CalebMcEwen.com

Those of you who know me personally know that in the last three months or so, I have had one of the worst runs of luck involving mechanical, electrical and plumbing issues that you could possibly imagine.  Well, the streak continues.

As my friends also know, I am confident enough in myself that I don't need to overdo it by having a flashy, superficial car.  How confident am I?  I'm 1998-Dodge-Grand-Caravan-with-body-rust-and-170,000-miles confident.  Believe it or not, it actually runs very well, and it's paid for, so I intend to drive it until either it explodes or Kate Gosselin swallows the sun.  My problem now is that it's actually running a little too well.

You see when I shut the engine off, the radiator fan keeps running.  That's right, my car's problem is that it won't stop running.  It's running so well that its running is actually the problem.

Before I get the deluge of comments and emails, yes I'm aware that it's probably the fan switch/relay.  I considered cracking open the relay box and pulling the fuse, but I didn't want to have to put it back in the morning to start it up.  So, I drove it to the shop, dropped the key in the night drop with an explanation and walked home, leaving the fan running to kill the battery.  It was a little like leaving a soldier on the battlefield to bleed to death--a large, rusty soldier...with a fan.

It occured to me as I was walking home that my Caravan could be a Transformer.  Perhaps I have unwittingly driving an interplanetary, sentient, robot marketing scheme throughout most of my adult life.  Maybe if the right situation presented itself, it would unfold to reveal a large, racist stereotype of some sort.  Maybe the fan that would not die is simply its activation system powering up to defend me from the apocalypse, and I am replacing the one, vital piece of electrical equipment that makes it all possible.  If only Michael Bay were here to answer all my questions. 

I think if my minivan were a Transformer, its name would be "Betamus Compromise," and its primary weapon would be questionable acceleration on steep inclines.  The other Transformers would laugh at him because minivans aren't cool, but he would take it all in stride--mostly because he would know they were right.  Then, he would baffle opponents with its ability to haul a 4x8 sheet of plywood laying flat in the back, and eventually defeat all enemies using only low insurance costs.  Unfortunately, someone would eventually discover his one weakness, and Betamus Compromise would die valiantly defending me.  That one weakness?  Road salt.

Godspeed, Betamus.  I'll be right here.