My friend David writes and shares his photos at the Impious Pencil. Pay him a visit!

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I was at my desk, trying to think of something to say, anticipating a spew of words that would magically coalesce into a miracle of eloquence. Alas, my ruminations were intruded upon by that awful, gut-wrenching sound of metal crashing into metal. A car wreck happened outside, and while I could not mistake that horrible sound for anything I was unable to see the incident from any of my windows. I went outside about an hour later and saw an ambulance, as well as a smattering of vehicular debris. I could not tell if there had been a fatality but from what I could see the car was not too badly damaged. There was only one car present. Either they hauled off another one or it was hit and run.

I have heard that sound a number of times. Most memorably it was in 1993 or 1994, at 5057 Broadway at 216th Street in Manhattan, where I lived for a year. I was woken up by that gutty, crunching noise of two cars colliding, followed by the sounds of shouting and fighting between the two drivers.

I never heard the sounds of my car getting sideswiped and then another car up ahead of  me getting totalled. That happened at 4am and woke up everyone in the neighborhood, it seems, except for me. The guy was driving a brand new Toyota Camry when its axle split. He said he’d had some trouble with it earlier. No booze involved.

I went out to walk around in some of this gloomy weather and overheard a high school kid say something strange: “PUT THE BROWNIE IN MY ASSHOLE, DADDY!” Is that a saying among the youths of today? I didn’t see anyone who looked like a “DADDY”, it was just kids, but everybody laughed.

I came back to the teeny tiny coffee shop right now hoping to see the barista dude who I have found so intriguing. I saw him here a couple of weeks ago, and was glad for that since I had started thinking he might have been let go on account of the store not doing very well. The owner works a lot of the shifts now. The barista is not here today but I overheard that he is probably in tomorrow. I wanted to try my turd/CO2 joke on him.

When I saw him last I mentioned that I’m getting therapy. He responded that it seemed to be working, because I looked a lot more positive and upbeat than in the past. That was nice to hear, and I think it’s true. I’ve felt different since getting going with the shrink. But today I had to take an anxiety pill. Sitting at the desk and confronting the enormity of the avalanche of shit on which life is riding has a way of increasing my blood pressure to ludicrousness. I might have to ask her for more pills. I have plenty left but the current batch is about to expire. Those expiry dates probably don’t mean much.

Was thinking of a poem today; There should be a way to say “Fuck You” without saying “Fuck You.” And certainly there are ways to do that, but the poem would be a reflection on the limits of one’s creative thinking when invective is in play. Unctious bile is a lost art.

Oh damn, this store closes earlier than I thought…