Have you ever read a trade journal? One of those magazines meant expressly for plumbers or welders and never intended for the general public? Full of weird lingo and with content so intensely fixed that it becomes almost comedic? This movie is a little like that. Made in the 1970's with a modest budget, this stinker is entirely about CUSTOM VAN CULTURE. Airbrushed unicorns, feathered hair, racing stripes, CB radios. And don't think for a moment that this is some kind of quirky, ironic documentary. It's a really bad narrative piece of fiction. There's sort of a plot. I think somebody has to win a van contest or something similarly morbid. There's a wacky professor that designs a van that shoots lasers for some reason. The soundtrack is all 70's soft rock about Vans. The ridiculousness of the whole thing shoots through the roof when Charles Bukowski wanders drunkenly through a party scene wearing a shirt that says "Water boy for the wet T-shirt contest" (maybe they lured extras by advertising free beer). Whoah man, this movie is so bad it feels like getting clubbed repeatedly with a dead howler monkey just trying to watch it. Of course, if you can stand it, and if you are a connoisseur of bad films, this one is pretty funny in its patheticness.