Um, I’m pretty sure rent doesn’t work that way.

Yesterday I bought EA Sports Active for the Wii, because I refuse to exercise unless I can look at a cartoon of myself doing the exercise at the same time. It’s actually crazy intense. I did the “medium” setting workout and I was sweating balls at the end. But like 2 minutes into it, I’m running around a virtual track (but really just jumping up and down like an asshole), and there’s a furious pounding on the floor from the apartment below. Sarah and I have heard this pounding before, but we’ve always assumed that the people were hammering stuff into the wall, because we’re kind of incredibly courteous neighbors. I mean, we rarely have parties, we don’t listen to loud music, and we don’t stomp around with 500 pound shoes.

This time, it was clear that she was pounding at me. I got the cold feeling of weirdness I always get when I realize that someone is paying attention to what I’m doing. I kept going with it, because I’m a virtual exercise maven, but I moved to a different part of the room when I did anything that involved jumping or running.

Then, about 1/2 an hour after I finish, I hear the pounding again. This time, I was sitting on the couch, watching TV. So I decided to investigate. I walked downstairs and rang our neighbor’s doorbell.

“Hi,” I said, “I’m your upstairs neighbor. Were you pounding on the ceiling just now?”

“Yes,” she said, “it sounds like someone’s doing jumping jacks up there.”

“Well, I was exercising a little earlier,” I said, “but I have been sitting on the couch for the last 20 minutes.”

“Well, it sounds like someone’s doing jumping jacks,” she said.

“But I wasn’t,” I protested. “I was just sitting there.”

“Could you maybe do that during the day?” she asked.

“Just sit there?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “jumping jacks.”

“But I wasn’t doing jumping jacks,” I complained. “I was just sitting there.”

“Or do you have a rug or something?” she asked.

“Yes, I have a rug,” I said, “but I don’t think it’s going to deaden the sound of me doing nothing.”

Now, admittedly, I was not exactly this rational and clever in the moment. I really spent the bulk of the conversation making increasingly more exasperated protests that “I literally was not doing anything!” while she stared at me as if I was trying to hide my secret jumping jack habit from her. We left it with me telling her that I would appreciate it if she could come up and ring the doorbell instead of knocking on the ceiling, and then I introduced myself and told her it was nice to meet her. Even though it totally wasn’t. It was horrible to meet her.

The point is, that’s weird, right? To just pound on a ceiling like that? If you know the person, and you’ve discussed their loudness before, that’s one thing. But to use the ceiling pound as a form of communication with someone you’ve never actually met? Maybe she didn’t realize that humans lived above her. Like she was trying to send a message to the ceiling itself.

I’ve lived underneath loud people before, and it sucks. I’m pretty sure the clompers who lived above me in Greenpoint spend most of their days wrestling on the ground in outfits made of solid pewter. But Sarah and I are not loud. And also, if you’re reading this, girl below me? I have been listening to you make some repetitive thumping noise for an hour every day since you moved in. Have I ever said anything to you about it? I totally have not. Because a person is allowed to make a repetitive thumping noise in her apartment if she wishes, as long as it’s not like 2 o’ clock in the morning or whatever. Anyway, if you are reading this, I hate you, so please stop reading my blog.

On a totally different subject: how strange is it that Amy Winehouse’s most well-known song is about how she refuses to go to rehab? There is not a stitch of irony in that song. It’s as if Britney Spears sang a song called “I Totally Have No Talent.” Exactly as if that.

And also, I’ve started putting stuff up on Awkward. If you’re so inclined, please visit and read and join the mailing list!

Note: the above picture is not an endorsement.

Voters in Los Angeles will notice a funny difference between this latest primary ballot and those from years past. In order to get his budget passed, Schwarzenegger agreed to remove candidates’ political parties from the primary ballot. Basically, the tiny amount of information we can generally glean from ballots is now reduced to zero. The only information listed is (are?) the candidates’ professions and nicknames. For instance, Villaraigosa’s competition includes Bruce Darian, a “General Contractor” and professional “Whistleblower”, Phil Jennerjahn, an “Entertainer,” and David “Zuma Dogg” Saltsburg, a “Badass.”

Luckily for you, I have taken the time to give a passing glance at the candidates’ statements of intent. So although this voting guide is woefully underinformed, it’s at least a tiny bit better than the giant void of non-information found elsewhere. Are you ready, Angelenos? Let’s begin!

City of Los Angeles

Mayor
My pick: Antonio R. Villaraigosa. There ain’t too much of a contest here. Why fight it? I don’t know that Villaraigosa is doing that outstanding a job, but his competition is pretty lackluster. If you want to exercise your freedom, though, I would recommend a vote for my man Zuma Dogg. I like this guy’s passion:

City Attorney
My pick: Noel Weiss. This one’s somewhat of a toss up between Weiss and Carmen Trutanich. Weiss’s bio stresses his accomplishments in the field of housing, while Trutanich talks about his environmental advocacy. What won me over was this statement of Weiss’s site:
My governance philosophy is one of ’smart governance’ – What I call the `Five-P’s’ of Governance. No program or policy should be implemented unless it is (1) Practical, (2) Pro-active, (3) Positive, (4) Progressive, and (5) Principled.

Controller
My pick: Wendy Greuel. The other two candidates seem focused on business interests, while Greuel plans to “Fight to ensure that Los Angeles becomes the greenest and cleanest big city in the United States.” She’s got the experience as a City Councilwoman … give it to her.

Los Angeles Community College District

These races have no impact on most of our lives. However, we do get to vote on them. And if there’s one thing that pisses me off when it comes to elections, it’s candidates who don’t supply their biographical information to the League of Women Voters. I mean, really. It’s the least you can do. So please join me in punishing those who were too lazy to give the voters the information they need to make an informed decision.

Member of the Board of Trustees, Seat No. 2
My pick: Angela J. Reddock: Only two candidates who supplied their bios – Art Sims and Angela J. Reddock. Reddock has great experience and seems committed to the cause.

Member of the Board of Trustees, Seat No. 4
My pick: Kelly Candaele. Candaele writes for The Nation. Automatic win.

Member of the Board of Trustees, Seat No. 6
My pick: Jane Ardigo Scott. She wrote a position paper entitled “Generally 5.5% voter turn out for the Community College Election” which says “Holding a political office was NEVER intended to be a life long career. Therefore, I am asking for your support to replace an incumbent on the present Board.” Ask and ye shall receive.

Member of the Board of Trustees, Seat No. 7
My pick: Miguel Santiago. Endorsed by the Sierra Club.

City of Los Angeles Measures

I’m voting yes on all. Measure A proposes to hire an independent assessor to make sure the Fire Department is running well. Sounds good. Measure B is in favor of solar energy development. Despite Zuma Dogg’s displeasure with the measure, it sounds like a good goal to me. Measures C and D have no opponents, so they get an automatic win. Measure E just proposes that we change the city charter to allow the city to give incentives to businesses. I would hate for them to use it for corporate welfare, but it seems like a right a city should be allowed to have.

And there it is. Go forth and vote, Los Angeles.

From the LA Times:

Incidents over the past few years have included arrests of a costumed Elmo, Mr. Incredible and the Scream on suspicion of aggressive begging and the jailing of a Freddy Krueger on suspicion of stabbing a man in a scuffle. A Chewbacca was arrested on suspicion of battery after allegedly head-butting a tour guide who complained about his treatment of two tourists from Japan.

I’m not going to link to the story ’cause it’s much better if this is all you know about it.

Today I walked to Subway for lunch. The office I rent is about 1/2 a mile away from the Subway, so I used it as a nice excuse to get out in the sun for awhile. Yes, we have sun here. I apologize to all of those people freezing in far-off states, but when we get hit with the Big One, you can congratulate yourselves for all your cold weather suffering.

When I arrived and ordered, I suddenly realized that I didn’t have my wallet. I told the guy behind the counter and he said he’d set the sandwich aside for me. By this point, I was closer to home than my office, so I decided to walk home, get the car, drive back to the office, pick up my wallet, and return to Subway.

I got the car, got the wallet, and I was back to Subway within 10 minutes. The next trial was parking. The Subway is in a mini-strip mall with 5 other stores and approximately 10 parking spots. The employees of these stores had taken 9 of the spots, and the last spot was between a Hummer and a wall. I tried to find street parking. Nothing. I drove around the block and in and out of the Subway parking lot maybe 5 times. I could’ve given it up and gone to Machos Tacos, but I am a man of my word.

After about 15 minutes of this tomfoolery, I finally found a parking spot 3 blocks from the restaurant. As I walked up to the restaurant, the guy who rang me up was outside. “Ayyyy!” he said, happy to see me again. “You didn’t think you’d see me again, did you?” I asked. “Nope,” he said. “Well, I’m a man of my word,” I told him.

My sandwich was still sitting there, waiting to be consumed. After I paid for it, the woman behind the counter asked me if I’d like a replacement, because this one had probably gone cold. To my knowledge, Subway sandwiches are always cold, and I really saw no reason to waste a perfectly fine sandwich, so I declined. But still: this is quality customer service, and I will be dining at this Subway more frequently because of it.

When I got back to the office, I offered my officemate Brendan some of my Fritos. “Do you know what the ingredients in Fritos are?” I asked him. “Corn, corn oil, and salt. That’s it.” He refused to believe me. “There must be other chemicals in there that aren’t listed.” Just then, Andrea, our temporary officemate, poked her head out of the office where she’d been working. “The guy who invented Fritos invented it as a healthy alternative to chips. He also wanted to make sure it could be used as an ingredient. There are tons of recipes you can make with Fritos.”

So what started as a potential lunchtastrophe turned into a valuable learning and sharing session. And I still have half a bag of Fritos left.

I was bored and alone just now because Sarah went to see a friend of a friend speak at the Central Public Library. His name is Reihan Salam and he just wrote a book about how the Republican party has lost their way and how they can return to relevance after their latest adventures. I played Risk with him once in New York and he destroyed everyone. If one’s political acumen can be inferred from strength at Risk, then this guy probably has some interesting things to say.

So having nothing to do, I decided to walk around the neighborhood. There was a homeless guy sitting in front of the 7-11 who I’d never seen before. I approached him and asked what he was up to. “Just sitting around,” he said. He told me that he’s gotten into rolling his own cigarettes lately. “It’s a lot cheaper,” he said. “I go through a pack a day of normal cigarettes. When I roll my own, I can make it last for two or three days.” I asked him how many cigarettes that was. “Enough,” he said. He smoked menthols for 20 years, but not anymore. “You can’t smoke those forever,” he said. It was nice to see that he was concerned about his health. “I hear menthols have fiberglass in them,” I said. “Yep,” he said.

After him, I decided I should talk to the woman I see every day who I never talk to. She’s a blond-haired woman who wears a tank top when it’s hot and a a leopard-print fur coat at night. She hangs out in front of the Masonic temple a couple of blocks away from my apartment. She’s homeless, apparently, but you would never assume so if you saw her walking around, because she looks almost 100% normal. I walk past her several times I day when I’m going to and from my office, and I’ve always been mystified by her.

“I walk past you five times a day and I’ve never introduced myself,” I said. “I’m Jeffrey.”

Her name is Joyce. She sells drawings. She always has a selection of drawings displayed on the steps in front of the Masonic temple. She holds them down with rocks. I looked at her drawings about a year ago, and they’ve gotten significantly better since then. Proof that one can learn how to draw with ample time to practice.

While I was talking to her, a man walked up and said, “I have $20 and I want to buy some drawings.” I hung out while she showed him all her art. He picked two drawings from the pack. I pointed out the ones I liked and tried to convince him to buy those, but he wasn’t interested. He knew what he wanted. “I’ll take those,” he said, pointing to a picture of a baby with a painter’s palate slung around his neck and a crumpled drawing of a guy in a jester’s costume. “Here, take one of these, too,” she said, handing him what looked to be a self-portrait from her younger days. He walked away with his three drawings.

“Well, I guess I’ll take off, too,” I said. She tried to give me another version of the self-portrait that she had in her pack, but I told her to keep it for a paying customer. “I’ll be back to buy one of those,” I said, then walked back to my apartment. I’m really curious to see if she remembers me the next time I see her, which will be tomorrow, because I see her several times a day.

There’s an older guy who works at our local Starbucks. Not old, but I would guess late 40s, early 50s. I always feel bad for him, ’cause he seems so out of place. His 25-year-old-and-under coworkers clearly just barely tolerate him. He seems to screw up a lot. And every time he opens his mouth, the kids kind of roll their eyes at each other. I always feel a little sorry for him, although I can see how he’d be a thoroughly obnoxious presence to work with on a regular basis. Whenever I’m at Starbucks, I try to pay attention to him because he’s a pretty fascinating character.

Anyway, I just passed him on the street. He was wearing over-sized, baggy shorts and a tank top, and he was walking with a kid who appeared to be about 17. His hair had been shaved into a mohawk, a la Travis Bickle.

Something very strange is going on here, and I intend to get to the bottom of it.

I’m working from the Los Angeles Central Library today. It’s nice. Beautiful place. Just nice to get away sometimes from my normal office environment, to remind myself I can. Here’s my complaint (because there always has to be a complaint) … there’s a homeless guy sitting in a desk near me. He’s reading aloud to himself in a low, monotonous tone that comes across as a cross between a moan and mumble. He’s a real moambler. I feel like I’m sitting next to a zombie. I mean, really. I’m all for homeless literacy, but there should be a law against moaning in a public library.

The Moambler