I live in Santa Monica. At 7am one morning, I went out to pick up a donut at my favorite donut place on Lincoln, in Venice. The roads were pretty bare, and I was going a normal speed, not especially slow or anything. Nevertheless, some creep in a red pickup with a contractor case built into the back tailgated me -- INCHES from my bumper. I, too, am a redheaded girl -- very girlie, too. Whatta man, frightening the girl in the tiny little hybrid. I was afraid to even change lanes because he was so close. Well, I'm no shrinking violet, and my boyfriend gave me a digital camera, so, when he turned left into a gas station, I went straight instead of turning right, and pulled in another entrance of the same station. There were a bunch of other men there, and I dress like a girlie girl, always useful in situations like this -- making the creep look an even bigger bully -- so I got out and said something to him about what a man he was for tailgating me. Next, I photo'd his license and called the cops. They're pretty lame here (I had to track down my own stolen Rambler, despite Nancy Drew-ing up everything but the thief's blood type) so, they probably didn't get him. But there's always that chance. I get my rage out at SUVs with my latest anti-SUV campaign: business cards I put under windshields of the huge, new ones that read, "How many dead Marines did it take to gas up your tank? Stylish, aren't you?"