But either way or any other, the best intentions are no substitute for good craftsmanship, and as much as the sweet fragrance of bondo may smell like ding repair, it is not. The bondo soon shrank, exposing the thirsty core to the elements once again. As fresh currents of saltwater flooded the foam and then dried out over months of imprisonment far from the sea, it was as if the essence of the dream was evaporating along with all that water. When the last drop had finally made its atmospheric escape, the dream was vanished, the hope was lost, and the revival was not to be. Now destined for the resting place of suburban ideals, out with the remains of tv dinners, the discarded packaging of new and improved dreams, and the lawn clippings from the edge of everyman’s castle, the dream lay in wait for Monday morning- garbage day.