James Bond is in danger. The perilous agents of SPECTRE (SPecial ExeCutive for Terror, Revenge, and Extortion) are chasing him, dispatched by one Ernst Stavro Blofeld, a nasty bald man in a grey tunic with an ugly scar down his face and an arrogant white cat on his lap. Sound familiar? Hardly. Our hero is driving through Tokyo in a convertible with Japanese Special Agent Aki (no last name, don't ask me why) at his side. The SPECTRE agents follow in a black and nondescript vehicle. They are firing machine guns at Her Majesty's Secret Servant. As James Bond shifts into second gear for greater acceleration, Aki makes a call on the mobile phone.

"We need help!"

Seconds later, a helicopter appears out of nowhere, a giant electromagnet hanging beneath it. The whirlybird positions itself over the enemy's car, and klump, off the ground it goes, lifted by the helicopter, no longer a threat to our hero.

But that's not all ...

The helicopter carries the villains' car high over the Tokyo skyline. The SPECTRE agents are panicking, arms flailing in a futile attempt to escape. Finally, over the bay, the magnet is turned off, and the car plummets hundreds of feet into the Pacific. We get to watch this all on the convenient little Sony monitor embedded in the dashboard of 007's car. Sometimes I wonder who was doing the video on the whole thing ... must have been another helicopter or something. Either way, our hero picked up a phone and called in the posse, and saved himself a helluva lot of trouble in the process.

It's really cool to have the good people on your side.

I'm cruising home on PCH tonight, in no rush, lost in a mix tape I made long ago, somewhere between ZZTop's cover of the Elvis classic "Viva Las Vegas" and Robert Palmer's cover of the Frank Sinatra classic "Witchcraft."

A pair of headlights materializes behind me. Widely spaced. Somewhat familiar. No, make that very recognizable. A 1970-something Lincoln Town Car. My mom drove one when I was little. All Jewish mothers drove one when I was little.

The car tails me for a while. I tap my brake. He passes me, and cuts right in front of me and slams on his brakes.

Road rage. No apparent reason. Blame it on LA.

I signal and join the traffic in the left lane, proceeding on my way home.

Five miles later, five minutes from my apartment, I exit onto Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. The first traffic signal, at Pico, glows orange, then red. I stop.

A strange flashing behind me. Rear view mirror: the 1970-something Lincoln Town Car, its driver flashing his high beams at me.

OK, OK. The light turns green. I accelerate slowly, carefully, let traffic pass me on the right. Dude's still on my tail. I signal and get into the right-hand lane. A second later, the Town Car follows. The high beams come on again. Not flashing this time. They're on for good.

I shift into second gear for greater braking ability. I'm driving really slowly, wondering what I might have done to piss this person off. I'm just hoping the whole situation will go away.

Three red lights later, it's obvious this guy is following me, trying to scare me. Trying? He's doing a pretty good job. Mind going in circles. What to do, what to do? I reach to my belt, and dial a number on my mobile phone ...

"I need help ..."

Ninety seconds later, I turn off Ocean Avenue onto my street. Right behind me, his bumper less than six feet from mine, is the villain in the Town Car.

First four-way stop-sign. He pulls up so close I think he's gonna hit me.

Second four-way stop-sign. He starts flashing his high beams again.

A half-block later, I see them, standing on the curb, in front of our apartment building, on the left hand side of the road ...

Joe: Hip-Hop Music Promotor. 250 pounds of muscle (and a bit of fat) -- he's the one who crushed my ribcage while wishing me a happy new year.

Q-Ball: Gangsta Rapper. 18 years old. 6'2". Size 14 shoe.

Corey: Imposing yet intellectual. A "friend of the family" so to speak. A perfect round-out to the trio.

To the passer-by ... just three more niggas hanging out on the street corner. To me, driving oh-so-slowly towards that corner, there are my blessed roommates, my friends, ready to "defuse the situation."

I pull a slow u-turn right in front of the apartment, and park at the curb. I shut off the car. The Town Car is just sitting in the middle of the road, its driver, an older bald guy (no scar, no cat, no tunic) with an arm that would put a post-spinach-eating Popeye's to shame hanging out the window, dares me with his eyes to step out of my car.

I swing the door open and faux-confidently step out. After a quick yet imperceptible nod over my shoulder, I calmly begin walking across the street. The fool in the Town Car is looking forward to kicking my ass. I can feel it.

Suddenly, his expression changes to fear. The car window goes up. And then a blur ...

I never saw a Lincoln Town Car peel out like that in my life.

I look over my shoulder and smile. Lined up right behind me, looking mean and ready to kick some ay-ass, are Joe, Q-Ball, and Corey.

The first thing I said to them was: "Shit, we live in a racist society. White dude sees three black men walking towards him and he peels out, just like that." I was still kind of wired up and scared.

And Joe says "Yeah, but he sure was ready to kick your skinny white ass."

Laughter.

"Thanks guys," was all I could say.

"Anythin' for you, nigga," was the reply.

We went upstairs and hung out in front of the tv.

It's really cool to have the good people on your side.