There was a time that didn't seem that long ago when it was de rigeur for punks and indierockers to drive vintage '60s and '70s iron. Hell, Mike LaVella founded an entire mini-empire around the concept. The girls drove old Volvos, Subarus and Valiants, while the boys tended toward 'Cudas, Chevelles, Super Bees, C-Bodies or Cadillacs. Or vans. There naturally had to be one guy out of every six with a van. Tonight I was thinking about the old Promise Ring song, "Old Chevy" and realized that it had come out a freaking decade ago. I didn't find a video of it, but I did find "Why Did We Ever Meet?" which features a bunch of Wisconsin indie dorks rolling Lane Meyer-style in a '67 Camaro, which back then, one could buy and sell all day long for between three and four grand. Craig Jackson, you owe me compensation for my salary rise not matching the appreciation of the '67 F-Body.

In fact, you owe every punk who ever grew up with and loved an old, rad car. Threaten your braided-belt buddies if you have to. Tell 'em an army of aging rockers will scrawl Black Flag logos all over their polo shirts while utilizing snapped Dean Markley .10s as makeshift punji sticks if you must. Just because we're getting old, it doesn't mean you and your cronies can steal our youth. Also, note to manufacturers, we dare you to build cars that inspire this sort of rant among the angst-ridden teens of tomorrow. The ones of today, frankly, are fucked unless they're trust-funders. I think it's time for some Dick Cavett reruns. I need to chill out.

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