Nutty Neighbors: Sunday Morning Burlesque

I've held on to this post for some time. In fact, I'd written it almost a year ago but forgotten it over time as other posts and other duties have taken precedence. I share it with you now just so I no longer have any posts in draft form. Do with it what you will.

I've written before about how annoying the next door neighbors can be, particularly when The Princess, the guy who has the master bedroom in the back of the apartment (parallel to my own, with just a thin wall separating us), plays his music so loudly that you can hear it over the shower (mine, his, both at the same time, doesn't matter). I suppose I might not mind hearing the music from next door if he didn't have such crappy taste.

He goes through different moods, of course, and the music often reflects whatever he's feeling at the time. When he's broken up with some guy he's dating, I get to hear very sad, depressing stuff. Unfortunately--for both him and me--that happens quite often. When he's getting ready to go out, presumably to snag another boyfriend (at least for the night), it's all about the dance music, much of which sounds like every other song on the radio these days.

Yesterday [almost a year ago now] was a strange day, though. What mood must someone be in to listen to the soundtrack to Burlesque? How can you get yourself ready for the day ahead by forcing yourself to hear all Christina, all the time? Couldn't you have at least included one of the songs by Cher just as a shout-out to the older gays?

Here's why I'm not a fan of Christina Aguilera's most recent work ("recent" meaning the past ten years or so). She has an amazing voice with a spectacular range and is obviously quite talented. However, her performances are what's wrong with most of today's music. Listen to the radio or watch a singing competition show like the one for which she occasionally judges, The Voice, and all you'll hear are people who are enamored with their ability to do runs and hit very high notes and dazzle people with the flexibility of their voice. There's only one problem: That's not really singing. It sounds more like you're doing a warm-up before you sing.

Besides, Burlesque is just a really bad movie. Not bad as in campy fun like Showgirls, which it hoped it would be. Just bad as in boring and kind of pointless. I suppose it must have fans out there, and apparently, The Princess is one of them, but isn't it just a forgettable piece of dross? Why blow the dust off that soundtrack and play it to get yourself primed for the day ahead? Especially so long after the movie has disappeared from theaters?

In honor of The Princess' Sunday morning rise-and-shine music, here's a song to get stuck in your head. Better yours than mine.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

The Princess next door wakes up at 8 a.m. You know this because you are awakened by his typical annoying habit of playing his dreary music loudly enough for him to hear it over the shower—and for you to hear it clearly as well. He eventually leaves for work, but when he returns in the evening, he turns on the television in his bedroom, and it sounds like he’s listening to an old industrial film punctuated at times by loud car crashes.

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

The Princess finally goes to sleep at about 2 a.m., or at least, the noise from next door quietens down at around 2 a.m. Oddly enough, he doesn’t play music in the morning (or, perhaps, he doesn’t take a shower that day). You and The Boyfriend go to a movie, do a little shopping, have a nice dinner, and return home to find a party next door in full swing. The noise level isn’t as loud as parties in the past have sometimes had, but other neighbors still complain because by midnight it’s still going on. Exhausted, you fall asleep with the thumping of the usual bad music associated with The Princess’ parties.

Thursday, December 34, to Wednesday, December 30, 2015

No noises from next door. The Princess and, apparently, Bigfoot, his roommate, are gone for the Christmas holidays. You are able to wake up when you please. You are able to go to sleep when you please. No loud music. No television. Nothing but the lovely peace and quiet you’ve come to associated with the Princess’ holiday visits to his trashy family in Texas. I have no idea where Bigfoot goes, but you have to assume it’s somewhere in the Pacific Northwest.

Thursday, December 31, 2015

As you’re getting ready to go to a New Year’s Eve party at a friend’s home, you hear the not-so-faint sounds of what seems to be an old-time industrial film punctuated by car crashes. The joy of the holidays has obviously ended. The Princess has returned, and he’s back to his old ways.

Friday, January 1, 2016

You get home at about 1:30 a.m. You’ve eaten well and had a few celebratory drinks, you’ve watched the ball drop in Times Square (on television, of course), and you’ve kissed and hugged everyone and wished them “Happy New Year.” You’re tired and want to sleep. You go to brush your teeth and hear what sounds like the same stupid movie that was playing in the morning. You wonder if there’s some long industrial film on an endless loop next door. You grit your teeth and think that at least he’ll have to go back to work on Monday, giving you a few hours during the day without his racket. 

Nutty Neighbors: Pride Goeth Before a Fall

My Sunday morning ritual is simple. I get up at around 8 a.m. and pick up the Sunday edition of the Los Angeles Times outside my apartment door. I sit down on the couch for an hour and watch the Sunday morning news shows (This Week with George Stephanopoulos, for example) while reading as much of the paper as I find interesting.

This morning, however, there was a new wrinkle. I opened the door to the apartment and discovered a young woman sleeping in the hallway. She was wearing what would likely pass for a party dress and she had on a pair of heels. She’d obviously been out having some fun on Saturday night and had managed to make it back to her apartment. That was as far as she got, though. Lying on the floor, phone in hand, she periodically would pound—loudly, I might add—on the (metal) door to the apartment next door. She did have a slight scent of alcohol about her, but I don’t know how long she’d been drinking or how long it had been since she had stopped. She looked asleep, not dead, when I looked at her, so I didn’t immediately call the security patrol for our apartment complex. I didn’t recognize her as the current female resident of the apartment since there have been so many over the years. It’s hard to keep track. And, unless she was walking, I couldn’t determine if she was the person I’ve dubbed Bigfoot thanks to her heavy stomping on the wooden floors next door.

Thankfully, someone else in the building called our security officers, no doubt because the loud banging on the door was quite disruptive, and three of them showed up. I found out then that she didn’t have a key because she wasn’t actually a resident. She was just a friend who was staying with them. When questioned by the officers as to why she hadn’t called someone to open the door for her, she said that her phone had died. When they asked her if she had any identification on her, she replied that she didn't. She also told them that she hadn’t gone to the security office downstairs because she figured if she kept knocking on the door, someone would eventually answer it or perhaps someone would eventually come home. I should mention here that I had been awakened at about 6 a.m. by the knocking but hadn’t immediately recognized it as such.

So a drunken woman with no identification or working phone is sleeping in the hallway and banging repeatedly on an apartment door. And what did our crack security patrol officers decide to do? Unlock the door for her, of course. They asked her first what was inside just to be sure that she was familiar with the place, but they did unlock the door. By the way, she told them that the first thing they would see is a balloon that says, “Proud of You.” I knew there was a party last night—everyone in the building knew there was a party last night—but I didn’t know that someone next door had accomplished something deserving of a balloon and loud drunkenness. They seem like classic Millennial Underachievers to me, the kinds who wind up in uninspiring jobs that necessitate them having to drink themselves into oblivion each weekend just to forget how dull and unimportant they are. It’s been such a joy living next to them for the past half-dozen years or so.

I don’t know if anyone else was home next door or not. After the security officers opened the door to let her in, they walked away and she stomped her way down the hallway, presumably to pass out in a bed to finish sleeping off her stupor. She wasn’t loud enough to be Bigfoot, which was good to know, I guess, but I hope she at least tapped the Proud of You balloon as she passed it. 

The New Godzooky

My next door neighbor, whom I've dubbed The Princess, is now on his third female roommate. Lest you think he's some kind of serial monogamist, I should tell you that he's gay and has never had a male roommate in the half dozen or so years that he's lived next door to me. I know he's not interested in these women romantically; he has one bedroom, and they are always assigned to the other.

Each of  the women who've shared the apartment has had her own distinctive personality. The first one has been discussed on this blog in the past. She was the noisiest roommate so far. In fact, she is the noisiest person who's ever lived next door to me. When she wasn't playing her music or television at the highest possible volume (or perhaps just singing off key), she was stomping around on the wooden floors. I once compared it to the noise Godzilla makes destroying Tokyo. Thus was her nickname born.

The second roommate was quieter, much quieter, but she had a propensity for shopping that bordered on the addictive or obsessive. Not many days would pass before a box would appear in front of the apartment door. Some weeks there were packages every single day.

Some days even saw multiple packages. I didn't snap a picture of the pile of three large boxes that appeared one day while she was still living next door, but I still don't see how she could have gotten in the door.

This most recent addition had been, until recently, the quietest. She won't speak to me, has never said hello to me in the hallway or even acknowledged my presence. I suspect The Princess has told her that I've called to complain about the noise level several times in the past and so she's decided that I'm a bad neighbor. I don't care, really, since I have nothing in common with the twentysomething crowd that tends to show up next door.

I thought everything had been going well until this winter break. Each year, The Princess and anyone else who lives next door tend to disappear for two weeks for Christmas and New Year's celebrations elsewhere. It truly is the most wonderful time of the year because there are no slamming doors or awful music or loud, chatty late-night guests. By the way, I think that young people talk so loudly these days because they've damaged their hearing from years of sticking in ear buds and holding phones close to their ears. In another decade, it will be older people like me who have good hearing and the younger people will all need hearing aids.

Since the return of the neighbors after the holidays, there has been a marked increase in the volume level next door. I did call the security patrol one night because it was almost midnight but I could still hear very clearly through the walls the conversations going on. And, to make matters worse, the newest roommate has started stomping around the apartment too. I don't know how one's feet could get so much heavier over a couple of weeks of vacation, but I always know when she's home and when she's walking from the living room to her bedroom and vice versa.

I'll admit it's not as bad as when Godzilla herself lived next door, but it is still annoying. There's no point in talking about it with them; they don't seem particularly aware that other people live in the building too. I'm sure that I'll adjust, although it will most likely be the volume that's adjusted so that I can continue to hear my own television, but I think she's earned a nickname for herself.

Godzooky was the nephew of Godzilla in an 80s cartoon. He was a bit of a fumbler, not quite as powerful or coordinated as his uncle, and somewhat prone to mishaps. Given that she stomps around the apartment but isn't quite as loud (yet?) as her predecessor, I'm dubbing the young woman next door Godzooky.



By the way, I never know why the roommates move out. I don't know if they get another job and have to move or if The Princess is just a terrible person with whom to share an apartment. One day, Godzilla just moved out, and The Shopaholic moved in. After about a year or so, The Shopaholic moved out too, and Godzooky moved in.

Nutty Neighbors: Late-Breaking News

I know that I should keep you updated more often on the neighbors, but work takes up so much time these days that it's difficult to let you know about every crazy little thing that they do. For example, should I tell you about the loud fight they had last evening? It's not the first argument they've had, mind you, but this one lasted for a couple of hours and there was a lot of yelling involved. However, since they seemed to have made up this morning, perhaps I'll instead update you on a couple of other interesting items.

Item 1: For the past couple of weeks, the key case (you may recall it was very cleverly marked "KEY CASE" so no one would suspect what it is) disappeared from the door frame out in the hallway. The Boyfriend and I speculated about the possible reasons--she lost the case as well as the keys, they have no friends to leave the keys for any longer, he started stapling the key to her clothes every morning--but we reached no conclusion. However, I returned home one night earlier this week to find that the key is still being left in the hallway, just in a less conspicuous fashion.

Yes, that's the edge of the rug in the hallway. Yes, we're back to leaving the key under the rug. Yes, we're also not being very careful about how exposed our key is.

Item 2: Despite the months of having the key case (or, as if you prefer KEY CASE) on the door frame in the hallway and despite now having the key under the mat, Godzilla still sometimes locks herself out of the apartment and has to call the security patrol to let her into her home. It's a $50 charge each time, so it's costing her some money to do this. However, that's not the most unusual part of this. Several weeks ago, we received a memo regarding the complex's policy on dogs. It clearly states (in bold letters and some all capital letters, no less): "Pet Dogs are NEVER allowed in any Tower unit." You may recall that I live in one of the towers in the complex. Godzilla just happened to be sitting in front of her apartment with a dog in her lap when the patrol officer came by to unlock her door. He told her that he would unlock the door but reminded her that dogs were not allowed in the tower apartments. He even mentioned that we had recently received a memo about this issue. I am quite certain that Godzilla didn't read the memo, since most of the memos or phone books or fast food brochures wind up lying on the floor outside her apartment for days until someone else picks them up. She responded that she was just taking care of the dog for a friend--you know, dog-sitting. That's when the patrol officer reminded her of another provision that was included in the memo: "NO visitor or guest dogs are allowed on the property." She asked him to open her door anyway and said that she would take the dog somewhere else that night. You know, of course, how this turned out, don't you? The dog stayed the entire night, and it whimpered every time she left the apartment. Thankfully, its owner must have picked it up the next day, and there's been no further sign of a dog on this floor. (As for other floors, well, that's another story. Apparently, it isn't just Godzilla who doesn't--or can't--read memos.)

Item 3: For the past four days, there has been a box in the hallway outside the door to Godzilla and Hermey's apartment. It's the box from a new printer for a computer, and there is a printer inside. The Boyfriend thinks it's a brand new printer, complete with printer cartridge sitting on top. I think it's an old printer, maybe the one the new printer replaced, with a cartridge that won't fit the new one. Nevertheless, it just looks a bit trashy to leave one's garbage outside in the hallway, especially since we don't have door-to-door pick-up of garbage. Neither Godzilla nor Hermey will take the responsibility to move the box down to the garbage bins in the basement, and The Boyfriend is threatening to take the printer and sell it on Craigslist.

I guess it's not all that intrusive.

It just sticks out a bit and I know you can just walk around it, but I'm sure if you're a considerate tenant, you can think of ways to make it less of an obstacle.

You'd think if someone has the ability to move a box so that it doesn't stick out into the hallway as much as before, that same person could carry it to the garbage chute or to the basement so that the hallway doesn't look like the start of an episode of Hoarders.

This certainly isn't the first time that Godzilla and/or Hermey has left garbage in the hallway. Thankfully, it's usually only paper products like the new phone books or those fast food menus I mentioned above (or those helpful, informative memos from the apartment complex's owners). Still, you'd expect grown-ups to want their place to look a bit nicer than this, particularly if they are still going to have friends come over to visit. Then again, I guess I don't have much evidence that the people living next door are actually grown-ups.

Nutty Neighbors: New Depths or New Heights

I haven't written about the next-door neighbors in a while, but that doesn't mean that they haven't found new ways to demonstrate their stupidity. In addition to their continual amazement that other people live in this building and are not interested in hearing their loud music (or, even worse, Godzilla's "singing"), my favorite aspect of their ignorance has to do with their keys. Yes, I know I've told you before about the keys under the doormat that became clearly visible when the mat was even slightly nudged out of its position. However, in an obvious attempt to provide greater security for their keys yet maintain that availability you want your keys to have, they've hit upon a rather novel solution.

I suppose we aren't meant to notice that, in addition to the outline of the key on the box, it is clearly marked "KEY CASE." Of course, this would only be visible to anyone who happens to be in the hallway and, well, who can see. So far, this has included several delivery guys, a couple of whom have actually picked up the case and rattled it to see if keys were truly inside, and the mail carrier and people visiting some of the other neighbors on our floor and the maintenance crew members who come by to fix sinks or replace light bulbs in the hallway and the security guards who came to tell Godzilla and Hermey that they were making too much noise (and who also picked up the case and rattled it and laughed that anyone would be so stupid as to leave a set of keys outside their apartment door).

However, the stupidity doesn't end there. For about a week or so this summer, Godzilla and Hermey had company. Actually, they frequently have company, a very confusing trend considering how difficult it is to find parking around this complex and the very limited number of parking spaces reserved for guests. This particular guest, though, was special. She apparently was unable to bend all the down to the floor to pick up the keys or the KEY CASE, so being the gracious hosts that they are, Godzilla and Hermey tried their best to accommodate her. I hope it's visible enough for you to tell how truly kind they are.

Not to worry, the key case has migrated downward since that guest left. It's back at the bottom of the door frame. But it still isn't as if the neighbors are trying to hide the fact that they leave their keys outside in plain view. Godzilla, in particular, is especially prone to bending down in front of other people--such as the Pizza Hut delivery guy who came to our apartment last week--to pick up her keys. It's a source of some amusement for them, frankly. I can't imagine what they think of someone who's willing not only to place her keys in a magnetic case attached to her door frame in an open hallway but also to retrieve said keys in full view of strangers. That takes either an enormous amount of trust on her part or a great deal of ignorance.

I haven't yet figured out why they leave their keys outside. Is someone just really bad at keeping track of door keys? How hard could it be to put two keys on a small key chain in your pocket or purse? Are they really that generous with their apartment that they want just any acquaintance of theirs to be able to use the place without them being there? Godzilla doesn't seem to take her keys with her to work nor bring them inside when she comes home at the end of the day. I am, as always, completely bewildered by their ridiculous behavior.

Nutty Neighbors: The Definition of Stupidity

A little context first. I live in one of the largest apartment complexes in the country (if not the world). We have more than 4,000 units here, and in my building alone, there are 156 apartments. If you figure that, on average, each apartment has two tenants--several have lots more than two--that means at least 300 people could be living in just this building. There are thousands of people who live within the several city blocks covered by this complex.

Beyond just lots of residents, though, we also have visitors and delivery persons and the mail carriers and people who leave fliers hanging on the doorknobs and no telling who else stopping by. Yes, there is a fence surrounding the property, but that's to keep cars out more than people. Anyone can walk into the complex without being stopped or questioned. It happens all the time.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I returned home one day this past week to find the following:



That's right. Godzilla and Hermey apparently leave a set of keys to the front door of her apartment under the tiny little doormat. The keys were just lying on the carpet in front of her door in the middle of the afternoon. Perhaps the maintenance workers for the building accidentally moved the mat while vacuuming or something. I don't know. I was just dumbstruck to see that someone could be so foolish as to leave a set of keys outside the apartment door, available to anyone who might want to use them. I'm surprised the neighbors haven't had every last possession stolen from them. Apparently, they want their friends to be able to enter the apartment at all hours of the day or night whether they are home or not.

Godzilla--or perhaps it's Hermey--has taken precautions since that fateful day last week. No longer are the keys just left under the mat for just anyone to find. No, now they are stuck to the bottom of the doormat. Again, I am just dumbfounded by the lunacy of the neighbors.



I took the second picture because I had to see what had happened to the keys. I mistakenly assumed they'd put them on a key chain and keep them in a safe place after discovering how easily the location of the keys could be revealed. Not Godzilla and Hermey. You'd think that living in a city of several million people would make you a little more reluctant to do something as stupid as leaving the keys to your apartment under a doormat. Who does that nowadays?

I will admit to being torn emotionally when I saw the keys just lying on the carpet. I considered taking them and hiding them or throwing them down the garbage chute just to be spiteful. I didn't, though, so you can rest easy. My conscience go the better of me, I suppose. Momentarily, anyway. Of course, I don't think everyone would be as kind to Godzilla and Hermey as I was. One of these days, if they aren't careful, one of their "friends" or perhaps even a stranger may avail himself or herself of the opportunity to go on a "shopping spree," and maybe then they'll learn that grown-ups have better sense than to leave keys under doormats in a large apartment complex in the middle of a huge metropolitan area.

Nutty Neighbors: The Saga Continues

At 3 a.m., most of the building was awakened by the sound of a hammer pounding. Several of us yelled loudly, and the hammering stopped. Temporarily. After about ten minutes, it started up again. Then it would stop for a little while, only to start up again. Several of us called the security office to complain, but frankly, none of us were certain from where the sound was coming.

Well, that's not entirely true. I immediately suspected Godzilla. I checked to see if there were any lights on in her apartment, and there were, all in the back bedroom whose wall I share. I think she might have been putting together some presents or furniture or something, but why at 3 o'clock in the morning?

I'm not fond of confrontation, but I'm also not above it. When I knocked on her door, she opened only the peephole, so I still haven't seen what she looks like. I asked if she were the one hammering, and she replied that she wasn't. She said she thought I was the one making the noise. She then vowed to call security herself. I would like to note here that there was no more hammering after I confronted her about it.

By this point, it was almost 4 a.m., and I couldn't get back to sleep. I tossed and turned, but I just couldn't doze off again. Around 5:30 a.m., drawers in her walk-in closet were opened and shut (yes, you can hear them when they are slammed back into the wall), and a few minutes later, the charming sounds of her heels on the hardwood floor made their way to the front door.

I'm not trying to be accusatory, but Godzilla never gets up that early for work. That is more likely to be the time she goes to bed. Perhaps she was trying to get all of her stuff together so that she could go somewhere for Christmas? I hope so. It would be good to have her out of the apartment building for a few days. Maybe then we can all get some well-deserved sleep again.

Nutty Neighbors: Godzilla's Slippers

I apologize for how blurry the picture is, but I was trying to keep from getting caught. The shoes above belong to Godzilla, one of the losers, uh, neighbors next door. You may recall that we had a lot of rain in Los Angeles a couple of weekends ago. Well, sometimes when one is destroying Tokyo in a rainstorm, one gets mud on one's shoes. I opened the door to my apartment on Sunday morning to get the paper and saw a pair of slippers in the tiny, tiny space between our front doors, and that's when I grabbed the cell phone. Luckily, Godzilla doesn't tend to wake up early.

The night before this picture was taken had been a rough one, actually. Godzilla had spent most of the weekend hanging out with a group of friends led by a 25-year-old who thought he was quite the success story already. I know this because he proclaimed it loudly both inside Godzilla's apartment and then again in the hallway before they left for the evening on Friday. I'm not sure who it was that he was trying to convince.

They returned home at 2 a.m. or so on Saturday. I know this because they woke everyone in the apartment building up. Including her roommate, Warren (whose name I learned because they kept yelling it repeatedly). Warren was apparently distressed over something that had happened to Godzilla. Well, he said her face was "fucked up." I have no idea how. After some loud discussions back and forth--and repeated calls from other neighbors to shut up--and a few phone calls to the security guards--Godzilla and her Wunderkind took their argument outside. As in the front of the building. As in loud enough to be heard by everyone in the building. Thankfully, the security officers showed up quickly and quietened them down and sent Wunderkind on his way.

Wunderkind hasn't returned, to the best of my knowledge. Warren's presence hasn't been apparent in the past week either; I suspect that the early morning wake-up might have been the last straw in their friendship. And Godzilla has been chastised at least once more, this time for playing her music too loudly. I know this because I heard the knock on the door from the security guard. I hadn't fallen asleep yet because, well, the music from next door was too loud. Good thing someone in the building had the foresight to call and report it, huh?

Since the photo above was taken, she has purchased a doormat. It's actually quite a pitiful one. No, I don't have a picture, at least not yet. It's small and obviously cheap, like one you'd pick up at the 99 Cents Store. I purchased a rather nice one a few years ago, but I keep mine just inside the front door. I figured the people streaming in and out of the apartment next door would wipe their dirty shoes on my mat, and I'd be left cleaning up after them. From the looks of the shoes above, my fears weren't unfounded. Oddly enough, it has stayed relatively clean inside my apartment.

I have to admit that I'm a bit worried about this doormat purchase. That might indicate a desire to stay here longer than the six months or so that the last two sets of tenants have managed. Then again, given how cheap it was, she might consider it to be disposable. Time will tell.

Nutty Neighbors: Godzilla and the Giggle Sisters

I still have no idea how many people are living in the apartment next to me. Whenever a new batch arrives, it's always a fun guessing game as to the number of folks who will wind up being "permanent" residents. I thought for a while it was a young couple, a woman and a man, but now I'm beginning to suspect that it might be two women who have male visitors occasionally. But there's no way to tell. Well, other than getting to know them personally, and I have no particular interest in doing that. Given the trend for that short bus of an apartment, they won't be here for very long anyway.

I have to say that, so far, they have been "better" than some of the previous residents, "better" being a somewhat relative term. Perhaps that's because they seem hardly ever to be home. And, shockingly, I'm okay with that. Now and then, though, they do have some odd habits which seem designed to annoy all of the other people on this floor, or maybe they have a grander scheme in mind: annoying everyone in the building. They have the capacity to do so. I just hope they never use it.

I've only had to call the security patrol once since the new neighbors moved in. It was one of the weekends when they were moving stuff into the apartment and unpacking. They had two--yes, two--stereos blasting music. Most of the other residents of the hallway stuck their heads around the corner to confirm the apartment number, a sure sign that I wasn't the only one who called. The response to the patrol officer's telling them that their music was too loud? "Seriously?" That's the best they could muster, and it was in that Paris Hilton/Valley Girl tone of voice that too many young women mimic nowadays, so you know what it sounded like. But they turned the music down, and peace was temporarily restored. Since I've only had to call the patrol once in the month or so since they moved in, I'm already happier with them as neighbors than the previous two sets. Of course, the holidays are looming, and you can never tell what parties might be on the horizon.

No, when it comes to noise, they only have a couple of annoying habits. One of them likes to play music while taking a shower. I guess she/he wants to be able to enjoy a few tunes while soaping up. I don't know; it makes no sense to me. I just want to get in the shower, get it over with, and get on with my day. They, however, must think of it as some sort of retreat. The music only lasts as long as the shower is running, so at least, I know it's only temporary. Of course, the showers go on for at least half an hour, so there may be no water left in the city of Los Angeles if this keeps up.

One of them is also rather heavy-footed. It's a woman because sometimes she likes to wear heels when stomping around the apartment. Well, I suppose it could be a man in heels, but I've heard the voice and I'm sticking with it being a woman. The worst is when the doorbell rings and she has to stomp from her bedroom to the front door. It sounds like Godzilla destroying Tokyo. And it happens a couple of times a week now. I can't imagine what the people living downstairs must think. It must sound like they are under attack. Did I mention that we have hardwood floors in most of the apartments in this building? Yes, that only adds another dimension to the horror.

There is a dog next door. His name is Oliver, and I know this because one of them--obviously, Oliver's owner--yells out his name every night when she comes home. So far, Oliver hasn't been prone to barking, but dogs are illegal in the tower apartments like mine, so I'm holding on to that little tidbit of information in case I need it later on. He's a small dog, and she apparently hides him in a big purse to take him for his nightly walk. Or so one of the other neighbors told me. She, too, has chosen not to turn in the errant dog owner. Yet.

I first nicknamed the new tenants the Giggle Sisters because, when they were moving stuff into the apartment, they always seemed to be giggling about something and doing so quite loudly. One of them, in particular, seems especially mirthful. I was dreading the inevitable late night jags of talking and laughing that seem endemic to the younger generation, but apparently, they are not fond of hanging out in the living room. After two sets of tenants with no living room furniture who loved to hear the sounds of their own voices echo, I fully support them staying in their own bedrooms. There are still giggles at times when they are walking from the elevator to the apartment and vice versa, and everyone on the floor can hear them, especially when the one in the movie business (yeah, exactly how I felt) is also talking on her cell phone. And she's always talking on her cell phone as she walks to and from the elevator. What is it about that generation's obsession with talking so loudly that everyone can hear? Does no one value a sense of privacy any longer?

I had a blissful couple of months when the property owners were going through the eviction process for the last tenants, the Bros. It was so peaceful and quiet. I could get my grading done with ease, and I could watch television without interruptions. I could even sleep without having to hear some racket from next door. And there was no constant slamming of the front door like I had with Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls, who never seemed to be able to stay in or out for more than half an hour at a time. That brief amount of solitude without neighbors was among the best few months I've had in the building in almost fourteen years of living here.

I am grateful that these new neighbors are relatively quiet. I understand that you do have to put up with some distractions when you live in a building with 156 apartments. And that's just my building. There are several thousand units in this complex and the neighboring ones, so the possibilities for noise are infinite. You might enjoy, for example, the rock band upstairs who like to play very synth-heavy, gloomy music all afternoon. Over and over and over and over. It's very depressing stuff. Or maybe the trumpet player who likes to practice with all of his windows open is more to your liking? I know he needs the practice. God knows he needs the practice. And don't get me started on the neighbors who like to sing. Well, "sing" is a generous description of what they're doing. I first thought someone was either drowning or gargling. Maybe it's just modern music, and I'm not up on the latest styles.

Yes, I have thought about moving. I've thought about it more than once, actually. However, my rent is under the city's stabilization plan, and comparatively speaking, I don't pay all that much for my two bedroom apartment. A friend and I checked out a one bedroom apartment last weekend that goes for almost as much as I pay, and that one doesn't even have a parking space for the tenant. I doubt I'd be able to find any place that is both cheap and quiet, so for now, I just keep hoping that the giggling is kept to a minimum and that Godzilla will someday have to give those tired feet a long, long rest.

Nutty Neighbors: Saying Goodbye to the Bros

It started innocently enough. I came home from work one afternoon last month and found posted on the neighbors' door a notice that they had not yet paid that month's rent. My complex, as you may remember, does not believe in delicacy. The amount of rent due and the names of the tenants are prominently displayed for everyone on this floor to see. Perhaps the owners are trying to use shame as a means of getting their money.

Apparently, one of the Bros Next Door came home and removed that notice. It was certainly gone the next morning when I left for work. I'll be honest. I hadn't realized that they had already started moving out. I didn't notice that the noise level had subsided a great deal. It had been quieter, but it took additional events to clue me in.

A couple of weeks ago, September 8, to be specific, I came home to find a "Notice of Failure to Return Possession of Apartment" taped to the apartment door. The Bros seem to have left without returning the keys to the apartment. It must have been a very abrupt move since I don't recall hearing any noise (as I usually do when people move out from next door). The Bros were supposed to have returned the keys on September 2, and the notice was there to warn them to "surrender" the keys or face criminal prosecution.

Guess what? Nothing happened.

Last week, a new notice appeared. This one came not from the apartment complex but from the Sheriff's Department instead. I told you they don't mess around here. This one was labeled "Notice to Vacate," and it gave the Bros a week to get their stuff and move out and return the keys or else. This is, of course, all visible to everyone in the hallway, so now I'm probably known as the guy with the bad neighbors. Frankly, given the craziness that has gone on next door, I'd be surprised if I haven't been known that way for years.

Guess what? The Bros did nothing again.

Just this week, on the door knob next door, hung the "Notice of Eviction." Given that the Bros haven't taken any action in a month, that gives ownership of the contents of the apartment to the owners of the complex. To be honest, I think there's still some stuff in there. You can see objects in the window of the apartment, but I have no way of knowing what all the apartment owners are going to take into their possession. What happens to that stuff, anyway? Is there a big yard sale?

I realize that the apartment owners are going through with all of the legal steps necessary to evict the Bros. I just don't think they realize that the Bros are apparently long gone. I hope this takes months to resolve and involves the court system and testimony and people hauling out possessions in black plastic bags. The longer it takes, the quieter this floor will be.

Nutty Neighbors: Uncle Boo and the Bros

I've been so busy watching old movies and preparing for summer school that I've neglected to introduce the new neighbors to you. They moved in about six weeks ago, just before the end of the spring semester. Once again, I can't really tell you how many people are living in the apartment, but I think it might be two guys. Just like with the last set of neighbors, though, it's a little tough to tell. Some nights we get the pleasure of having almost a dozen guys next door, and on other nights, it's seems like there's only one person there. Given the track record of people living in that apartment, I guess it's just a matter of time before I find out. After all, when the notice of non-payment of rent shows up on the door, all of the tenants are supposed to be listed.

I've nicknamed them the Bros because they are all guys in their twenties and none of them seem to have much going on in life. I think they work, but it's tough to tell. Most of the afternoons are quiet around here, as I've found out since I've been on break from teaching for almost three weeks now, but they don't have early-to-bed-early-to-rise jobs. Most mornings the shower next door doesn't start up until about 10 a.m. I know this because I've been sleeping in a lot of days, and a short shower wouldn't be a distraction. I clocked one the other morning that lasted 38 minutes. None of the guys I've seen entering or exiting the apartment are that big, so I don't know what takes so long to wash.

One of them has some sort of movie or TV production job. I know this because he had an extended cell phone conversation with his mother in the hallway outside the apartment. I suppose he wanted all of us on this floor to be able to hear him beg his mother for money. Apparently, the job isn't paying all that well and she only sent him 100 bucks last time. I just kept thinking as the begging continued how pathetic it must be to have a job and a place of your own yet still need to ask your parents for money. If he were in college, I would understand, but this is someone who is acting like he's a grown-up.

I think this is also the one who had a long conversation in the bathroom one night about marijuana. It was about 1 a.m., and the tile does lend itself to a very clear echo through the walls. He seemed high at the time too. Perhaps he's the one who giggles uncontrollably sometimes. I do know that they keep almost all of the windows of the apartment open all the time; you can see it from the outside of the building. Perhaps they're trying to make sure that the smell doesn't linger for too long?

By the way, just like the last tenants, the Bros don't have a lot of furniture. There's still a pronounced echo coming from next door sometimes, but at least, it's quieter than before. They don't yell all the time. The only problem I've really had with them is when they get home late at night and decide to watch TV to unwind. Loudly. Until about 2 or 3 in the morning. I called to complain a couple of times, but I've been joined by a chorus of other people in the building, and the Bros have gotten better about keeping the noise level down.

You might be wondering by now who "Uncle Boo" is. This past Sunday, I was awakened at noon--who are you to judge me?--by some loud knocking. Our doors are side by side, so it isn't always easy to tell if someone is knocking on my door or on theirs. One of them has a niece who's about 6 years old or so; there was a younger nephew too, but he wasn't talking. When no one came to the door, she called on her daddy's cell phone. She kept saying, "Uncle Boo, we're right outside your door." I don't know which one is Uncle Boo because I didn't stick around to see who opened the door finally, but I have a feeling I'm likely to snicker the next time I have to get in the elevator with one of them.

Just as an aside, to the best of my knowledge, the niece is the only girl or woman who's been in that apartment. Oh, they talk a good game--and they do talk about women a lot--but there's no evidence that any of them has any game.

All in all, these guys are much better neighbors than the last set. As you may recall from previous posts, I felt like Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls were there solely to torture me. I was never so happy as when they moved out. I was initially fearful when the new guys started moving in, particularly since they chose a Saturday at midnight to begin, but after a couple of rocky patches, they've quieted down. I'm hoping that we've reached a truce of sorts. Given my luck, however, they'll probably move within the year, and I'll be stuck next to that all-night roller disco and meth lab combo that I've been dreading.

Nutty Neighbors: Here We Go Again

You will see from the picture above that I, once again, am living next door to a vacant apartment. This last group was here for a torturous six months. I can't say that I was particularly sad to see them go. I do realize that my fears of the exploding crystal meth lab that becomes an all-night roller disco may be realized with the next set of tenants, but I'm very happy that Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls are no longer around.

I know I haven't shared all of the details of their brief time in the building. Perhaps you'd be interested to know why I nicknamed one of the girls Sasquatch? She managed to stomp around the apartment so loudly that everyone knew where she was at every moment. You'd know when she was headed for the door or when she was walking through the short corridor to the master bedroom or when she was in the kitchen on the rare occasions when they cooked. The funny thing is that their apartment is carpeted, unlike mine, which has hardwood floors. How do you make that much noise walking around on a carpeted floor?

And they didn't even own a vacuum cleaner until about two months ago. I happened to ride up in the elevator with one of them when she brought it home. They then proceeded to vacuum for the next two hours. Each time they got the urge to clean, you could count on two hours of that sucking sound. How filthy must that carpet have been to have gone four months without being vacuumed?

After about a month or so, I got tired of knocking on the door to ask them to turn down their music. They loved anything with that annoying Auto-Tuner sound. I just decided to call the security patrol each time. That way, there would at least be a record of their disturbances. Some weeks, I had to call four or five times. They never seemed to learn that other people lived in the building and didn't want to hear their music. And it wasn't just me. I know security stopped by a couple of times when I hadn't yet called, so other people were annoyed with the neighbors and their music. (And it wasn't only music. You should have heard the ruckus the night a friend brought a videogame player. Oy.)

We also kept getting notices about their smoking on the balcony. They did try to help, I suppose, by putting a two-liter Sprite bottle out there so they could douse their cigarettes when they finished smoking. I guess they should be applauded for the ingenuity and generosity, but I'm not feeling particularly charitable toward them these days.

I never did figure out how many people lived there. They were late in paying the rent last month, perhaps one reason they moved out so quickly. Only two names--both female--were listed on the letter, which was taped to the door of the apartment so that everyone could see. (Hey, the apartment management company doesn't fool around with delinquent tenants.) However, I know at least three guys lived there at various times. Mr. Echo was a frequent presence, and so was this guy with short hair who tended to call people up late at night to ask if they wanted to go clubbing. Yes, I could always hear their conversations through the wall. They were just that loud. I'll never forget one of his last conversations when he kept yelling into the phone about how untalented so many people in this town are. (Pot? It's Kettle calling for you. Thanks.)

Speaking of loud, you'd perhaps be happy to know that Mr. Echo had an active sex life. He "plays on my team," as the saying goes, and he and his current boyfriend/partner/trick would sometimes wake me up at 3 a.m. with their "love sounds." I mean, I have to admire anyone with the stamina to have sex at 3 a.m these days, but some of us have work to go to. I need my beauty sleep, as much of it as I can get.

I also managed to discover, somewhat accidentally, what two of them did to make a living. Mr. Echo and I got on the elevator at the same time one day, and he was carrying one of those fruit arrangements--you know, the kind made to look like a bouquet of flowers (not really, but go with me here). Turns out that was his job, making fruit into party centerpieces. Sasquatch is apparently an actress. Obviously, not a very talented one, since she didn't manage to find an acting job during the six months that she lived in Los Angeles. I don't know what she plans to do next, but judging from the conversation she had with a stringy-haired new boy on the Saturday of the move, she's going to be in Long Beach. God help all of you who live there if she becomes your neighbor. No, I don't know if Mr. Echo is moving with her. Oddly enough, I didn't ask.

The move actually started two weeks ago. A couple of friends stopped by to help Sasquatch pack up her clothes. Well, "pack" is a bit generous for what they did. It was more like stuffing clothes into shopping bags. No suitcases, no wardrobes, no boxes, just old Nordstrom and Abercrombie bags. They took clothes out of the apartment for a couple of hours, and then the place sat quiet for a couple of days. I actually thought they had already moved out Mr. Echo and Telephone Man came back in the middle of the week.

This past weekend, Mama Sasquatch showed up, as he had when Sasquatch had moved in last fall. (And, yes, now I know where Sasquatch gets her charming personality. These people would have to work on improving themselves just to become white trash.) I managed to see Mama walking out with a couple of lamps, with Sasquatch following behind her with a microwave in tow. Piece by piece, they moved stuff out, rugs, cushions from the floor, a box of dishes (yes, one box). It didn't take that long since, as I mentioned before, they had so little in the apartment. I was right, by the way, about the lack of bedroom furniture. I was here when the Great Mattress Removal began. Only mattresses left that apartment, no beds. How can anyone stand to sleep on a mattress on the floor? I know they're young, but that's just asking too much. And there was no couch either, just the aforementioned cushions.

It wasn't official, of course, until the magic white keyhole (although it's actually more yellow than white) appeared this past Monday. I did another little dance in the hallway when I realized that they were gone for good. I know it probably won't be long until another set of tenants moves in. I just hope the new folks are more respectful and quiet. It would be nice if they were also people who had jobs, so then they'd go to bed before 3 or 4 in the morning. Of course, with my luck, they'll probably be elephant trainers who bring their charges home with them in order to make the pachyderms more comfortable.

Nutty Neighbors: A Lesson in Irony

When you are talking loudly enough on your cell phone--and doing so in the bathroom--that your next door neighbor can hear you as clearly as if you were standing next to him, you probably shouldn't yell into the phone: "WHY DO YOU ALWAYS ACCUSE ME OF OVERREACTING?!" That would be ironic.

Nutty Neighbors: Just a Thought

On Monday night, while trying to watch The Big Bang Theory during a particularly noisy discussion by Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls, it occurred to me that perhaps one of the women in that apartment is Logan's girlfriend/lover/whatever. It struck me that, post-coital, she might say to him, "Oh My God, Logan, that was SO awesome," and I started to giggle.

Nutty Neighbors: Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls

I know I haven't blogged in a while. I've had too many papers and rough drafts to grade, and frankly, I've just been feeling a bit overwhelmed lately. I managed to squeeze in a quick trip to Alabama to visit the family for Thanksgiving, but otherwise, it's been work, work, work.

So I haven't even shared with you that I have new neighbors. I can't go into all of the details because I don't even know all of them. They moved in about six weeks ago, but they remain a mystery to me. I don't, for instance, even know how many people live next door. It could be as many as five or as few as two. There's sort of a revolving door on that apartment. I do know that they're all young, early 20s, I'd guess. And they're very restless, it seems. They can't seem to stay put for long stretches of time. Some people in our building come home at the end of the day and just want to relax. Once they're inside the apartment, that's pretty much it for the rest of the night. Not these kids. They go in and out almost all day and all night, never staying in the apartment for more than a couple of hours at a time. I guess I should be grateful that, unlike the previous tenants, these kids don't slam the door each time they walk in or out.

I'm beginning to wonder if any of them have a job. None of them seems to have a regular schedule. If they are students, I don't know when any of them goes to class because they always seem to be here except when they go out at night. If they leave during the day, it's usually only for a couple of hours, and that's not long enough to be work-related (unless, of course, you know...). How could anyone afford an apartment in this building without a job? Mommy and Daddy must be very generous to fund such an extravagance. I'm still living here thanks to rent stabilization, but the going rate for the two-bedroom apartments here must be more than $2000 a month nowadays. (I just checked: the range is from a little more than $2000 to more than $2900 for a two-bedroom. Yikes.)

I've dubbed them "Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls" because they do tend to talk very loudly. (I briefly toyed with calling them Mr. Echo and the OMGs as an homage to a very frequently stated phrase.) Mr. Echo's real name is Logan, apparently. I know this because they talk very loudly, but I think I mentioned that already. He, in particular, has a very deep, resonant voice that seems to echo throughout the apartment and into the hallway. The Woo Girls--number still to be determined--are the kind of girls who like to yell "Woo" whenever someone makes a statement or suggestion. You know the kind or you've seen the recent episode of How I Met Your Mother that addresses this in more depth. These are the girls who, when you say, "Who's ready to party?!" yell back, "Woo!" (Although it's more like "Wooooooooooooo!") Thankfully, so far, this has not been incredibly frequent.

Twice, though, I've had to knock on the door to ask them to turn down the music. Yeah, I know. I'm an old fuddy-duddy. But they do love their bass when they play hip-hop music (yeah, typical suburban white kids), and it's a bit tough to concentrate with the thumping going on next door. What I noticed when they opened the door was a bit surprising. They have no furniture. The living room, which is a very big space in these apartments, is empty. That's why there's such an echo. There's nothing to block the sound. I wonder if they even have beds or if it's just a series of mattresses on the floor. For me, it would be pathetic to have to live that way. I'd find a smaller place and spend less on rent so that I could afford some furniture.

I was duly punished for asking them to turn the music down, just so you know. When Logan showed up yesterday--his arrival announced much like Norm's used to be on the TV show Cheers--they started playing music again. It wasn't quite as loud as in the afternoon, but it was certainly turned up enough to make me aware of it. Sadly for them, I slept through most of it because I was so tired from the work week. The music was either turned off or down by the time the rest of the crowd showed up, and they all talked loudly until late into the night. I went to bed at 11 p.m., so I don't know how long the party went on. The noise level didn't keep me from sleeping yesterday. I guess that will show me, huh?

I'd should add that they're also very fond of the balcony on this end of the hallway. There's a sort of V-shape to the ends of the buildings here, and the balconies are in the middle of those Vs. Sometimes, the kids like to take a drink out to the balcony and have a smoke and talk loudly a lot. There's only a couple of problems with this. Given how loudly they talk, they've disturbed the neighbors a couple of times. I've heard them grumbling as they walk back into the apartment about having the security patrol tell them to be quiet. The other problem is with the cigarettes themselves. Apparently, they've been leaving the butts and ashes out on the balcony, prompting a rather sternly worded memo sent to the residents of our floor about the proper disposal of said waste products. I'm sure that also went over well next door, especially since everyone on our floor now knows about it.

Look, I'm sure on some level they are nice kids. They don't seem to be running a meth lab (although I could be wrong about that). They're just noisy and boisterous, the way kids that age tend to be. Unfortunately, I am getting to an age where I really don't like noisy, boisterous people. I find them annoying. I may start looking for another place to live if this keeps up since the folks who run this apartment complex seem to want to saddle me with the kinds of neighbors who just don't seem to recall that they're living in an apartment, not a dorm room.