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- 2011-8-3
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- 2011-8-5
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发表于 2011-8-5 22:38 · 福建
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Shameful confession: Sex, rugs and boogie vans
If you were born after 1980, you missed the Boogie Van era. I wasn’t that lucky.
In case you haven’t seen one, here’s a boogie van spotters guide: The exterior will feature airbrushed murals, usually of saber-toothed tigers, axe-wielding barbarians or bare-breasted fantasy maidens. The interior will be lined with crushed velvet or quilted vinyl. There will be a bed in the back, and it will probably be accessorized with an animal-skin quilt and a ceiling mirror. On the rear bumper you will no doubt find a sticker that reads: “If this van’s rockin’, don’t bother knockin’,” or “Don’t laugh, your daughter may be inside.”
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Yes, we are talking about one of the worst car trends of all time. Imagine King Ludwig’s castle remade as a Motel Six, and you have the boogie van. So it pains me to admit that I built two of them myself. Here is my confession:
Let me begin by saying that my crimes against taste and engineering were not premeditated. I’d just finished my first year of journalism school after quitting my job as a Porsche-VW mechanic out in Vancouver. Now I was in Halifax, looking for a summer job so I could pay the next year’s tuition. I had tools and a mechanic’s licence, but no one was hiring. Then I spotted an ad in the Chronicle Herald: “Mechanic wanted. Must have tools.” Off I went.
I found myself in a rundown industrial mall that was home to an ambulance conversion shop. “We do some custom vans, too,” the owner said. My ears pricked up. Custom vans? Boogie vans had been an unfortunate 1970s craze, with magazines, clubs and “van-ins” that drew thousands of shag-carpeted bedrooms on wheels driven by winking horn dogs. Now it was 1982. As far as I knew, the custom van trend was dead and gone, along with the Fu Manchu mustache, double knit pants and the CB radio.
Or so I thought.
I spent my first two weeks building an ambulance, which was actually kind of fun. We sliced the top off a brand-new Ford van with air-powered cutting wheels, and installed a new top cap, radios, lights and medicine cabinets. It wasn’t as cool as working on Porsche 911s, but it was a new experience.
Then came my first boogie van. I came into the shop one morning to find a custom-painted Chevrolet van in my service bay. There was a television antenna welded to the roof, and the inside reminded me of a road-going version of the Playboy mansion – there were flame-shaped wall sconces, fake rocks and burgundy vinyl upholstery. On the dash was an engraved plastic sign: “Ass, grass or gas. No one rides for free.”
My job was to install a waterbed in the back of the Chev. “It’s right over there,” the boss said, pointing to a giant cardboard box. I’d done many things during my career as a mechanic, but putting a waterbed in a rolling bordello wasn’t one of them, and I had some misgivings. The waterbed would weigh more than half a ton once it was filled, adding to the Chev’s already-considerable accessory load, which included a colour TV, a wet bar and floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The seats had been replaced with giant leather thrones, and the entire interior was lined with solid oak boards. Then there were the rocks – they might be made of papier-mâché, but it all added up.
The waterbed would definitely overload the springs and tires (not to mention the brakes). But the boss said to go ahead. Two days later, the bed was installed on a frame I had constructed from angle iron and plywood. As we filled the bed with a hose, the van sagged lower and lower on its overburdened springs, and the tires flattened. I pumped in more air, terrified that the tires would explode. Miraculously, they held, but the van emitted ominous metallic groans, like an overloaded tramp steamer. |
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