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non-Malibu-celebrity AA meetings.
    In the Big Rock area, where the Coast Highway runs just above the ocean, a new yellow Porsche convertible with its top down cut in front of me so quickly that I was forced to hit my brakes and then swerve to avoid smacking the rear of the car the prick Porsche driver had just passed.
    The act of slamming on my brakes caused my Starbucks latte’s top to pop open and its contents to spill out on my only pair of dress pants, soaking the crotch, the bottom of my white dress shirt, and the cloth seat under me.
    I was immediately pissed off. I honked several times, then punched my gas pedal to catch up with the Porsche prick, but Mom’s three-cylinder turd reacted only by coughing and sputtering. The Porsche guy, wearing a black baseball cap and a black hoodie and sunglasses, was now a full car length ahead of me, still weaving in and out of traffic.
    When I finally caught up and got his attention by honking, he sneered, then flashed me the one-finger salute, mouthing the words Fuck you as he cut off another car and changed lanes, moving ahead.
    L.A. is notorious for road rage and I’d read somewhere that its citizens had been rated the most bad-tempered in America. People get aggressive in their cars all the time and wind up getting shot for their trouble. It wasn’t in my mind to hurt the guy, at least not at first. I just wanted to catch up and tell him to take it easy.
    The sun was out and the northbound two-lane beach traffic was thick enough for me to keep the convertible in view. A mile or two farther up the highway, I finally caught up to the Porsche.
    I honked several times and then, through my passenger window, yelled, “Hey, you almost caused an accident back there! Take it easy, for chrissake!”
    The next thing I knew, a heavy aluminum traveling coffee mug was heaved at me and bounced off the side of my passenger door, just below my open window. Again, the one-finger salute and the mouthed words, Fuck you, motherfucker!
    I had to hit my brakes and slow down. This jerk was now over the line. Now he was intentionally trying to cause an accident!
    Minutes later, when I passed Malibu Pier, the yellow Porsche was still in my sight, eight or ten cars ahead. It had just turned twelve o’clock on Mom’s Honda’s dash clock.
    Half a mile later, at Cross Creek Road, I saw the convertible make a quick and dangerous right turn into a shopping mall, rolling through the red light. By the time I reached the intersection, the light had changed to red again. The Porsche was gone.
    While I was waiting for the light to turn back to green I noticed that my hands were shaking from rage. Something inside me, some cog in my brain, had just snapped. It was like the old days in New York. It was him or me. I didn’t care how long it took or what I had to do, me and this asshole were going to settle this—face-to-face.
    Finally, the light was green again and I hung a right also, turning into the U–shaped Cross Creek shopping mall, hoping—suspecting—that the convertible’s destination was a noon lunch appointment at one of the high-end eateries in the mall.
    The Cross Creek Plaza isn’t that big: a movie theater, a Starbucks, and several swank designer shops and restaurants. I knew the area pretty well because I often stopped at Diesel Books to check out the new arrivals.
    I maneuvered the Honda through the L–shaped blacktop lot, looking up and down the rows of cars. The yellow Porsche was nowhere in sight. My brain was now hammering itself against the inside of my skull and I was still buzzed with adrenaline rage, but I could sense myself gradually becoming calmer. Reason was slowly replacing anger. It’s just some spoiled L.A. asshole in a high-end ride, I told myself. You don’t need to bust someone up over this nonsense, car dent or no car dent. Jesus, JD, cut the guy a break, for chrissake! Use the Twelve Steps. Live and let live.
    I pulled into a parking space and stopped the car and