I have a rather unhealthy obsession with late-seventies and early-eighties El Caminos. Piles of shit as far as most people are concerned. Almost always underpowered (and ugly?), this iteration of Chevrolet's truck-car-combo featured an abundance of silly chrome strips, cheap plastic pieces and uncomfortable cloth interiors. And yet, I love them. There's this fantasy that plays in my mind at night, when I can't sleep and craigslist is all to accessible... I'm driving downtown, the dark city streets lit by lanterns and the ambient glow of all-night eateries. In the bed of my all-black 1979 El Camino is some type of two-stroke dirt bike, just begging to be kicked over, to make everyone mad. Smokey burnouts and wild fuck-off wheelies in the midst of the Great American Gold Rush. Internet nerds peering over the top of their MacBook Pros from the controlled quiet of their coffee shops, feeling both envious and unsettled at the same time. "Who is this crazy bastard, clearly disobeying the laws of our subdued city?!" A fantasy, yes, but one within reach. I've already got a cookie jar full of coins, ready to pay the impending infractions.