I am a sellout...

It was in Boston, several years ago, that three young men would cruise in a minvan. It was, for all intents and purposes, not my coolest moment. I laughed often when I thought of my buddy-- a senior at UMass working his internship to his best ability, clean- shaved, dressed to a "T", enlightening us to the finer points of white zinfandel--getting into his minivan in the morning to go to work. The epitome of uncool was one mode of transportation for us, a "so uncool it's almost cool" kind of thing that we almost cherished. It was an interesting few months.

There was a day, almost immediately following a raging nor'easter, that Nate came barrelling through the front door letting me know that he had slid off our hillside parking space and was stuck on the side of the hill. We woke our other roommate (sleeping, as always) to address the situation. The three of us, I'm sure, looked like idiots as we shoveled with sticks and hands and maybe a cooking pan or two to try to loosen the frozen grasp the snow had on this fine piece of machinery. Soon enough we found that he was not just stuck in the snow, but high-centered on a large rock that had seemed so innocent and an unable adversary just days before. We were perplexed, dumbfounded, unable to come up with a viable solution to our new found quandary. We thought of a tow truck, until we thought of the heating bill after Nate decided we needed to crank the heat all day, every day for a week (the price of heating oil coincidentally going up the same week...I am thinking he had some stock money involved somewhere). We were as stuck as the minivan.

In a time of crisis, one never knows from where help will arrive. Our help this time came from above. Our upstairs neighbor, whom we had written off as crazy and who had written us off as attempted dog killers (a tainted piece of meat, a backyard barbecue, and a black lab...you fill in the details), soon meandered out of her cave of hiding.

"What happened?"

"He drove the car off the side..."

"It slid on the ice, jerk!"

"Well it can't stay there. I'll call AAA."

And twenty minutes later a tow truck arrived. Five minutes later we were ridiculed by the driver for our predicament and ridiculed more for our feeble attempts at freeing the minivan and then ridiculed even more for being three young bachelors who considered a minivan an acceptable way to travel. He drove away, no charges paid, a thanks to the crazy lady, and a day off for the three of us (two planned, one not). So we did the only thing we could think of doing: we got a dozen donuts and hit a coffee shop for some much needed nourishment.

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So I have no dignity left. I am more uncool than I could have ever imagined. Leather seats, automatic doors, tinted windows, and a good sound system do not erase the fact that I now drive a minivan. I am unable to make this thing cool. I have stickers. I have paint. I have a selection of music that public radio stations would hold a fund-raiser for...but I cannot make this minivan cool. I really wanted to avoid this. I really would have taken a conversion van, a VW Vanagon form the mid-seventies, an old model station wagon, some scooters with side cars with room for four...but I have a minivan. I have been consoled by friends (after being made fun of, of course) who say things like "at least it's a Honda...it's a nice color...I guess you'll be driving to the hockey game now." None of these things can cover the looks on their faces, though. The looks that tell me that I have stepped one step beyond the point of no return on the cool charts. The looks that tell me that they might now want to associate with me anymore. The looks that are pained, as the statements written above sound more like questions as they seek to find the salve that soothes.

I could make it big with my music now, a breakthrough, unprecedented skyrocket to the top of the music business: I still drive a minivan. I could actually sell my thesis and get a book deal: I still drive a minivan. I could be recognized by the screen actor's guild for my incomprehensible talents: I still drive a minivan. I could produce a great hip-hop album by my protege' FBJ: I still drive a minivan. I could hit the million dollar shot from half court: I still drive a minivan. I could do anything, do the impossible, do the improbable: I still drive a minivan.

My quest is still alive, though, to find the one thing that could bring me out of such depths, the one thing that could free me from my life sentence of uncoolness, the one thing that continues to escape my grasp, though I reach for it continuously: a 1982 Datsun B210.

From where does my help come now?

********************************by the way, it is a 2003 Honda Odyssey ELX with 53,000 miles...and it rocks!*****************************