Whew, the coast is clear. I’m finally in! Not since “Mission Impossible 8: Alternate Side of the Street Parking in Forest Hills” has the media seen such wire-splicing and infiltration.

Greetings, QC cuties. I’m helping Steve out while he is away. I’ve had a lot on my mind about central Queens since I discovered Queens Central last summer, and Steve has graciously accepted my application to contribute here.

I moved back here to my ‘home town’ in December 2004, after 15 years in Park Slope. I had moved there when it was very much Park Slump, and I enjoyed its steady rise to what it is today. I was last living on soon-to-be-overpriced 5th Avenue, when, during a classic “who should get rid of their precious NYC real estate” debate, my beloved uttered those three magical words we all long to hear: “two full bathrooms.”

Nu? Momma didn’t raise no fool, so here I am, back on the Boulevard of Death.

Speaking of which, Queens Boulevard is today’s topic. Ever since Steve said “go”, I have been wracking my brain trying to think of an introductory story that encapsulates my observations since I’ve been back in FoHi. Thursday morning, my spouse reported to me this great moment in FoHi congeniality.

Near the intersection of 71st Road and QB, a car hit the back of a truck. The driver of the car got out asked the truck driver for his insurance, and the truck driver screamed at the top of his lungs, “You want my insurance papers? You’ll have to suck my dick to get those!!” And the response from onlookers? A low, drawn out, “Oy,” from a local woman.

I should have blogged the big car accident when it happened over the weekend, but I wasn’t sure what I really had to say. What can you say about something like that? Fortunately, Forest Hills 72 comes through in the clutch. The area where three people — including a toddler — were injured in vodka-fueled hit-and-run is indeed an automotive mess. On a scary personal note: I realize now that I was strolling around that very intersection around the time of the accident, give or take a couple hours. And this is where I run out of conclusions to draw, I suppose. Drinking and driving don’t mix, but you knew that.