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I even have my own special room in our basement. It was a coal bin before my parents bought the house, but now it's just a little narrow room where things end up, with an old red Formica drop-leaf kitchen table at one end where I build the model cars. I sit at that beat-up table, with the radio on and my X-acto knife and the squint of Testors model glue in the air. (I've heard that kids sniff it.) Under a dusty cone of light, I tinker together 1/25-scale replicas of pro stock racers like the Sox & Martin Bob 'Cuda or the nitro funny cars of Don "The Snake" Prudhomme and Tom "The Mongoose" McEwen. (Natural enemies in nature and on the quarter-mile!) While I work the only sounds are CKLW and the trill of the dehumidifier, clicking on, drying and vibrating the stinging chemical air. I sing along to the 5th Dimension or the Cowsills. Sometimes I imitate the disc jockeys while I sit there.
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