I've always identified with Arnie Cunningham. Awkward kid, smart, wanted to fit in but never really did, heavy interest in cars, partial to brunettes. I could always see the beauty in an old heap, what it could be with some work and time. Had the coolest car in my high school parking lot. I've hand my hands over every inch of my car. Literal blood and sweat expended upon it's surfaces. It's even tried to kill me once, but we've come to an understanding. I keep it fed and tuned and clean, it keeps from trying to kill me again. If it does, I've instructed my wife to crush it. I'd say it probably does possess at least a small piece of my soul, though it doesn't seem to fix itself when it breaks. Bum deal, in my opinion. If I had a cracked tooth and a bad fuel pump, the fuel pump comes first. As I age, I find I'm distancing myself more and more from people, and taking more solace in my machines. I feel like my machines are the only thing I can count on sometimes. I took the time and did things right on them, instead of taking short cuts for quick gratification like you see so often today. I've got a very small group of people I consider true friends, but not a one owns a sweet Charger though. I drive my car like I'm the only person in the world. I check my car out in a store window in passing like a pretty woman checks her hair in the mirror. It's not "perfect" by any means, but it's perfect in it's imperfections. Maybe ugly to some, but what the hell do they know? If it's not running right or at all, I don't run right. I don't have a lot of pride in myself, but I am damn proud of that car. I might not have a lot going for me, but I have that car. Glad when people like it, but don't care if they don't. So what to you think folks? Any of you find yourselves identifying with old Arnie? Maybe I'm just losing my tenuous grip on reality, bit in this reality, could you blame me?