Steve,

I recently visited your nice webpage
www.emriver.com/vandemon.htm and read about your
Digifant Demons, even though I drive a diesel and thus
have no worries regarding Vanagon Syndrome (diesels
have their own syndromes, believe me).

Nonetheless, I was curious. Bored too. But mostly just
curious.

So, with a secretive glance over my shoulder, I
surreptitiously clicked the link to download your
movie. Anyone watching my furtive gestures would have
undoubtedly assumed I was about to download some porn,
and as I impatiently watched the little QuickTime
progress bar, I wondered to myself just exactly what I
expected to see. What I WANTED to see, and why.

When the movie was all spooled up and ready to go, I
played it. And let me tell you, it was great: the
intimate home-movie look, the avant-garde shakiness of
a handheld camera, even the ominous single subtitle
compelling me to "note backfiring".

Although it was far too short, I enjoyed it immensely.
And that's what scares me. I've only been subscribing
to the Vanagon list for two months now, and yet here I
am -- reading intently about a mechanical problem I'll
never have, watching with rapt attention someone
else's cantankerous old engine, running badly and
coughing smoke.

I'm sorry, but I have no answers for you regarding
your Vanagon, as much as I would love the hundred
bucks. I am confident that there are many others here
more experienced than I in such matters, and I wish
you luck in finding a solution to the engine problems
which plague your beloved Westy.

But by directing your camera to your engine
compartment, you have also cast a light upon my very
soul, and what I see reflected there is quite sad.
When it was over, I sat there gazing slack-jawed at
the final, frozen image of your blurry tailpipe. And
yet, like the pathetic junkie who needs his fix, I was
not satisfied. I wanted -- no, NEEDED -- more. I
craved another hit. Had I really become such a
Vanageek?

As if in silent reply, a bead of sweat formed on my
furrowed brow, trickled down, and dripped from the end
of my nose. My breathing quickened and my finger
trembled on the mouse. And then I took that final dark
plunge into the depths of Vanagon addiction: I played
it again ...

God help me!

God help us all ...

Jeffrey Earl
1983 diesel Westfalia "Vanasazi"

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