Driving north on Brush Wednesday, about 35 mph, a car appeared before me at an intersection and I had no alternative but to smash into it. I am fine, except for some neck and head soreness. My Bronco now has a permanent sneer and the hood won't open. If you need to sail into another vehicle at a fairly decent rate of speed, a 1991 Bronco is the place to be. With seatbelt on.

The smash happened in a residential part of Detroit where a crowd of at least thirty circled us and watched. Entertainment. I was dazed and confused, and just sort walked up and down the side of my Bronco for a while. After 15 minutes, a sweet girl asked if I was okay, did I need to use a phone, and it occurred to me for the first time that maybe someone should call the police. She said they already had. An ambulance came, then police, and my blood pressure was deemed high.

Midway through the three-hour stunner, a high drama surprise. Already, the couple in the other car had lied, said she was driving when it was him. No insurance. Then alcohol was smelled by Officer Player, and breathalyzer administration was mentioned. I'm sitting on the curb, and see the other driver sort of tiptoeing around the back of the ambulance, casting actual furtive glances behind him. He breaks into a trot when he clears the scene, and heads down the street. Cop saw him, yelled "Hey!", and a foot-chase worthy of any police drama ensued. It was really something. Sirens from all over came to corner the perp, and he was caught two blocks away.

One of the cops wants to buy my Bronco. He's about 24 years old and wants to put monster wheels on it and smash it up north with the boys. The retired guy I bought it from would croak; he logged every oil change her whole life.

About My Town

When I bought my house four years ago, I chose the city it's in because I could afford an actual house there, and not just a shack with flowers to disguise its categorical difference from the neighbors. The goal was just to Get A House, all of my own, that wasn't waiting for me to eventually pack up and leave it. A house where I could spend all day crying, when that was what was needed. Where my dog and my cat weren't guests in someone else's house, or undesirables requiring extra deposits; where they had a full home. And me, too. I wasn't interested in saving up any longer so I could buy more house in a better neighborhood; I just need My Own Place.

So there's this little town surrounded by a Big Bad City, a two-mile square island of immigrants and Chicago-style housing and a dive bar on every corner. The lawns are neat and tiny, the streets full of donut smells at 4:30 a.m., and the people old and Old World. Biscuit-shaped ladies in babushka's and black stockings carry groceries home from market. People still eat real bacon, and eggs fried in the fat, for breakfast. You can't find skim milk anywhere in town. I fall on the slimmer end of the community spectrum. I bought the first house I looked at.

Live from Cube #49

Back in the land of cubicles and farting cubemates--or wait, is that me? Oh, no, that was at Omega; living on grains and soy stuffs can really do a number on the ol' system. More than one kind of music poured from our cabins.

I worked on my Website yesterday and like the results. Not sure about the wisdom of linking my blog. I've already decided to pull my head out of the dark and dreary funkland regarding postings, and save those types for more private writing, but still. As my posting thus far clearly indicates, I have not been concerned with making a favorable impression here, and like it that way. It's more like a drainage ditch for boredom runoff.

And what about mentioning, oh, say the raging cramps that kept me up all night? I wish to retain the griping rights that I started this thing for. I hope to eventually develop some kind of voice and mastery that will turn my plumbing posts toward the witty, insightful, thoroughly readable variety, but that's a ways down the road.