"If this van's a rockin, don't come a knockin."
- Author, thankfully, unknown

"It's no good to do anything halfway."
- Author unknown

"I shall call him, Mini Me."
- Dr. Evil

April 1st, 2002

When does a man decide he no longer craves adventure, and longs more for the comfort of his family's saftey and continued survival? When does he decide practicality has outweighed any semblance of fun and excitement? When does he want to make certain that there is no connection to the family man he is and the swinging single he used to be? WHEN DID HE JUST GIVE UP ON LIFE?!!!!

It's when he decided to buy a minivan.

For those of you that have read my rant on SUV's, sit back and prepare for MINIVANS or SUV II, Electric Boogaloo. I don't think there can be anything sadder than to watch these 30 something men driving these vans. Observe closely, there's a facial tick on the father in the driver's seat.

And THAT IS who is driving the minivan. A man driving a minivan is a father. I say this because single people don't drive these. Strike that. I mean to say, own these. There is the rare occasion that the single uncle will be driving his nephews or neices in his brother or sister's minivan. The pained, embarrassed look on his face says, "I can't believe they talked me into this."

In any event, for the most part I can say that no person who is single owns a minivan. They apparently haven't thrown in the towel yet. In this brave new millenium being a man and having a minivan means that you paid the dealer with a payment plan involving your testicles.

It used to be different, you know. In the 70's, I can remember bumper stickers that said, "If this van's a rockin, don't come a knockin." It was a sign of independence to own a VAN. But back then, you could call a VAN a mini-camper or a mini-minimotorhome. It was the mark of a make out artist. Have van will travel. He could go out of state, pack a couple of bags, load a mattress in the back and he was set. It was a make out machine. Itinerary for the evening: get in the van, pick up foxes at the discotech, try some recreational chemicals, make out, have breakfast and get home.

Ahhhhh, the 70's. It was before my time, of course*.

Magically, after the 60's goovy VW Microbus, and the 70's "shake your goove thang" van, the advent of the minivan became as appealing as a stationwagon. Now, it's no longer a sign of coolness, now it's a sign of stability and resignation. You've bought a minivan, now it's over.

But what sort of diabolical mind came up with the concept of the minivan? It's too small to be adventurous, and it's too big to be cool. Oh, they've tried to make is marketable. There was some marketing research genius from Plymoth that somehow determined that there were Star Trek fathers out there who needed an extra large van like car and dubbed their line of minivans: Voyager. Warp speed, Mr. Sulu to planet Nerdom IV.

It makes me want to drive my car right into one. Only pity stays my hand.

And while I'm on the subject, let's talk about the minivan on the road.

There are four types of minivan drivers:

1. Soccer moms that can't handle a big car.
2. Carpoolers
3. Fathers on day trips with the family.
4. Fathers that forgot they bought a minivan and think it's a Camero.

To me, it doesn't matter what type of driver they are, minivans themselves are the menace. But the degrees of hate I have for minivans go with the type of drivers.

The least innoculous are the carpoolers. I can in some way respect what is being done. 5 or more commuters to the city are saving money commuting to work and there are less cars on the road. That's great! Less cars on the road is good for me and good for the environment (but in New Jersey it's the principle of the thing, of course.) I see them on the NJ Turnpike when I occasionally have to drive up to my mother-in-law's house. It's a neat idea. But, they're still minivans and still present logistical problems from the viewpoint of their size and awkwardness on the road.

The problem is the same one there is for SUV's: Seeing the car in front of them. There is a school of thought that if a driver can see the brake light of the car in front of the car in front of him, he can stop in time to avoid an accident. When he follows a minivan or an SUV, he can't see that car and he must rely on his instincts and quick wits.

Soccer mom's that can't handle cars that size have no business on the road. It just burns me when I see one. Here's a mom, driving a HUGE car full of screaming kids. She can barely handle the size and negotiation of the minivan, yet her attention is not fully on the road. I, who am driving alone in a Honda Civic Sedan, will be creamed if that inattentive mother hits me. Meanwhile, the cause of the accident was due to an argument over which DVD was to be played next in the back. Soccer moms: Can't live with them, can't kill them in this state without a death penalty. Oh well.

The fathers on a day trip with the rest of the tribe worry me. Here is a potential suicide. My father was very much the same way. He, however, had the benefit of driving a 1971 Oldsmobile Regency and had a skilled hand. I am certain that no man or woman over the age of 30 doesn't feel an immediate tinge of terror when remembering the words,"Don't make me turn this car around!" I still do. My father had 4 children at the time, my mother usually sat in the front seat of the car. We, being children, caused problems in a "Cosbyesque" fashion. "Will you stop touching me!"," MINE!!!", "Jerk!", and "You're Corroded!" were the norm in the backseat. I, being the oldest and a vetran of the backseat, knew that the best hope of survival was to sit next to the door behind my father. My father wouldn't even turn around. His arm would reach over the top of the car seat and in one motion get all three of my sisters with his right hand. Physics was usually on my side as I knew my father's joints weren't flexible enough to get all of us and I was in his blind spot.

Well, minivans, don't have that option.

Usually, the father will forget himself when he hits that boiling point and turn around (as he's driving) and cause an accident. Murphy's Law would suggest, my car will be the one hit in the collision for all of the beatings I avoided in my youth.

Lastly are the fathers that have forgotten they have bought minivans and think they are Cameros. They are the most dangerous and most pathetic of the bunch. Here is the man having a Miami Vice flashback while in a minivan and will do a car chase that would be more white knuckled than either Bullit, Gone In 60 Seconds, or The French Connection. He has forgotten the intrinsic awkwardness of the minivan and will attempt to make hairpin turns that can only be done in a sports car. These, my friends, are people that must be avoided at all costs. If he's nearby, let him pass. Let him go on his merry way, free to pursue a life of religious fulfillment. I fantasize that I'll see him up the road in either a hunk of twisted metal or surrounded by New Jersey's Finest. But that's me.

They ask me why do I write these essays and dis minivan drivers? Why is it that I have no compassion in my heart for these people who are victims of their circumstances? Why can't I just get along?!!!

Well, I'll tell you what.

Let me even the playing field by mounting rocket launchers on my car and I promise I'll never write another word of this again.

* - I was 14 when it ended. Thankfully, That 70's Show, reminded me of those bittersweet days of gas guzzlers, and Vans.