured everyday life: Columbus Day, Chik-fil-A, The Dukes of Hazzard… and no one said nothing. They demanded conformity over individuality, censorship in the name of tolerance, and aggression in the face of compassion.
And so, the counter-culture comes full circle. Yeah… the bong doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Now the undead are coming for whatever is not online. And the Beetle is definitely off the grid.
The old commune still exists, but nature has reclaimed what remains… the broken down roadside stand, an overgrown weed patch, ram-shackle sheds. And out behind the old pottery barn… that ol’ misbegotten ‘63 oval window.
Blow a little air into those cracked black walls, and fill the tank with some home brewed organic “tea”, then point the bow into the breeze rolling in off the sea.
Now dial the analog tuner to some classic Amplitude Modulated station and feel the groove of Three Dog Night cryin’ ♪ “Joy to the World…” ♬, as you splash nose first into the surf and sail away on the tide of peace and tranquility.
♪ “…Joy to you and me.” ♬
Daily Drive 9 to 5: ★
Gettin’ Outta Dodge: (like… no way, man)
Zombie Survival: ★★★★★
More from the Zombie Apocalypse:
Corvette Summer 454
There are two kinds of men in this world: Those who own a big block, and those whose wives won’t let them.
The Mighty Dodge
In a slap at our flag, those European weenies at Fiat disowned the Dodge Bro’s family name and rebranded the Ram.