As I've already noted, I don't have an old blue van parked in my yard. But somewhere I'll bet somebody does. I imagine it's probably on the outskirts of some little out-of-the-way southern town: a faded, pale blue '68 Chevy van with a snub-nose out behind a falling-down barn, rusting away amidst tall scraggly weeds and half-covered up with kudzu vines. Of course, one of its wide-track '60' rear tires is missing, the wheel held up by a couple of concrete blocks, and the windshield's cracked from a stray .12 gauge birdshot blast (the result of a long-ago and long-forgotten night of inebriated revelry.) One of the van's side doors is partly open - the hinge is broken, and it won't shut anymore - and up front, in between the cracked vinyl bucket seats, the engine housing cover with its faux wood-grain drink-holder lies crookedly askew. There's still an 8-track tape player in the dash, and scattered on the floor are a couple of the square and boxy 8-track tape cartridges bearing legendary names like Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Marshall Tucker Band. In the back, the wooden bed frame is exposed under a missing mattress, and the paneled walls are peeling off in strips. There's a lot of trash back there on the damp and moldy shag carpet, including some empty Lucky Strike packs and an empty bottle of Southern Comfort...
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