Here on the Edge of Gangland, strange and horrid automotive excrescences dot the landscape like so many chrome-plated cowflops, and the latest trend seems to be fake wire wheels so unconvincing you couldn't even sneak them past Manny, Moe and Jack, about two sizes too wide and two sizes too short, leaving enough room in the fender wells for an entire family of squirrels. Usually these will be misfitted to a late-Seventies or early-Eighties piece of Detroit iron with glass tinted darker than anthracite, which runs just well enough to keep the battery charged so that the ostensible owners (and anyone for 150 yards in any direction) can listen to their collection of godawful indistinguishable nontunes. Of course, I am old and crotchety, and I persist in believing silly things like "Automotive modifications, first and foremost, should enhance performance," and adding a bunch of unsprung (though shiny) weight enhances performance about as much as concrete enhances galoshes, but hey, it's your money.