crash courses in collision.

Yes, there are still those occasional moments where you need to recalibrate your sense of being in the world.

Witness Gary - I'm talkin' 'bout nephritic California gubernatorial candidate - Coleman, who has been reduced to shilling his visage on late-night TV commercials for CashCall, Inc., a lender of unsecured "loans that fit your lifestyle." They understand that "life can be unpredictable" and so generously deign to offer you 5 grand within a day: wired to your account with no collateral save "your signature." The deal clocks in at 99.25% APR and, at this level of fine print, your FICA score should be the least of your worries. You might as well sell your soul.

Then there is a 1970s anthem of suburban malaise, the one that promised deliverance in the dire absence of change for pimple-faced pubescent white boys. Their hedonist chant lost its final semblance of contrarian discontent the other day for good when "I wanna rock and roll all nite (and party ev-e-ry day)" was put to use as a means to get kids to brush their teeth.

And, just like wouldn't you know it, you're again forced to reflect on which is worse - face painters reappropriating the vicious iconicity of Schutzstaffel runes in the service of a pandering pop merchandise machine or the selfsame spirit of illusionary rejection transposed into a sensible pedagogical device. This one an investment that Mommies can tolerate.

But, while you concatenate these instances and take note that the rights to the Beatles song catalogue have now been extended to TV commercials as well, a degree of disconnect reminds you that not everything can be remediated as easily.

Here's a scene that drove home another dimension of collision for me last week, unrepentant rubber-necker that I am.

A white Lincoln Aviator with New Jersey tags slams into a parked van and crushes a Mexican immigrant delivering groceries in the early morning hours to death between boxes of strawberries. A fun Friday night on the town that may have started at Señor Swanky's or the Caliente Cab Company ends with airbags deployed and a grossly disfigured body lying under bright yellow police tarpaulin.

As the homicide detective on the scene banters casually with bystanders who have all the time in the world and tolerates their crude jokes with admirable equanimity, a young woman staggers past the crowd with her shoes in her hands. A Weegee moment. She is still too drunk and too absorbed in the effort of swaying along to pay attention.

"So you know what happened?" someone asks me and I point out the pile of human remains to him on the street.

After a pause, he informs me of his plans to use the camera feature on his cellphone. "I'm going to take a picture now?" Almost plaintively - as if he needs my absolution to do so.

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