I ride a big fat Yamaha Majesty, which you might as well call a motorcycle. It’s large and fast and makes a nice rumbling sound, and it has leather saddlebags and a mounted snap-shut carrying case on the rear. And I do what I want when I ride around, believe me. I rarely stop for traffic. I just ride between cars (i.e., splitting lanes), and I never, ever pay for parking. When I’m on that beautiful machine Los Angeles doesn’t own me or tell me what to do — I own it.

Anyway when I’m too far back in a left-turn lane waiting for a light, I’ll just move forward and slip in front of the first car waiting to turn. If he/she doesn’t like it, tough.

Two days ago I rumbled in front of a left-turn guy who was sitting in a hefty gray muscle car (Dodge, Camaro, Mustang). As I was idling there the guy inched forward while turning slightly to the right. He squeezed (the word is actually semi-crushed) my left thigh and damn near pushed me over. This asshole was telling me he didn’t like my cruising in front of him, and that I had compromised his feelings of masculinity.

I instantly slapped (i.e., didn’t punch or pound) his engine hood. No dents but I slapped it good and hard. And yet I purposely didn’t make eye contact or say anything to this arrogant fuck, as that would have escalated things somewhat. I just kept my cool and he didn’t try anything else, and then the light changed and that was that. It occured to me later than he didn’t intend to push me over and that he was just inching forward and had miscalculated a bit. I strongly doubt that. I think he knew exactly what he was doing.