PART II
As the immediately above coyly suggests, this a continuation in a series which Ol' DC's God Complex emergences.
Formerly believed to be the exclusive domain of those in the medical establishment, should the reader not yet have heard of the condition, no worries, you've already got it. Indeed, just about everyone suffers from it; if not constantly, then intermittently.
The term’s origination is attributed by some to Ernest Jones, whose psychoanalytic first take on the idea was a person believing themselves God was therefore suffering a God Complex. One supposes, it was kind of like a superiority complex on high. Then again, maybe “acid,” too. No, probably not. Jones was dead by the time Timothy Leary declared himself God during a “business trip.”
The idea has since evolved a little and, simply explained (at least to those given of God Complexes): "I can do (fix, correct) it!"
A slightly more complex (uh-oh, the "c" word is starting to multiply) explanation but not quite as complex (see!?) as that which more substantially imbued others may offer: The God Complex is an unshakable belief that one can simplistically solve a complex problem if only given free rein to do so.
"Afghanistan's Taliban Man? Nuke him," e.g., "Transform the country, via a release of the nuclear genie, to glass."
No more Taliban Man; done; troops home; happy days are here again.
The problem? The resultant, not just nuclear fallout (get it? "fallout?"; "not just?" Oh, I just slay myself sometimes!).
The idea is that the undertaking of a simplistic solution actually tends to splinter into many more problems of equal and, perhaps, greater negative consequences.
Example: “Put Barrack Obama in the White House, he'll fix everything, oh, by the end of his first term and happy days will be here again.”
Well, for whatever reason, it didn't happen that way. In fact, it wouldn't have happened that way because an economy, any economy, is so complex that no one person can understand it, let alone "steer" it -- in any direction. (I ain’t gonna go any deeper.)
INTO THE FAST LANE
After decades of thought -- the bulk of it clearly to the contrary -- the conclusion now reached from this quarter is that "sports-racing prototypes," of any ilk, suck the big one.
"Nay, a travesty! Heresy!" the reader exclaims.
The preceding perspective arises from a fellow so enamored with sportscar racing that in his awkward latter teen years he built and then attempted to race a Cox Chaparral 2C slot car (left).
The L.M. Cox Manufacturing Company put out, perhaps still does, all manner of cool but more mature "toys" like the German Stuka dive bomber.
No, purchasers of the Cox Stuka didn't hop in and fly to some ghetto whereupon loosed was ordnance upon hapless souls.
But it did fly, in a fashion, its tiny single-cylinder, two-stroke, naphtha-fueled engine churning out a wonderful castor oil aroma that also reminded of hard-accelerating Ferraris and Alfas.
People peripherally aware of such flying machines tended to identify them only as "model airplanes" when, in reality, most any male child of that time period built models of many things, all of them using that wonderful new-fangled plastic stuff, all involving the careful application of some great-smelling glue, and darn near all of 'em involving military objects having decals carefully arranged.
DC The Younger, being of advancing post-pubescent age, had gone beyond the static, forging into self-powered models.
And, as explained in Part I, DC The Younger wasn't having much luck with the other gender (not that he was having much luck with the same gender, either. Then again, he wasn't trying to have much luck with that same gender. Oh, never mind).
So, given DC The Younger's advanced age and model-making skills developed during far more youthful times, he proudly took his electric motor-powered (way ahead of the curve on this deal; think about it) Cox Chaparral 2C to the slot car track which, mind you, was a scaled replica of Daytona International Speedway's 3.56-mile road course -- even complete with 31-degree banks -- and promptly, thoroughly got his butt kicked. Embarrassingly so. Then again, what butt-kicking ain't embarrassing?
MONEY MAKES THE WORLD GO 'ROUND
How to reverse embarrassment? (Bob Stallings knows the answer to this one . . .)
Principally, though, one inherently knew that money trumped all things. For if one has enough of it, one can purchase knowledge -- even should it reside in someone else's head.
DC The Younger's father, DC The Elder (at right, on left with Gen. Curtis Le May, right), some years earlier refused to be the source of funding the "frivolous" activities of youth, suggesting DC The Younger venture into "the real world and get a job," which DC The Younger had by age 11.
(Of course, no one, but no one has ever likewise been so abused and, to this very day, deep psychological scars remain from the denial of my doing whatever desired at whatever time wanted.)
The wonderful side benefit, said DC The Elder, would be "more women, too."
(Yes, dear father, that point got me rolling because Cathy Sheppard was chiefly on my mind in 5th grade but, also, dear father, then learned were lessons that revolved around oddly coincident "dry spells" in which if no money were in the pockets, no "women" wished to be seen on my Schwinn bike's handlebars, it complete with plastic, fantastic multi-colored tassels).
("Car?" you inquire? Ha! In those ancient times guys, and only guys, mind you, were outright incredibly "lucky" to have a motor vehicle of any sort by age 18. Even Jim France had to borrow his big brother's Volkswagen in those times now since long passed. My older brother, likewise many years ahead of me, had already altogether booked it to South Florida for formal education's sake and took "LuLu" with him. Today, though, nearly everyone gets a car at 12 -- and a cell phone at six. Think exaggeration is at hand? Just look in any middle-school parking lot. Shoot, in prehistoric times it was little ol' ladies who couldn't see over a car's dashboard).
Such a relative POC was the Cox Chaparral 2C slot car -- it's hard plastic veritable unibody overburdening a woefully underpowered motor -- that soon learned was the art of tubeframe construction; the "winding" and "rewinding" of electric motor armatures; gearing; the shaving of tires; and, lightweight livery.
Still, at the base of acquiring the knowledge and the parts was money -- a pump-jockey's 90-cent-per-hour job providing such.
Mastering the racing skills in the garage and on the track, DC The Younger soon became the functional equivalent of Reinhold Joest, who still was a decade-or-so from outlasting, outrunning, besting and embarrassing the uppity Porsche factory team.
(Now, how can such success be a "bad-sign thing?" Trust me, anything at all can become such if placed long enough in the hands of Ol' DC).
Yet, emulating within the small-world ranks the cars Jim Hall built and raced in the real world simply wasn't enough.
OFF TO THE RACES
As a side benefit of living his life within Florida's "ground zero" racing boundaries, DC The Gettin' Older personally witnessed Hall's Chaparral (eventually including the 2F) along with witnessing the craftsmanship of drivers like Mike Spence, Phil Hill and, the best of the best "gentleman" drivers, Hap Sharp.
Peter Revson, heir to the Revlon fortune before passing along, was cool, but he was a jet-setter. Indeed, Revlon probably was the one who invented "jet-setting." But, once again owed to the "money" thing 
Sharp, like Jim Hall, in fact, was a Texas oil man, much like Tracy Krohn (at left), only friendlier (Tracy, such ain't to say you can't be fun. It's just that Sharp was "funner." Oh, never mind.)
Sharp didn't inherit anything other than the time of day. He (like Krohn) started with little and roughnecked his way into financial security -- and in his later 
Seen, heard and smelled also at the same time were Holman and Moody's Ford GT MkII; NART's Ferrari 330/P3; and, at Sebring, Pedro Rodriguez proving a Ferrari Dino 206s could go off-roading at the real hairpin.
Furthermore competing before this writer's eyes at Daytona and Sebring were drivers like A.J. Foyt, (left) who over the course of three decades drove four different generations of cars in sportscar competitions: a 
Once seen on a prototype car at Daytona was a duct tape demonstration of such measure that its creative-use applications blew minds everywhere for months, if not years afterward, while the Ferrari 512's two drivers -- Mark Donohue and David Hobbs -- soldiered to a third-place finish. That car was the very antithesis of Penske's squeaky clean immaculate image, as found in a previous season's sparkling clean, neat-as-a-pin Sunoco Blue Penske Racing Lola T-70.
Indeed, in Central Florida alone, Hurley Haywood
Yet, a review of all those years, heck, of all those decades even unto the very present, yields three constants: 1) The "factory" cars depart racing more quickly than they emerge; 2) Privateers like Hall or, even, Enzo Ferrari, could at best only momentarily compete with the factories; and, 3) the GT class cars are what is constant.
END of PART II
Oh, and should you know the contents of Part III, give me a ring, please.
Later,
DC
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