Today I called the library to see if Sarah could pick up a book I put on hold. My options, as I saw it, were to either transfer the hold to her account, or simply have the Central Library make a note saying “the person with [Sarah's card number] is allowed to pick up the book put on hold by the person with [Jeffrey's card number].” It did not strike me as an outlandish request.

The person at the LA Public Library help desk saw things differently. “Oh!” she said, surprised, when I asked her if my wife could pick up my book. “Well no, no, no, you shouldn’t put a book on hold if you can’t pick it up.”

“Well, okay,” I said, “I recognize the logic there, but I already put the book on hold. Could I have my wife pick it up?”

“Yeah, right,” she said sarcastically. “You put a book on hold, and then you have a woman with a totally different card number come pick it up? How do you think that would look?” I’m pretty sure it took everything in her power to not add, “Uh, DUH!” to the end of her response.

I have coined a new term for this type of person: The Leapfrogger. The Leapfrogger is always leaping one step ahead of you and responding to the thing they assume you mean, instead of what you are actually saying. In this case, a normal person would have said, “well, maybe we can take your wife’s card number, and she can pick it up.” Or, alternatively, “I’m really sorry, but our computer systems aren’t set up to change holds from one person to another. It sucks, I know.”

This person did not hear me asking a simple request, though. In her mind, what I was saying sounded like: “Hi, I’m going to send my wife to the library to pick up a book that I put on hold. I’m not going to inform anyone that I’m doing this, and I’m going to expect you to hand her the book, regardless of the number on her library card. Could you please point out to me any problems you see with this scenario, bearing in mind that I have a difficult time understanding simple logic?”

The woman at the parks department who handled our wedding was a real Leapfrogger. We would call and ask a question like, “Hi, is it okay if we have a bonfire on Friday night?” And she would respond “You can’t expect us to provide marshmallows and roasting sticks for you.”

If you are ever in a conversation and trying to determine whether or not the person you are speaking to is a Leapfrogger, ask yourself one simple question: Would the phrase, “Uh, DUH!” fit in at the end of every sentence? If so, you just may be in luck!

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The people who live downstairs from us are a constant mystery to me. They’ll be quiet for weeks on end, and then they’ll be insanely loud for like a week straight. I have only gotten a few glimpses of them, but they look like the sort of people who throw their arms around each other and act sexy at clubs so the Cobrasnake will take their picture. Kinda like these retards:

Note: I’m pretty certain none of these retards are actually my downstairs neighbors, but I would bet even money the neighbors have done blow with at least one of these girls. Note also: I don’t know the first thing about “doing blow,” but I’m pretty certain that’s what people who look like this would call it.

I can never tell how many people live down there. They have a male friend with a screechingly loud and high-pitched voice who doesn’t seem to live there but visits an awful lot. He laughs like a hyena. I can often smell pot smoke wafting up from down below and hear them giggling like jackals at some sort of entertainment. They never sit down long enough to watch an entire movie or TV show, so my guess is that they hang out, get stoned, and watch a lot of YouTube videos.

Today their door was open and I peeked in. To the immediate right of the doorway was a gigantic painting — I’m talking like seven feet by seven feet — of an American Indian in a headdress. A skinny man — or perhaps a boy; he looked pretty young — with curly blond hair was standing in the living room. He was completely naked except for a pair of tiny, spandex wrestling shorts. He looked like he’d just stepped out of an American Apparel ad.

Right now they’re listening to “Everybody Dance Now” by C & C Music Factory. I’m not kidding.

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Today I was walking past a yellow “caution” sign on the sidewalk and I knocked it over. It was placed right in the middle of the sidewalk where it was almost impossible to avoid. There didn’t seem to be anything in the immediate area to warn against, so the only thing I can assume is that the caution sign was in place to warn me about itself. Clearly I did not heed the warning, because I knocked it over.

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There are monsters in Montauk! On Tuesday, Gawker posted a photo of this amazing beastie that turned up on a beach in Montauk, New York on some undisclosed day in the recent past (or future):

I’ll agree that this is a strange looking thing. Is it a monster? I’m guessing it’s a dog who’s been bashed around in the ocean a little bit. Gawker, in their infinite insider wisdom, assumed it was viral marketing:

This is an actual monster, some sort of rodent-like creature with a dinosaur beak. A tipster says that there is “a government animal testing facility very close by in Long Island,” but unless the government is trying to design horrible Montauk monsters that will eat IEDs and fart fire at bad Iraqis, we’re not sure why they would create such an unthinkable beast. Our guess is that it’s viral marketing for something.

As I’ve noted before, I am entirely sick of the Internet. Why can’t a monster on a beach just be a monster on a beach? I think my generation, being raised on TV, is somewhat skeptical of ads. The generation below us, or maybe even the generation below that (I lose track of where we are at this point), sees marketing efforts everywhere. I don’t see how it couldn’t affect your view of everyday reality.

Or maybe it’s just Gawker, and by extension, the hip New York media world. I had some good times living in New York, don’t get me wrong. But the “I am not impressed with anything you do” attitude did get to me after awhile. In LA, people at least pretend to be interested in what you do. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I will take fake kindness over real rudeness any day.

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LA just experienced an earthquake. I was in my apartment because I stayed home to get some laundry done. The building got very shaky for what felt like about 30 seconds. I didn’t know what to do. What I did was stand up and sort of pace around the apartment. After the shocks subsided, I went out in the hallway. My neighbor Honor was crouched in her doorway. I went over to make sure she was all right. “I just had flashbacks to China,” she said. I didn’t know what that meant. “Is it still shaking?” she asked me. “No, I think that’s just you,” I said.

Felix, the building manager, and Henry, the mute caretaker, came out of Felix’s apartment. “What are we supposed to do when something like that happens?” Honor asked Felix. Felix ignored her. “I’m so nervous,” he said, fanning himself. “I thought the whole building was going to fall down.” This didn’t do much to calm our nerves. Henry, the mute caretaker, raised his arms and pretended he was trying to catch his balance. Then he drew his hand across his neck in a slicing motion as if to say, “we’re all going to die.” I didn’t really know what else to say, so I went downstairs and checked on my laundry.

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I’ve been living in Los Angeles for about 2 1/2 years now, after spending 8 years in New York City. At first, the switch was dramatic. New York has exactly 3 days of pleasant weather every year, while LA has 3 days of unpleasant weather. New York has naked cowboys harassing tourists in Times Square, while LA has people in frighteningly homemade-looking superhero costumes harassing tourists in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater. New York has Puerto Ricans, while LA has Armenians. And so on.

As I’ve settled in, I’ve discovered a few things about LA that only become clear to people who have spent a lot of time here. If you ever make it out here for a visit, please print this guide out; it just may save your life.

1. There is no good time to go to Trader Joe’s. Trader Joe’s is a West Coast-based grocery store chain that feels like a food co-op gone corporate. Its employees are mainly twenty-something hipsters who wear Hawaiian shirts and often look like they’ve cut their own hair with garden shears — but in a fashionable way.

Outsiders often make the mistake of assuming that Trader Joe’s is a high-end, expensive grocery store, in the same league as Whole Foods. This is a mistake. Trader Joe’s products actually tend to be cheaper than their name brand counterparts. If you do not live near a Trader Joe’s but you know something about the chain, it is that they carry an inexpensive brand of wine known as Charles Shaw, or “Two Buck Chuck” as it is know to out-of-state visitors who would like you to think they are not out-of-state visitors.

Trader Joe’s, at least the one in Los Feliz, where I live, is always busy. Because I’m a freelancer, I have often attempted to beat the rush by showing up at odd hours of the day. The parking lot is just as packed at 11:13 AM as it is at 5:30 PM. The aisles themselves are incredibly small and difficult to maneuver a grocery cart through, although, having come from New York, I’m pretty well accustomed to navigating impossibly tight spaces. If you need to go to Trader Joe’s and you find that it’s packed, take my advice and DO NOT leave the parking lot, thinking you’ll come back at a better time. Trust me, there is no better time.

2. People in Los Angeles have no standard of measurement for entertainment. In Los Angeles, you are either “being entertained” (watching a piece of entertainment) or “not being entertained” (not watching a piece of entertainment). It is impossible to watch a piece of entertainment and not be entertained.

For example, let’s say you go to see a mediocre movie, like Made of Honor or 27 Dresses. While you are in that theater, you will get the sensation from the crowd’s reaction that it is the most daring, original piece of entertainment that has ever been produced. People will be curled up in fetal balls of laughter. Complete strangers will smack you on the back in joy.

This actually happened when Sarah and I went to see Little Miss Sunshine. Now, I thought Little Miss Sunshine was okay, but the word I would use to describe it as “cute.” Judging from the reactions of the people surrounding us in the theater, the word they would have used to describe it is “revolutionary.” The woman next to Sarah, a complete unknown to us, grabbed Sarah’s arm at one point and, gasping for air, screamed “This is SO CRAZY!” If I didn’t know better, I would have assumed the audience was filled with cavemen who were just seeing moving pictures on a screen for the first time in their lives.

3. There are actually six different rush hours in Los Angeles. They are:

• The going to work rush. (6:30 AM – 10 AM)
• The going to lunch rush. (11 AM – 2 PM)
• The returning from lunch rush. (2:30 PM to 4 PM)
• The coming home from work rush. (4 PM to 8 PM)
• Saturday.
• Sunday.

If you must drive, your window of opportunity is Monday-Friday, 10-11 AM or 2-2:30 PM. Any other time, you’re better off walking.

4. People in Los Angeles are not flaky, they’re just extremely hopeful. In Los Angeles, people will say, “let’s get together for lunch sometime next week.” You are not a true Angeleno if you let reality cloud your response. Your response should be based on what would happen in an ideal world in which you had unlimited amounts of time and everyone loved everyone. So you say, “Yes! Let’s get together for lunch sometime next week.” You will not be held to it, and they will probably never call you, anyway. Everyone wins!

5. Everyone in LA has his or her own private monitoring helicopter that is constantly flying overhead, making sure everything’s kosher. At least, that’s the best explanation I can come up with for why helicopters seem to be flying around my neighborhood on a tighter schedule than subway trains.

6. Driving drunk is a terrible idea, but calling a cab is an even worse one.

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I was at 7-11 this morning buying my Gatorade, which is what I do now instead of coffee when it’s hot. The woman in front of me (who I shall call “the bubbly woman” from here on out) spoke to the 7-11 worker as though they were thick as thieves. I would have assumed the bubbly woman was in there every morning and had established one of those “I kind of know you” relationships with the woman behind the counter, but the 7-11 worker registered no recognition on her face or in her attitude. The bubbly woman said hello as though she was greeting an old friend and put her diet Mountain Dew on the counter. The 7-11 worker lazily swiped the bottle over the scanner.

“So … how’s your Monday going?” the bubbly woman asked.

“Oh … Monday …” the 7-11 worker said with a blank face.

The bubbly woman nodded knowingly. “Mondays, huh?” she said.

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As part of my living in LA duties, I subscribe to a daily email called Urban Daddy that tells me how to be cool. Yes, “Urban Daddy” is a really unbearably bad name. I would consider unsubscribing if it didn’t constantly provide me with invaluable information. Today’s revelation was so monumental that I had to share it with the world. Behold, the majesty of the Double-Wide:

A truly spectacular night of Hollywood revelry requires…a truly spectacular hangover cure.

And so it is with great pride (and great anticipation of all that preparatory revelry) that we unveil the launch of an off-the-menu secret remedy at The Waffle—an astounding fried chicken and waffle sandwich they’re calling The Double Wide.

Served only to those who know to ask for it (that would be you), the sandwich utilizes Applewood-Smoked Bacon Waffles for the enormous sandwich’s “bread.” (In a brilliant feat forever altering the future of the waffling industry, the bacon is actually baked into the waffle.) Inside: tender fried chicken, more applewood-smoked bacon, lettuce, tomato, sliced red onions and melted Tillamook sharp cheddar. In case this all seem a bit too restrained, the sandwich arrives with a side of sawmill white country gravy…and a bottle of the house-made maple syrup.

The Waffle, open 6:30-4:30am Fri-Sat, 6:30-2:30am Sun-Thurs, 6255 W. Sunset Blvd (E. of Vine), Hollywood, 323-465-6901

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I’m at the airport right now, waiting for my friend Matt to arrive. I have been waiting for a long time. I mistakenly assumed that it would take me 2 hours to get to the airport, what with the scourge that is LA rush hour traffic. What I did not recognize was that people are not going in the direction of the airport during rush hour. So my 2 hour trip took me 35 minutes. Matt’s plane is 40 minutes late, which means that I technically just added 5 minutes to my life. I think. I’m not really into math.

This is the 1st post I’ve ever written on my phone, interestingly, even though I’ve had the iPhone for about 6 months. I am what is known in the industry as an “early adopter”. The network is slow and the input device is hopelessly flawed, but what do I want? I’m blogging from my phone. Can you imagine? The future is here! The future is slow and hopelessly flawed, but it’s here!

I was at a bar in LA with my college friends Shea and Drew the other day, and we were all poking around on our iPhones, because of course everyone in LA has iPhones. Not only that, but we also frequently have conversations about what our iPhones mean to us. I thought I would be ribald and said, “It’s really nice when I’m taking a shit.” Without hesitation, Shea replied, “Dude, the iPhone has revolutionized the act of taking a shit.” Are you reading this, Jobs? I smell ad campaign!

And there! Thanks to this slow-ass phone, I have just managed to waste half an hour!

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My fine adopted state of California has raised a stiff middle finger to the rest of the country with this, the brilliant and much-needed 24 hour marijuana vending machine. It is official: every last need I could possibly have is now covered.

I have a few friends who have prescriptions for medical marijuana, all of whom are in perfect health (except for chronic coughs caused by smoking medical marijuana). Ironically, I had another friend who had cancer. That’s not the ironic part. The ironic part is that he went to his doctor because he was having trouble eating. The doctor tried to prescribe some crazy caplet that listed “long-lasting hallucinations” and “intense diarrhea” as possible side effects. He called me to ask if I knew anything about it … I guess because he fancied me some kind of drug expert. Don’t ask me what I’ve done to earn this reputation. I said it looked scary and he should just get a prescription for marijuana … after all, they legalized it for people who were in his exact situation, right?

The next day, he went back to his doctor and asked for the prescription. The doctor refused. He would rather have had my friend take this radioactive death-pill than smoke a little herb. The reason, of course, is that the federal government could potentially bust him for prescribing marijuana, since federal law trumps state law — whenever the government feels like enforcing it, that is. They generally don’t concern themselves when state laws are more conservative than federal laws. (Warning: I do not have any examples, and so this last statement should never be repeated to anyone who actually knows what he or she is talking about.)

Okay, so this doctor referred him to another doctor. The second doctor responded to my friend’s request by saying, “don’t you know someone who could get it for you?” After this, he gave up on the legitimate medical community and finally went to see one of the doctors who advertises in the back of LA Weekly with ads that look like this:

(I wonder if this has any medical legitimacy? Are there musician-only diseases? Is that some kind of code for syphilis?)

… or this …

(It’s funny: my doctor has a picture of himself in his office wearing this exact same outfit. Does that have something to do with the Hippocratic oath?)

So anyway, my friend went to one of these back-alley doctors, paid him $200, got his prescription, and right away, his appetite returned. So, the results of our experiment teach us this: marijuana works as medicine. And my friend, who had cancer, could not get it. I really don’t know what argument you could raise that would convince me it should continue to be illegal. To me, one’s position on legalized marijuana is pretty much the dividing line between rational and irrational.

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