I was burnt out on cars when I put it together in 85-87 and have never rebounded. I want the car back to its origional obnoxious orangel and the only way it will happen if I do it.

I started in October, on an early sunday afternoon the moment I hopped out of the car when I came back from fall OC cruise. I thought that I would be done on tax day, but there I go thinking again.

I decided to revist the doors and am dinking with the crowns, backtracing to #80. That notwithstanding, I have the whole car #320 blocked.

Since October, I have about 1.4k hours in it. I spent a lot of time in panel alignment, with the nose a cakewalk secondary issue. While deep in the car, I am going over everthing as a precaution.

I have mocked the car so many times, I can simply place the fenders on the car without a clink. The only thing I need to do is decicde whether or not I'll protect the topcoated edges with tape when I assemble the car.

Since the first of the year, there have been 3 days that I haven't worked on the car, even if the day's work was an hour or so. And those three days were grandbaby days.

I would love to take a break, but I cannot do it. I think that I have mentined that I actually hate the f/ing car because I'm intellegent enough to know it's beyond an obesssion. And it infuriates me to think that some pos car has total control over my life.

The problem is that I'n in a situation that I have never been in before. Minus the 2 year build block, since 1977, I have always been able to walk up to the car, stick the key in, and take off. Never ever has it been torn down this long.

It isn't so much a case of not driving it, but that I cannot drive it.

I look at as being incarcinated becuse jail has to have some level of burnout. I commited the crime of knocking paint off the car that it's in the picture. Lost of folks say that alone shows what an idiot I am. Let's add the frosting. Actually its origional color is one of the horrendous colors one could ask for. My son-in-law loves it, but my daughter about passed out and said you gotta be kiddin, and my mother would be rolling in her grave if she had one.

Anwway, I made the commitment, so I have to pay the price. The padding on the walls is that I drift back to those 17 years of the chits, reminding myself that I don't have to do it for a living anymore, and it allows me to move onward though the fog.