As Americans, we like to remember fondly and promote certain parts of our history. We point to our perseverance in building a nation in the 18th century; our rise from agrarian to industrial power in the 19th century; and our sacrifice during the war years to our struggles to gain civil rights in the 20th century.

To some, we are not introspective or self critical enough. Critics will say we release an official history and package it like any other product. There may be some truth to that analysis but it is hardly the whole truth. We still have the luxury to pick and choose our outrage; whether it is slavery, atrocities against indigenous peoples, or imperialist policies. We look to our collective shame and piously declare slogans such as “Never Forget” or “Not in our Lifetime.”

I propose another slogan: No more.

No more will we turn our backs on perhaps our most pernicious cultural artifacts ofjunk culture.

Junk culture is the box referred to when we are told to think outside of it. The problem is, we don’t even know we are in a box. In fact, the axiom to “think outside of the box” is part of our junk culture, so it is kind of like holding a mirror up to a mirror and seeing to infinity.

A reflection of a reflection.

To that end, I have unearthed a piece of our skewed history. A history discarded because it wasn’t as quaint as the hula hoop but no less important. Thanks to the folks at one of my favorite web blogs, Everything is Terrible!, I was forced to confront the found memory also know as Custom Van Culture.

(That would be vans you drive not Vans you wear)

I came across this clip they mashed up called Supervan (1977).

Where to begin?

Once past the wooden dialog; the George Barris “kreation” of the protagonist Van Dora; the strangely gloomy filming location of Kansas City; the hokey musical interludes; or the inclusion of cinéma vérité during a montage of the individualistic van murals at the “Freak Out” scene; I was left with a mix of emotions, questions, and memories.

At the 1:08 mark I was sad to see a literary hero cavorting at the van rally, or “freak out”, during what appears to be a wet t-shirt contest. The classical music loving booze-hound Charles Bukowski at such a place in history was an assault to the senses, particularly since such vacuous indulgences to “modern” life seems incongruent with his writing. Who am I kidding? I can only conclude that he was lured in by his notorious human weakness for pert breasts and free wine.

I then began to reflect on my (I wish I could say fuzzy) memories of custom vans. The craze had already waned by the time I got my driver’s license, around the time gasoline broke the one dollar per gallon barrier. I do seem to recount that favored colors for these vans seemed to be burnt orange and brown; also know then as “earth tones.” There were port hole windows added with roof vents, and yes, there was plenty of shag carpeting.

Because the custom van was part of the “Me” generation’s celebration of individuality, there wasn’t much of a resale market for these vehicles. That is not to say they some didn’t exchange hands for those with similar thematic interests, or the truly desperate. My neighbor, across the street from the duplex I called home, owned a Star Wars rolling tribute (in very non-outer space evoking brown, Chewbacca Brown, perhaps).

The Death Star on wheels was a Chevy van purchased by a janitor to haul his cleaning gear in style. Surface rust had begun to spoil the mural and one such eruption made it appear that princess Leah was crying a brown tear. This van became a landmark by which I instructed my visitors to locate my address. Since all the war-era houses looked the same (literally) it was easiest to say “Look for the Star Wars van, I am the house across the street.”

I wish I had a photo of that Star Wars van but there is no shortage of them available to us today since it seems to have been one of these two particles on the junk culture super-collider at the time.

Some custom vans had simple motifs, perhaps just festooned with multiple stripes; while others had full murals of complicated scenery. Their interiors were a cross between Greg Brady’s bedroom and Bob Newhart’s psychiatry office.

It is also common that the portions of our culture we hope to forget are regurgitated in time to make a comeback. This may not have happened here, although we did bear the ill begotten fruit known as the mini van, the custom van did re-emerge in Japan. Not to be outdone, the Japanese could not resist taking their homage to American junk culture over the top.

Actually, from the mundane…

…to the outrageous.

These road relics were strangely captivating creatures that demanded attention, much like a car wreck on the side of the road. I used to try to match the mural with the driver and the personality it had hoped to evoke. Mutton Chops and Fu Manchu ’stachs to feathered hair and flair corduroys; these were the freedom loving expressionists of their generation.

Before we snicker too loudly at the ridiculousness of the custom van excesses of the 1970s and chalk it up to the collective need of an era of people’s need at conspicuous self expression, we need to recognize the foundation they have established on our behalf.

From Citizen Band radios to texting while driving; or, dorky air brushed murals to cheesy body art, can we really sit in judgment? What have we learned?

It does make you wonder what we consider commonplace will be deemed a ridiculous phase and what of our current obsessions and expressions will have the staying power to carry it into the future. Will writing a blog, the language of texting shorthand, celebrity Tweets, or Facebook “friends” seem like an unnecessary indulgence or will it endure; if only to rust in a distant field or collect dust in our cluttered cultural basement?

I couldn’t resist adding one last scene from Supervan. Look closely as the cop at the end of this scene is Len Lesser, who played uncle Leo on Seinfeld.