The Mani-van
by Larry King
No, that’s not a typo. “Mani-van” is what I call my current vehicle. Yeah, it’s a minivan, but it’s a man’s minivan. At least that’s what I try to convince myself. I’ve heard that the car a person drives reflects their personality. I hope that’s not the case. If so, I’m badly busted and rusted. I’m not so sure I agree with the car and personality link concept. However, I do know that our cars become mobile memory makers as we travel the road of life.
Back in high school, the “Black Bomb” was my tailfin-spouting 1960 Chevrolet Belair. One and a half tons of American-made steel rolling down the street as Ford Pintos and AMC Gremlins scattered. It was 1976. It was sex and drugs and rock and roll and it was all happening in my car. Occasionally at the same time.
I mentioned the Ford Pinto, and full disclosure dictates admitting I drove many miles in my parent’s Pinto. This was before all that “exploding gas tank” hoopla, and my folks allowed me and a buddy to take an impromptu road trip shortly after graduating high school. We were track teammates, and while watching the Olympics thought, “Hey, Montreal is only like 600 miles from here, let’s go!” No tickets? No lodging? No speaka da French? No problem!
“No problem” with vehicles has rarely been my experience, especially that first decade or so of car ownership, when it was used and/or hand-me-down cars. Like the car I had in my early 20s – grandma’s old bare-bones, boring Nova. A chick magnet it was not, even after I installed a sweet 8-track/cassette player, and earth-shaking speakers. Of course, the spit-cup from my chewing tobacco habit at the time may have been a bit off-putting to women.
Despite the Nova (and the soon-to-be-discarded spit cup), I did attract a member of the fairer sex, my eventual bride. While financially struggling newlyweds, she took the wheel of the Nova, it being safer than her car. If her car’s carburetor got wet, it wouldn’t start. Many a foggy or rainy night trying to leave work, I’d find myself hunched under the hood of a bright yellow Camaro, flaming propane torch in hand, drying the engine and hoping I didn’t blow myself up.
A new car was needed. And not a new used car. A new new car. Looking back over my 40 years of driving, this was to be the only new new car I ever had. And it was a lemon. From Day One. It was a Ford Cougar and it felt like FORD stood for Fix Or Repair Daily. I worried it would become Found On Road Dead.
But I continued driving that P.O.S. well after we started our family and entered the Minivan Zone. The Mani-van is our third of the model, and they’ve served us well. During that run we’ve raised three boys, now young men. Hundreds of thousands of miles together to skate parks, shows, schools, sports, vacations, spur-of-the moment road trips, and scores of friends’ and relatives’ houses.
Once they began hitting driving age, another generation of begged, borrowed, and used cars rolled into my life. At times our driveway felt like a used car lot. But I know those minivans and their first cars have created memories for the kids, whether they realize it or not.
As for myself, these days when I’m perched in the driver’s seat of my 13-year-old vehicle, a glance to the right shows two distinctive features of my ride. First, a precisely-placed swath of duct tape ensures that darn passenger door panel stays right where it should. The glove compartment door— not so much. It’s permanently a third of the way open, held in place by a loop of twisty-ties. After the auto shop guy said it would cost $250 to fix, I quickly got over having an open view of the owner’s manual, repair receipts, and my pair of gloves. Well it is a glove compartment, right?
I’ve got no complaints about tooling around in the Mani-van. Like my buddy once said as he patted his expansive beer belly, “It may not look pretty, but it’s all bought and paid for.”
If your car does reflect your personality, I guess a Pinto, a Nova, a lemon, and three minivans make me seem pretty bland. Although the vehicles may have appeared boring, the ride never was.
Back to Larry's Page
Copyright © 2017 All rights reserved. Can not be reproduced or used without written permission.
by Larry King
No, that’s not a typo. “Mani-van” is what I call my current vehicle. Yeah, it’s a minivan, but it’s a man’s minivan. At least that’s what I try to convince myself. I’ve heard that the car a person drives reflects their personality. I hope that’s not the case. If so, I’m badly busted and rusted. I’m not so sure I agree with the car and personality link concept. However, I do know that our cars become mobile memory makers as we travel the road of life.
Back in high school, the “Black Bomb” was my tailfin-spouting 1960 Chevrolet Belair. One and a half tons of American-made steel rolling down the street as Ford Pintos and AMC Gremlins scattered. It was 1976. It was sex and drugs and rock and roll and it was all happening in my car. Occasionally at the same time.
I mentioned the Ford Pinto, and full disclosure dictates admitting I drove many miles in my parent’s Pinto. This was before all that “exploding gas tank” hoopla, and my folks allowed me and a buddy to take an impromptu road trip shortly after graduating high school. We were track teammates, and while watching the Olympics thought, “Hey, Montreal is only like 600 miles from here, let’s go!” No tickets? No lodging? No speaka da French? No problem!
“No problem” with vehicles has rarely been my experience, especially that first decade or so of car ownership, when it was used and/or hand-me-down cars. Like the car I had in my early 20s – grandma’s old bare-bones, boring Nova. A chick magnet it was not, even after I installed a sweet 8-track/cassette player, and earth-shaking speakers. Of course, the spit-cup from my chewing tobacco habit at the time may have been a bit off-putting to women.
Despite the Nova (and the soon-to-be-discarded spit cup), I did attract a member of the fairer sex, my eventual bride. While financially struggling newlyweds, she took the wheel of the Nova, it being safer than her car. If her car’s carburetor got wet, it wouldn’t start. Many a foggy or rainy night trying to leave work, I’d find myself hunched under the hood of a bright yellow Camaro, flaming propane torch in hand, drying the engine and hoping I didn’t blow myself up.
A new car was needed. And not a new used car. A new new car. Looking back over my 40 years of driving, this was to be the only new new car I ever had. And it was a lemon. From Day One. It was a Ford Cougar and it felt like FORD stood for Fix Or Repair Daily. I worried it would become Found On Road Dead.
But I continued driving that P.O.S. well after we started our family and entered the Minivan Zone. The Mani-van is our third of the model, and they’ve served us well. During that run we’ve raised three boys, now young men. Hundreds of thousands of miles together to skate parks, shows, schools, sports, vacations, spur-of-the moment road trips, and scores of friends’ and relatives’ houses.
Once they began hitting driving age, another generation of begged, borrowed, and used cars rolled into my life. At times our driveway felt like a used car lot. But I know those minivans and their first cars have created memories for the kids, whether they realize it or not.
As for myself, these days when I’m perched in the driver’s seat of my 13-year-old vehicle, a glance to the right shows two distinctive features of my ride. First, a precisely-placed swath of duct tape ensures that darn passenger door panel stays right where it should. The glove compartment door— not so much. It’s permanently a third of the way open, held in place by a loop of twisty-ties. After the auto shop guy said it would cost $250 to fix, I quickly got over having an open view of the owner’s manual, repair receipts, and my pair of gloves. Well it is a glove compartment, right?
I’ve got no complaints about tooling around in the Mani-van. Like my buddy once said as he patted his expansive beer belly, “It may not look pretty, but it’s all bought and paid for.”
If your car does reflect your personality, I guess a Pinto, a Nova, a lemon, and three minivans make me seem pretty bland. Although the vehicles may have appeared boring, the ride never was.
Back to Larry's Page
Copyright © 2017 All rights reserved. Can not be reproduced or used without written permission.