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There’s nothing that quite says America than an iconic candy apple-red Chevy Camaro. No, not the idyllic America of 1950s and 60s with its apple pies, white picket fences, and Ivy League educational standards, we’re talking America of the ’70s and ’80s—long hair flowing down a ripped and torn denim jacket, a middle finger to the world, and a G.E.D. with a honors in something called a backseat education (heh, heh, heh).
If you had a Camaro then, you were the man. If you were the man, you had the car (and the chicks went crazy!). We’re talking the Neighborhood King here, dude. Everybody on the block knew which curbside (never a driveway or garage) proudly displayed the fruit of four years of backbreaking afterschool labor, lifting boxes of Swanson’s frozen dinners at the cold storage six days a week.
Sure, you still lived with your parents (in the shed out back) and you were 22-going-on-30 with little-to-no concern for what the future had in store. Didn’t matter. You were content with a pack of smokes, your (16-year-old) girlfriend by your side, and a slow ride to the big bad city.
So what happened?
You moved out of the shed and into a bachelor pad (with three or four of your buddies). You landed a job on a construction site and ended up apprenticing as a carpenter. You needed to buy a truck for that. Soon-after, you and your gal pal got hitched (honeymoon in Miami), bought semi-detached 3-bedroom and had a couple kids. Your prized Camaro? It’s been sitting on cinderblocks in the garage since Reagan was in the White House. Oh sure, you keep on telling yourself you’re going to fix it up in time for Little Johnny’s 16th birthday (he’s 8 now) but we know that’s never going to happen. Instead, you’re more likely to give in to your wife’s everlasting nagging to “Get that scrap heap out of here so we can have someplace to park the mini-van!“
So you end up putting an ad out and some young rebellious go-nowhere-but-die-tryin’ pimpled and mustachioed teen answers. His name is Reggie but his friends call him Rex, and he’s saved up enough dough from his job as night janitor (from the same high school he dropped out of). He wants a fixer for the winter so’s he can have it ready for the beach come summertime. His rolled up sleeves alone make you shave off a couple hundred bucks from the asking price and he tows your long-faded glory out of there while you stand there and nod knowingly as your clutch the fistful of hundred dollar bills. So, what to do with the money?
You go out and you buy a brand-spankin’ new Camaro of course… for the kids!
Measuring 61 inches long, 23 inches wide, and 29.5 inches in height, this electric mini road monster weighs in at 75 lbs. Top speed? 5 hair-softening miles per. Rechargeable 12-volt battery… Built-in sound-effects deck (we’re hoping it skips the sounds of bottles smashing and the shouted expletives of a Saturday night cruise to the donut shop) and an mp3 jack to blast the Styx or Stones of yesteryear or the Toy Story 3 soundtrack of today. Factory sticker of $349.95 (plus $25 shipping tax) and it’s yours… I mean, the kid’s…
It’s a small price to pay for a tiny reminder of the good times. Little Johnny will thank you.