They're spraying pesticide in the streets.

Something about west nile virus and close your windows, ladies and gents, and there's a small man with a toupee and a wire in one hand, and old fashioned bulbous nose and a styrofoam raincoat that figures to be the same color as the wall, and he's got the penthouse, and I'm in the basement, but I swear he's looking right at me, right over the hump that is the middle of his face, and he's telling me to smile, and frowning upon my reluctance, and he's switching and buckling his shoes and there's a chair with thick red upholstery, fan blades made of something hi-test, whirligigs and raindrops, plain as black tea.