Before it’s not true anymore? (Because I’m moving to Burbank on Monday.) I wanted to report on the most Hollywood thing in my apartment building:

My neighbors have their own reality show. I’m not even kidding.

The two-bedroom apartment to the south of ours houses at least three cute little 20-something men, two of whom are identical twin brothers named Josh and Jacob Martin. They have a band called “Nemesis.” They couldn’t be more ready for the cover of Tiger Beat if they tried (and you know, they’re pretty savvy so I think they do.) They and their roommate Nicky are some of the sweetest people you’d ever want to know. Their apartment is impeccably decorated, in high contrast to the look of the rest of the building–when you go inside it’s like stepping over a threshhold out of the ghetto and into an expensive hotel room. They’ve helped my roommate and I out several times when we were locked out of our apartment, once even borrowing a ladder and taking it up to the ROOF then climbing down it onto our patio to let me in. (They didn’t seem to mind — they even seemed kind of jazzed by it.) We say hi often and enthusiastically, and all agree that the dog next door in the junky backyard whom we can all see from our windows is the sweetest-yet-loneliest dog in L.A., so anything done to help it–like my walking it when its owners won’t–is a worthwhile cause.

Anyway, they’ve apparently been filming the series for a while now, but only recently started doing shoots in the apartment itself. So twice I’ve come home to P.A.’s hanging out in the hallway and stocking drinks in ice chests and racks of wardrobe I have to negotiate to get to our door. Apparently the show’s not out yet, but in a few months. So look for it!

The point being…only in L.A.

Roommate and I sit in living room with TV on. Obnoxious diamond commerical plays, including gag-inducing tag line: “There are two things in the world that last longer than time. Love is one of them.”

Me (irritated): “How can anything last longer than time when time is simply a measuring system to determine how long something lasts?”

Roomie (mock stern): “Tracy…just buy diamonds.”

I guess that’s the answer.

Wow. Just…wow.

See, it’s aerobics, but it’s also an opportunity to learn to speak English…and plead not to be killed. You think I’m kidding.

The payoff in this one is about 1:30 minutes in, when the topic changes to…well, you’ll see. Just make sure you watch that far. Breathtakingly Japanese.

So, how many of you this weekend had someone seriously offer to turn you out? Uh huh. I thought so.

I had the distinctly glamorous experience of having a stranger at a gas station car wash see the untapped potential in yours truly, and try to convince me that, uh, being tapped was what I personally needed.

Let me explain.

I’m sitting in a line five cars long, waiting for the little drive-thru car wash behind the station on Sunset Blvd, near Western.  It’s starting to seem as though the thing isn’t actually operational.

As if to confirm that fact, a young, brown, shirtless, good-looking mixed race man with short dreadlocks approaches my car on foot and asks if I won’t back up and let his car out (the line is bordered by a little curb-like formation on either side which traps people in once they enter). I say sure, but then the guy keeps talking. I’m not really following what he’s saying, but he’s smiling and eyeing me and at some point I hear something about an “escort.” I size him up and hazard a guess that he’s asking if I’d like to hire one. As in, specifically, him.

Uh no, I’m good.

But he disregards my answer and keeps talking.  “See, I do it too,” he offers, and turns out one of his shorts pockets to reveal he’s carrying around a massive wad of cash, here on a Sunday afternoon.  “I bet you’d be really good at it,” he grins.

OH.  I think I finally follow him, and…you gotta be kidding.

As appealing as I find the prospect of becoming a prostitute at the age of 38—-with Captain Clueless as my pimp, no less—-I tell him I’ve already got a job and I’d just as soon keep it. “Yeah, but you could do this as like, money on the side…”  He’s not losing a bit of enthusiasm for his idea.  He says something that sounds like there might be a “hookup” in it for him too, I don’t know.  I just know I need to start backing up.

At this point I’m not offended or scared or freaked or anything, because number one, he’s just acting young and friendly and clueless and number two, I already know one very important rule about Hollywood, and that is that strangers may ask you anything at any time.  This is not only not a problem for me, I actually enjoy it–when it happens to me I even tend to cultivate it.  I mean, one time my friend Mark and I were walking down Melrose when a big Stromboli-looking guy—-with the big beard and the suspenders and the whole bit—-approached us asking seriously if we wanted to buy a burro.  When we said no, he tried to give us his contact information, just in case we changed our minds.  He was utterly dead serious.  And, as his request also had to do with ass, you can see why I’m not particularly surprised.

I’m also pretty confident that I can get out of any verbal situation with anybody I encounter, but you really gotta give it to this guy—-he wasn’t taking no for an answer.  I backed up my car enough to let him out, and then, instead of leaving, he stopped his car where I couldn’t re-enter the line and ran back to my car to ask for my name and phone number. I gave him a fake one of both and took off.  (I really do suffer from an excess of politeness—-where my roommate would have told this guy to fuck off about two sentences in, I’m cooking up fake names and numbers for him.)

But the good news is, if you notice an extra spring in my step today, it’s cuz I know my own value now.  Forget this internet dating noise…I’m good enough to go pro.

Check it out — a case of a crime blamed on MySpace, where young girls were the perpetrators against an older man, not the victims: US schoolgirls ‘mug MySpace man’

And dude…you gotta go to PANDORA.COM!!
Free internet radio where you make your own “stations” from the following procedure: suggest a starting point of an artist or a song - computer algorithm-y thing starts playing music you’d probably like based on said starting point. When it gets it wrong, you tell it so and it redirects. When it gets it right you tell it so and it keeps up the good work. When it screws up, it’s either WTF? or hilarious, and when it gets it right, it’s AWESOME.

(You can also add in additional artists or songs to an already existing station and then it tries to split the difference, which is another way of amusing one’s self — you know, put in Metallica and Pat Boone and watch smoke come out of the algorithm’s ears…)

Either way, go now!

(ps: I’ve also got another staff job at Nickelodeon - for some reason I’m all tight-lippy about it this time, though. I think last time I was all focused on what the job made me look like, and this time I’m focused on actually, oh, DOING the job. Don’t know. But pictures will be coming soon. )