The news that still breaks... five years later.

If ever there is a day to pray, it is today. For understanding, for grace, for direction, for courage, and for guidance.

No post today. Instead, I'm setting aside a minute to really remember.

I hope you do, too.

Legwarmers calls the Five Oh on BIGPMPN

Today, I called the police.

I was cruising home from work, stuck in traffic, passing time per the usual. My typical bored-in-traffic routine is as follows:

1. Initially, be irritated (as if I shouldn't expect the rush-hour madness). Look at the drivers around me, hoping to connect and commisserate with them.
2. Get bored with this, until I realize this is a prim-o opportunity to have some fun at the expense of those around me, at which point I do any or all of the following:

- Stare at an uncomfortable, nerdy male driver and gesture for him to call me or signal like he has something on his face
- Turn up the cheesy pop-rap local radio station, roll down the windows, and lip-synch to Lil Weezy while throwing up gang signs and pounding my chest
- Turn up the other cheesy radio station, and really sing to a Celine Dion love ballad, while everyone else stares...

...and so on.

Well, today, while looking around for other drivers with whom to interact, I spotted a red convertible Porsche shortly ahead of me, driven by a youngish male with a white hat on. As I approached, and once we were nearly parallel in neighboring lanes, I looked over again, curious as to what kind of 20-something is driving a Porsche.

Well, this guy was clearly a douchebag: white cocked hat, white baggy pants, white too-big-t-shirt, with mirrored sunglasses and rapist-facial hair, and most importantly, he was drinking a Budweiser while driving the car on the freeway in rush hour traffic like nobody would notice.

I could not believe the gargantuan balls this guy had to have to drink and drive with the top down on a sunny day like the law didn't apply to him.

Suddenly furious, more at his utter disregard for the rules the rest of us were following, regardless of our collective desire to also enjoy a frosty beverage, I picked up the Blackberry and dialed.

That's right, I narked on his big-pimpin-punk-ass.

Police Dispatcher: Washington State Patrol, is this an emergency?
Me: Well, it's only an emergency if this asshole is sexually active. Then it's an emergency, because our gene pool is at serious risk of increased fatal idiocy and arrogance.
PD: So this is not an emergency, maam?
Me: I guess not.
PD: How can I help you today?
Me: There's a Kevin Federline lookalike in a red convertible Porsche on 405 headed South at the Kirkland exit who I would like to complain about.
PD: Do you have a licenseplate number, maam?
Me: Oh, yeah, let me slow down. Hold on just a secon--
::bursts into incredulous laughter::
PD: Maam? Is everything alright? Do you have a licenseplate?
Me, calming down: Yeah, yes. It is, uh... BIGPMPN. That's BIGPMPN. Like "big pimping". Did you get that?
PD: Yes, maam. Big Pimping. BIGPMPN. Yes.
Me: Wow. I can't believe that. Anyway, the guy is -- well -- he's drinking a beer in his car.
PD: Uh huh. Kevin Federline... drinking beer. Got it...
Me: No, I mean, he's drinking a beer, like out in the open, while driving on the freeway, like he doesn't even care. I mean, it's a Budweiser. Not even Bud Light.
PD: Okay, maam, slow down...
Me: ...and I can read the label because he keeps waving it around, and I feel we are all in danger on the road with this guy!
PD: Okay, what is your name, please?
Me: HE JUST OPENED ANOTHER BEER! He finished the first one--well I guess it could have been his second or eleventh--and just threw the empty in the backseat and cracked open another! I can't believe this! Are you going to arrest him? I hope you arrest him! How soon are you going to arrest him?
PD: We'll send someone out to check it out if they have time, maam. But we can't do that until we get your name. What is your name? And phone number?

...

Really this story is anticlimatic, as I exited the freeway shortly after I made the call and never got to see the jerkoff arrested. But I did call the police (and not even accidentally from my pocket this time). Which was sorta exciting.

...

Oh, I give up. But have a good weekend, if I continue to suck at writing until then (quite likely). And remember: I'm a nark. A pissed-off, K-Fed hating nark. Watch out for me.

Fanny feedback, and the angriest cities in America.

I got quite a few emails about the Fanny Pack Crisis America is facing at the hands of designers who have spent too much time doing coke and being ironic and flamboyant, and I thought I'd share a couple with you.

It seems I'm not the only one who's noticed this resurgence of fanny accessories. Jason wrote:

"There was a young woman that came in my work with a fanny pack, more of a hips sack, like makeup counter girls wear. We had a discussion about it. We determined that the fanny pack/hip sack only works if you are European. Just my input."

Okay, fair enough. European men can, after all, get away with riding on Vespas and carrying man bags while being straight, and european women can get away with not shaving their underarms, legs, or upper lips and smelling vaguely of cheese and patchouli. So I'll give you that, if only because they're doing so much else that's hideous that I can't bear to fight the fanny pack battle with all of Europe.

But how awkward was that conversation at your workplace, Jason? I mean, we're in AMERICA. And by the end of the conversation, you'd determined that the poor woman sporting the ugliest bag known to mankind better either take it off pronto or buy a plane ticket to Prague! Ouch.

The way you say "we had a discussion about it" makes me uncomfortable - like when my friend's father sat me down to have a discussion about sex -- when I was 19.

I have to say, I still tend to identify with Pat (of Texas -- land of ten-gallon hats and frat-dicks with striped polo shirts and spiky hair), though, who writes:

"um...fanny packs were NEVER really in. Like, I had one to carry my herd of carnivorous dinosaur toys in second grade."

Word, Pat. Fanny packs were purely utilitarian even before we had a sense of style. Pat rocked the pack to carry his plastic dinosaur toys, so when he got his ass kicked on the playground for bringing plastic dinosaur toys to school, he could run using both arms without risking dropping them.

He knew they weren't cool, but he carried it because when you get sat on everyday at lunch by Big Dan, the somewhat special kid who weighed 150 lbs at the age of 7, you knew you weren't going to be cool, so you might as well be practical.

Good luck with that, Pat. Rock on.
___________________________________

In other news, my buddy Dave sent me THIS , which you must check out. It's an article on MSN listing the top 150 angriest cities in America.

The most angry city? #1 goes to Orlando, Florida. In fact, Florida has 5 cities in the top 12, and isn't listed after that. So basically it's a pretty pissed off state, in general.
And you know what? I'm not surprised. All those fucking hurricaines and alligators in the ditches and the stifling, deadly humid heat, and the toll booths everywhere -- they'd piss me off, too. Add tourists and voter fraud/the recount (see angry mob, pictured at left), and you've got yourself a city built on rage and resentment.

Seattle comes in solidly in the middle of the pack, which I attribute to the fact that while we do have 4 solid months of gray drizzle, we are typically well-medicated (antidepressants do wonders to allay anger and depression) and quite fit as well as caffeinated. So it's all about balance, really.

Check it out. And enjoy the three-day weekend!! I'll be at Bumbershoot, watching Zero7, Kanye, Atmosphere, Speaker Speaker, Steve Miller Band, and my favorite group of all time: A Tribe Called Quest -- front row, probably sans shirt and three sheets to the wind. God, it's going to be epic. Will give you the full report upon my return (and after one full day of sobering up/hydrating).

Until then...

Fanny Pack Freakout

Please, God. Not this.

Look, I am relatively fashion-forward, when my budget will allow. I know, I know, I'm a consumer whore -- and how! But I like fashion and accessories and shoes and delightful girly goodies like that. It makes me happy, because it's pretty and shiny and new. I make no excuses for this whoreism.

But I'm afraid the trendy buck is stopping here. It is coming, in fact, to a screeching fucking halt, and this is why:

It's. A. Fanny. Pack. "Waist bag" my ass.

Speaking of ass, like mine needs another one (in the form of a fanny-pack) resting on top of it! What the hell?

Who has ever looked good in a fanny pack? Maybe Lindsy "Skeletor" Lohan or Nicole "Breastbone" Richie, but honestly, if you technically should be hospitalized, I don't think you count, here. Right?

AND, as if skinny jeans weren't enough, leggings are back. What is with that trend? Didn't we get enough of it, zipper-ankle jeans, aqua-net and shoulder pads in the eighties? Ooooh, no. I guess not. Because leggings (the ass's worst nightmare) are back, with a vengence.

...

Alright, I'll admit it: own some. And I even found a great minidress to wear them under, with heels, when I'm in NY or downtown and am feeling like taking a particularly confident fashion risk.


But I swear to God, I'm burning it ALL, now that I discovered the goddamn Marc Jacobs "waist bag" pictured above. I mean, it's worse than the momentary nationwide fascination with UGGS, (retarded "surf boots" made of sheepskin, worn with swimsuits, and intended for barefoot wear), for chrissakes.

I'm hyperventilating, I think. Anyone have some Xanax?

If these things come back I might not be able to leave my house at all this season -- I may be forced to just stay inside and wait out the hideous trends of the moment while doing Buns of Steel and Tae Bo videos in hypercolor sweatsuits, practicing Scientology while accidentally cutting myself on my slap bracelets and eating Dip'n'Dots.

...

Have a nice, fanny-pack-free, day.

Tape a record, go to prison.

Dear Huey Lewis,

I love you. Do you believe in love? Naturally.

I know I ain't perfect, but remember how you told me it's alright? I really took that to heart, and finally I feel ready to tell you how I feel, and why.

It's just that the heart of rock n' roll really IS the beat(n)! And you got me through some really hard times, with boys calling me "prude" and "boring" and "straightlaced" and "crazy bitch", with your theory that it is, in fact, hip to be square. Thank you for that, it changed my life.

I'm so happy to be stuck with you, Huey. I guess what I'm trying to say is... well... I get a little shy, so pardon me if I borrow your more eloquent words for a moment:

So do you love me or what? Do you love me or what? You're just breakin' me up... Do you love me or what?

Please circle one:

Yes

No

Maybe

(Also, I really, really want that shirt. Where did you get it?)

Love always -- heart and soul,

Your other woman (it's the power of love, Huey. Really.)

Ex and Oz.

During my Legwarmers hiatus of last week, I dinner with an ex. I know what you're thinking: Dinner with exes=pathetic loneliness, romantic regression or "well, we've done it before..." sex. But for once, you're wrong. Thank God.

It was all business, in the friendliest way. And I am fortunate enough that with one exception I've ended up friends with my exes (okay, two exceptions, but the leg-shaving national tennis player ex turned out to be gay AND a birthday-forgetting asshole, so he doesn't count). Which is nice.

But this dinner was with an ex from a VERY long time ago. You could say he was the first (one of two) boy I ever loved. As you can imagine, that particular relationship took more than a few months to get back into the "cool" zone. Really, I'm not sure it ever did, as we both harbored some lingering stuff for a while. I took him out to dinner for two reasons:

1) to reaffirm my gut-feeling that the thought of getting back together with him (though we've both toyed with the idea in the past) no longer has any appeal -- important to establish in order to be fair to current and future Mr. Rights, and

2) to reaffirm my gut-feeling that in fact a critical reason we didn't work then and couln't ever work out now is because he has a quality that is, for me, a dealbraker.

First, let's paint the picture: This guy is scary-smart, kind and good natured, loves his parents, is selfless to a fault, and is, well, dashing.

If you recall my dealbreaker post, you might have noted that apathy is a major no-no for me. I'm rabidly enthusiastic about pretty much everything, (which really means I'm highly opinionated, stubborn and ambitious, but sounds better). Apathy seems to me to be a good way to waste life, which is short, short, short. (Ask anyone who's old.)

Mr. Past has EVERYTHING going for him, which he serially refuses to do anything about. It's like he's the Lion in the Wizard of Oz, but he's just never woken up from a lovely opium-induced nap in that poppy field -- the location of which is so close to the thing he wants most of all.

Mr. Past wants, for one simple example of many, to go to law school. He has always has. He finally took the LSATs, which he only sorta studied for, and did well. But instead of just going, he's working in a small law office 5 days a week, answering phones and crap. He's been fired from this job once already, for sleeping in and arriving late, which is actually the theme of his life. (He has slept through finals in college, and entire holiday family get-togethers for example).

Anyway, he HATES this job. He makes no money and it makes him miserable. He says he does it because he knows if he got a better job he'd never go back to school. But I have a theory. My theory is that he continues to do this job which he says he hates because if he does, it assures that he'll continue to do just okay without every really risking any time, effort or emotional investment.

It's the most frustrating thing in the world to watch, which I told him, but more kindly, of course. I also asked him, point blank, why he acts afraid of success -- why he's constantly getting close to going after what he wants (in life, in love, in his career), and then freezing up, backing out, and blowing it all off for something lesser, easier, and that he doesn't care about.

He actually agreed, in part, with my philosophy, but I also suspect he didn't care to think too hard about it, either, finding agreement easier than real analysis. I don't know. Though overall a positive exchange, the experience was frustrating, and a little bit sad, too.

There's a point where I realize, certainly, that confessing my hypothesis to him so frankly is not only ineffective, it's presumptuous. But consider this:

HE has defined his goals. HE says what he wants, and then fails to take action to get it. I'm not imposing my own set of definitions for success and happiness on him -- I'm only holding him to his own standard.

And I get it. He is ultimately unconcerned by his own apathy, most of the time.

But what I worry about is the restof the time, when he wakes up in the middle of the night and feels sick, realizing he's getting older by the minute and is still so afraid of something that he's settling for nothing at all instead. And that makes me really sad, because he deserves more than nothing. He deserves everything he wants, and I wish I could just will him to have it all.

I guess, in the end, I hoped a little shock therapy might help snap him out of his life's sleepwalk. But it seems he's still dreaming away somewhere in OZ, and I think I've realized that he might always prefer that to those little red slippers and home (with all its risk of slipping into the pigpen or getting sucked up in a twister), anyway.

Me? I'll take the natural disaster, any day.
Hell, I'd even like to BE the natural disaster.

Maybe I already am.

Time ran out and down the street. "Come back!" she said.

I usually like to post a little somethin' somethin' early in the week, as I know y'all are particularly bored Monday through Wednesday. But unfortunately I've been having those days where you sit down, start working, look up, and it's 5. It would be awesome if I could do this like it were my job, but unfortunately I have to, like, pay rent and shit. Which means I am work's bitch. Get used to it.

I haven't even been EATING, which is completely unheard of. (And has me fantasizing about chocolate-covered gummy bears, which are the greatest things ever to be covered in chocolate). And while I cross off things at the top of my to-do list, I feel like I have a gag legal pad or something, because somehow the list gets longer by two each time I cross off one item at the top.

In short: I'm burning the candle at both ends, here, people. Hence the neglect yesterday and this very short post. I don't know if I'll get to posting more this week. But I assure you I have many an idea and no shortage of stories, so when I get back to you, it will be awesome.

I've pimped him here before, but I sincerely dig Hugh McLeod's little cartoons. On business, advertising, stupidity, sex, and the blogosphere. Oh, and New York and sometimes London.
As I'm boring you to death today, you should really check him out. He can be found HERE.

Enjoy, and have a good week. And if you happen to live near Seattle and you have any chocolate-covered gummy bears you can spare for a starving, overworked girl, please email me at youwillfindliz at gmail dot com and we'll arrange a dropofff/pickup location.

And possibly sexual favors.

For me, not you, jackass! I'M the one who needs stress relief, remember? Sheesh.