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12:24 am - Tues 6.17.2008
Diary of a Big-Headed M.F.
Mon 6/16/08 (9:42 p.m.)

(WARNING: This entry contains adult language and themes...but mostly adult language. Anyway, you get the idea.)

Diary of a Big-Headed Motherfucker

Went to Jen and Molly’s again on Saturday night (Apparently, they invite people to their weekly Sunday dinner, and now I’m on the guest list. But since this Sunday was Father’s Day, Sunday dinner was on Saturday this week. Cause I guess some people have fathers or something, and might have other plans on Sunday. But anyway...).

I’d gotten off the Metro at the North Hollywood station, and was walking to their place (Which is a mile, maybe a mile-and-a-half away), carrying a 12-pack of Diet Coke in one of my cloth shopping bags.

I’d gotten just a few blocks from the station when I passed a young African American gentleman, accompanied by a Latino woman I assume was his girlfriend.

We were walking in the same direction, and as I overtook them, I glanced in their direction, as I will do sometimes (What can I say? I’ve got eyes, and I likes to use them).

Well, apparently the gentleman had an aversion to being glanced at; when I got five or ten yards past them, I heard him angrily say - as if addressing his girl, but loud enough for me to hear - “(something something) looking at me, big-headed motherfucker!”.

Now, I guess he could have been referring to someone else. Cause who knows? Maybe a big-headed motherfucker had looked at him earlier in the day, and he needed his girl to help him through the resulting post-traumatic stress.

But since I’m a big-headed motherfucker, and had just looked at him seconds before, I assumed he was talking about me.

Part of me wanted to turn around and say, “Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me? I don’t see any other big-headed motherfuckers standing here, so you must be talking to me...”

But I didn’t know if he’d get the reference (Especially since I don’t do impressions). And generally, my sense of humor is wasted on stupid people anyway.

I was tempted to say, “Okay, I’ll give you the ‘big-headed’ part. But Dude - I don’t even have a mother”. But again, I just didn’t have a sense he’d appreciate my self-deprecating wit (Besides, he didn’t need to know my family history - we’d just met, after all).

(An aside: When someone calls you a “motherfucker”, what does it actually mean? Is the insult that you go around fucking other people’s mothers, or that you like to fuck your own mother? Cause to me, the suggestion that you’re involved in an incestuous relationship with your own mother is the more insulting one, but maybe that’s just me. Anyway...)

The angrier part of me wanted to be less polite - “Hey shithead, if you don’t like being looked at, why don’t you put a fucking bag over your head? You’d be doing the world a favor.” - suggesting he was unpleasant to look at. But I really had just glanced at him for a second, and how stupid would I have felt, if I’d gotten mid-way into my insult and realized he was actually a very attractive man?

The really angry part of me (“Psycho Jim”), the part that really doesn’t enjoy taking shit from people, wanted to say, “Man, you’re going to be so embarrassed when I kick your fucking ass right in front of your hoochie girlfriend...”.

You see, “Psycho Jim” doesn’t take this sort of confrontation well.

But fortunately, there’s a bigger part of me that’s a major-league pussy, and remembers I don’t know how to fight (“Psycho Jim” would be promising a major-league beatdown that he, in all likelihood, could never deliver).

So I just kept walking, wondering if Mr “I don’t like big-headed motherfuckers looking at me when I’m walking with my girl” was going to try to escalate things at some point.

He didn’t. But I still spent the rest of what was now seeming like a very long walk nervously checking my weaponry (I had pepper spray and a pocket knife on my person, but I’ve never used either in actual “fight conditions”), preparing for a rear attack that never came.

Interesting note (Interesting to me, anyway); Afterwards, I was angrily thinking of this as a “racial incident”, but then it hit me - he didn’t call me a “big-headed white motherfucker” (Not that I heard, anyway).

Maybe he just didn’t like big-headed motherfuckers looking at him.

And really, who does?


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