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MAGAZINE
It ain't always gonna go right. Everybody don't always see it your way, do what you think they should do, or agree with you.
And when all you want is to be a cool Daddy-O, to have your ride workin'fine and lookin'fine, and you follow the rules and read the instructions and use the recommended experts and pay full retail (Argggggggh!) and it still isn't coming together....why.... you can park it if you want.
Why the hell can't we walk away from the nasty old shitters? If they're tryin'to break your heart in their mute, metallic, insensitive way, well, then fuck 'em. Park 'em. Go on to something else for a while.
Let's see: there's the reruns on TV.
That Pal of yours wanted you to start golfing.
You could paint the spare room.
You could catch up on your (other than car) reading.
Yeah.
And you could find out just how tipped over you are. You are without hope. Hopeless. There is no cure, no salve, no potion, no tonic or elixir that will spare you your preoccupation with hot rods. You got it bad, Bub, an'you know you do. An'we're there for ya. We know that when you resolve to stay away from it, it isn't the vision of glory that makes you go back. You go back because you have to solve it one way or the other; you can not let it lie there, tools payed out on the ground, those dandy new seals and shoes and springs and u-joints lying there waiting for you to lay hands on them and make them part of a groovy whole You are the practitioner and - however limited your skills or experience - this crappy assortment of 200 year old forged, stamped, machined, bonded and assembled backyard-engineered parts needs you...da Man...to make it a... thing. A car. A hot rod, a ride, a piece, hot iron, a gow job. Your car, hot rod... blah-blah...all of that.
It ain't gonna happen without you. Without you...it's scrap (it's crap?) Trash. Basura. Artifacts from the industrial revolution.
So you get over your pout in about 2 minutes and those 2 minute-old oaths of resignation, those resolutions to quit, that adamance, purposeful rebellion...........that "I don't need you" like you'd say to a heartless chick........is so much doo-doo..
And you do go back and you finish it...with some probable hardship and some more investment: might be a few bucks. Research. Phone calls. Time. Puzzlement. Revelation.
That subliminal personal struggle (like ya gonna tell the Boys? Ha!) Will result in satisfaction that it's done, the pout will be embarrassing (but nobody else knows, right?) And you'll have B.O. (Bein'Optomistic) again.
Like you're s'posed to.
And if it's really done, and you're drivin'it and you're satisfied with it (never, really, cuz they're not static art) well, then you are on to the next one. And it will all start with a phone call.
"Hey, Brother Stevens, you still got that fordor body........"
Somebody STOP me!
en hopup veritas
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