The Importance Of: Better RV Names
The Importance Of: is a semi-monthly bit on topics that aren’t really.
Take a look around next time you’re on a long straight section of freeway. You might catch a glimpse of any one of these rare, majestic rolling beasts: Wilderness Explorer, Rock Climber, Puma, or Forest River. Maybe even a Big Horn or Viking. Nevermind that those actual RV names are dumb.
No cliffs will be scaled while cruising around in a bus-sized machine. There will be 20-point turns, long, expensive waits at gas pumps, and cursing from terrified side-swiped road cyclists. Nothing about a non-aerodynamic cube resembles the grace and agility of an alpine sheep. And Viking? The lug of a diesel engine and squeak of taxed suspension as a “Bounder” begrudgingly rolls over a speed bump into a treeless grid campground doesn’t exactly strike fear in the heart of English monks. Though if there happened to be a half-blind, squinting octogenarian behind the wheel of that 20,000-pound monstrosity than maybe it would.
The names are just all wrong. It may not be the highest priority on the list of important public issues that need addressed, but it still needs to change. For a better tomorrow.
I don’t have anything against RVs themselves. They are a wonderful way to get out and not actually get out at all. I can’t fault families for desiring ownership considering all of the temperature swings, dust, rain, and refreshing flowing creek sounds that children might be exposed to outdoors without 800 square feet of climate controlled space to safely watch videos that they could watch at home.
Okay, I have a small bias, but not against people that rock small trailers or that actually live in their RVs, however big. The idea of owning a payment-free mobile shelter actually seems like a pretty sweet deal. And you never have to worry about a waffling housing bubble with RVs because it’s not like predatorial used car salesman and Wall Street lowlifes would be corrupt enough to push subprime loans in the auto industry like what happened with the housing sector (oh, wait…). Plus you kinda know going in that a house on wheels is sort of a bad investment and you’re probably never gonna make your money back unless you start Henry Fording out crystal meth from the velvet curtain-drawn depths of your mobile lab.
Again, whether someone even actually needs a fully-equipped, 80-foot mobile domestic strike survival headquarters to go outside for 3 weekends a year is none of my business. The main problem is simply one of diction. There needs to be a federal regulatory agency in place to prevent poor unsuspecting buyers from thinking they are getting something that they are not, like the regulators that prevent cigarettes from being labeled as Happy Sticks or FiveFingers toe shoes as socially acceptable.
To shine some light on this epidemic, here are three of the harder-to-swallow RV model names I tracked down:
1.) American Dream, absurd, but in line with our broader culture of dedicated materialism. Even better is the next model up, the 2.) American Revolution! I envision a shirtless Paul Revere stumbling out of his RV and drunkenly yelling at his children. “Joseph Warren! Frances! Lucy! John! Mary! Paul Revere Jr.! Deborah! Elizabeth! Where you at?! Ah damn it, the Red Coats are camping next door again.” And lastly, there is the 3.) Intruder, which is may be the most refreshingly accurate model I came across. Props to you Damon Company. Except, minus points for the Escaper and Tuscany.
I came up with some recommendations for better RV names to get the conversation started. Feel free to provide your own suggestions!
The View Obstructor
The Storage Shed
There is one notable geographic exemption for occasional use of large, hard-sided trailers and RVs, and that is Yellowstone National Park, where tent camping is like handing a Grizzly a tootsie roll they have to unwrap before devouring, which impressively enough, they can do with just their mouths like a clever, annoying 3rd grader.