…and the Zombie Apocalypse Rides Again

What is the sound of one hand clapping?

If there is beauty in simplicity and joy in contentment, then on the journey to enlightenment the classic Beetle was the transport of truth.

The Type 1 offered few (or rather… no) amenities. It was as unpretentious as it was adaptable.

Add some fenders flares and a roll bar and go play in the dunes, or paint with peace signs an’ flowers for totin’ hand-outs back to the commune. Then simply drop the top for the beach babes camped beneath the moon.

Shade tree repairs were not just necessary but invited, and for idle hands… an experience far more rewarding than some stuffy classroom invocation. On any given lazy afternoon, the entire vessel stem-to-stern could be disassembled, baptized in a spring-fed stream, then born-again 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 truly groovy side, summer radiator coolant and winter anti-freeze were never a bummer, ’cause like… there weren’t any need for none. Nor for that matter, did it need a fully cranked battery, as she was light enough to roll, and if need be… float.

Of course, 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.

More importantly, the coughin’ sputterin’ unrefined Beetle was a middle finger to the establishment. You know… the man. The button-down Cadillac cruisin’ capitalist, the duly married mother of three in her respectable family wagon, the flat top GI in his tri-powered GTO.

And it was loved.

But 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).

So, out of causes, they’ve had to invent their own. They chased “the sound of one hand clapping” into a cultural cul-de-sac but rather than lighting the candle of truth… became Zombies Without a Cause.

Rejecting the teachings of their elders, the societal arsonists embraced the cultish teachings of social media: Faith is unreal, reality is surreal, and god is nothing more than a palm-sized chatbot named Alexa, who grants high-speed fantasy access to their every whim and pleasure.

And she must be obeyed.

So, the undead devour the innocence of everyday life: Columbus Day, Chik-fil-A, The Dukes of Hazzard… demanding 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 unalive are coming for whatever does not live 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, overgrown weed patch, and ram-shackle sheds. Yet out behind the old pottery barn… that ol’ misbegotten oval window ‘63.

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 a classic Amplitude Modulated station and feel the smooth 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
Even worse, with just a dusting of snow, those muscular Mopars are reduced to whiny liberals.