I got a girlfriend. You can’t have her. I got a racetrack in my yard. I got an A-frame. I got a speedway. I got a goofball in my hand. She’s a winner. I got a racecar. It’s kind of a sculpture. I got a Rambler in my yard…

On a certain morning, a certain dawn, twenty three seagulls formed a circle pit in the sky above the calm, glassine but deceptively fetid waters of Tire Beach, at the end of 24th Street in San Francisco, a battered wasteland of a public park, piles of trash, overgrown weeds rapidly forming a more permanent bark skin, remnants of smashed concrete, a twisted chainlink fence.

Tire Beach, known on city maps as Warm Water Cove, is probably one of the top three neglected designated public parks in the city, with layers of graffiti seemingly holding up the walls, normally the only signs of human presence, signals that the park is actually being used, albeit for illegal purposes that city planners had, in fact, not planned for. But this particular morning something different floats in the air, while fishing through the darkness, the trailers, the vans the broken down RVs that some people call home, there are the sounds of a cello, a Moog, a gas generator’s hum, hushed voices and the cackle of fire. Ahead of us: the Rambler.