I was working on the second game of a double-header last Sunday. I had just come from the Dodger game which went long and was capped with a triple play. I had arrived at STAPLES Center and just finished eating dinner in the media room downstairs, headed to the elevators to make my way to the press box.

And there I saw him. Or at least the back of him.

Decked in the classic silver-and-black Wayne Gretzky 99 sweater was Jonathan Moncrief. I had opened my mouth and taken a breath to yell out, “Hey Crief, what the fuck are you doing here?” Then I caught myself. Crief had passed away on May 19.

I closed my mouth, said hello to the elevator operator, got in and watched Game 4 of the Canucks-Kings series, wrote my story and went home. I didn’t bother to see his face. I didn’t want to.

Gann Matsuda wrote a very detailed version explaining the circumstances of Crief’s death. It was very sudden — I was supposed to pick him up at Union Station later that afternoon to cover that night’s Dodger game.

That night’s Dodger game was tough. I don’t remember the team, I don’t remember who won. All I remember was thinking that Crief was supposed to be there next to me. I didn’t lose it fortunately, but it was a somber night.

It’s been weird covering the Kings this season without him, without the booming sound of his voice. He and Gann and everyone on the “dark side of the press box” as our section has been dubbed have taught me a lot about hockey and how to cover hockey.

When I came to my first game in 2010, I had watched hockey casually on television. I had been to a couple of games and really enjoyed it. But really I was completely wet behind the ears.

I’m still learning a lot, but I’m much more confident two years later than I was midseason in 2010.

Watching the Kings win their first playoff series in 11 years by beating the Vancouver Canucks in five games last night, and seeing the ghost last Sunday, there’s just something a little bittersweet about it.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m loving that I get to cover more hockey. I’m loving that the Kings next face the St. Louis Blues where it looks like there will be a lot of big hits, fights for space on the ice and a premium on every goal scored. But I do feel that Crief should be here with us. He would have certainly been loving this despite the fact his New Jersey Devils are on the brink in their playoff series.

People have asked me what exciting things I will be doing to celebrate my 33rd birthday. Whenever I said, “Nothing at all,” a frown would begin to furrow from the edges of their lips as if somehow my lack of any life is very upsetting to him/her.

So instead I would say something like, “I am going to buy tires, schlep my grandmother around and do laundry.” It’s a more truthful and detailed answer than, “Nothing,” but that same type of frown would emerge from their lips.

To which here is a thought: if you are so disappointed that my lack of doing anything is such a problem, then you remedy it. You throw me a party or something. I’ll partake. I have no problems in partaking whatever you have to offer. But I’m not going to waste my energy on a day when, frankly, I’d rather slit my throat and bleed out in a most public matter.

However I am excited about one thing, though not quite like Tim Tebow. (In other words, I’m genuinely excited, not public-relations excited.)

I got a mention in Tony Pierce’s busblog! That in reality has me tickled pink.

Last night I didn’t eat dinner, fell asleep at 11:30 p.m., woke up just past midnight, posted, “Fuck this,” on Facebook and fell asleep for good after that.

I just got tires for my car and am waiting for them to get installed. I will then schlep my grandmother around on appointments and do my laundry. I was intending on looking for birthday sex, but I’m really not in the mood. However, in the same sentiment as above, if birthday sex were to present itself to me I would not turn it down.

Fuck this.

I forgot to add on the last post that we as a culture are fucked. There were two sisters sitting at a table next to us who were having a conversation. It was already jarring because one of the sisters had the most annoying voice – picture a mixture of a Joisey-Orange County-La Loca voices merging into a huge morass of annoyance. I imagine she, Sister A, was the younger sister because the other sister, Sister B, talked about how the family gave Sister A many chances to redeem herself.

“But I chose to live my life this way, and I’m living it,” Sister A whined.

“But for us it seemed like you were their more for your friends,” Sister B countered.

This inane banter continued back and forth which thankfully ended for us since we were moved to seats that were in the vicinity of an operating heat lamp.

Their conversation really disturbed me because it was just vacuous and inconsequential, but then I started getting disturbed that this was disturbing me. It’s a whole downward spiral. Then it hits me.

Their conversation was 100% scripted reality show dialogue. When you see these ding-dong heads filming a restaurant scene, they have this stilted exchange of empty words that somehow fill a scene. It’s presented to the masses as an actual constructive interface between two people when in reality it’s just filler to advertise a restaurant.

So the disturbing thing was that these two cunts bought into the whole thing. They want so badly to be in a reality show, and there they were in some cheap Mexican restaurant in Culver City rehearsing in case they have a closeup.

And this is why we as a society are fucked. How cunty.

Friday was one of those day where had I had more pride in myself I might have actually murdered. With a week’s worth of frustrations and indignities heaped upon my plate, a younger version of myself would have probably chain smoked it away. Instead now that I have stopped smoking and have gotten older, a resignation has set in where I just sit there hoping that they give me the benefit of using tons of lube for the fucking.

At the end of my shift, Madd texts me asking to meet her for boba. Being that I hate boba, I agree on the condition we go to dinner. We had dinner at a Mexican place in Downtown Culver City and took a leisurely 2 1/2 hours to finish our dinner.

Coworker and I were going to go to the strip of eateries a couple of blocks away from the office at lunch today. Instead we see the following food truck:

Out of the way from the other food trucks, there was no line for the Gravy Train truck. It’s not everyday I eat poutine since I don’t live in Canadia, so it just seemed like the right thing to do.

I ordered the “All American”: tater tots with cheese curds, gravy topped with fried egg. Oh boy that was mistake. Almost immediately my brain seized.

Okay, it wasn’t a full on seizure, but I could feel the drips of fat coursing through my arteries and veins coagulating in my brain.

Both coworker and I commiserated in our pain. While it was mighty delicious going down the gullet, we were clearly paying for the wages of our foodie sins.

People gawked. They wondered what the fuck poutine was (all except our Froggie coworker who is from Montreal). When we explained it to them, I could feel their disgust coursing through their bodies as they judged us for our culinary debauchery.

But like I said, we paid for our excess. And those who judged us, well, they’re all fucking cunts, and they have to live with that.

I’ve had this fucking song stuck in my head all day, because I was involved in a hit-and-run accident. No, I did not hit and then run. I was hit into and watched as this cunt in a mint-green Lexus ran off.

Heading into the Hulu offices, I was on Sawtelle Blvd. going northbound approaching the street just before the National Blvd. intersection. It usually takes two red-light cycles to make it through National Blvd., so I waited patiently in the left lane. Now I was in the awkward position of blocking the left-turn lane, but there’s very little I can do about that — it’s not like my position can allow the lane to open up.

I was listening to the start of the “Jim Rome Show” on the radio where he was talking about the Daytona 500. I was picturing all of the crashes in my mind as he recollected his thoughts. All of a sudden there was a bump, scrape, crack, broken glass. I see the mint-green Lexus trying to pass by to my left as if she was going to die. My jaw dropped as slowly I came to the realization:

This. Motherfucking. Cunt. Just. Hit. My. Car.

She sped up to the left-turn lane at National Blvd., and I thought she would pull a U-turn and park in the KFC parking lot to examine damages. But no. My jaw was still slack as I saw her speed off down National Blvd. as if nothing had happened.

It took a couple of seconds, but I realized that I should probably pull in an check for damages. Fortunately I’m not vain about my car, so I just got a couple more scratches on the driver side of the car and made an already-existing dent on the left rear bumper just slightly bigger. There might even be an indentation on the driver-side, but it’s hardly noticeable really.

No, I didn’t get the license plate. I didn’t get a description of the driver. There really wasn’t any damage, so I didn’t report a thing.

I don’t consider myself a naive person at all. I have a hatred of humanity in a macro-world perspective that makes it easy to live my life. But in a micro-world sense, I just believe that people should act like they got some sense in them. Some manners.

It’s common courtesy if you hit someone no matter if it’s a slight bump or not, you pull over and discuss.

But no. This fucking Westside Liberal NIMBY cunt whore thinks her shit don’t stink, that everyone should drop their things and serve her every whims.

This sense of entitlement isn’t just limited to this incident. Being back at a workplace, I’m shocked how people think their mothers will clean up after them. From dishes in the sink, containers of weeks-old home-baked snacks molding on common-area tables, it really is sickening.

Day by day, my faith in humanity just keeps eroding. Maybe I will run out in the middle of nowhere and dig a hole.

The food picture is from a Korean-style Chinese restaurant. On the left you clearly see fried dumplings. On the right is a dish called jja jang myun. It’s basically spaghetti with the sauce consisting of a base of roasted soybeans and caramel. It’s slightly sweet, a bit salty like most Korean food and absolutely divine. Yeah it looks strange, but once you put it in your mouth it’s great (picture sucking a dick for the first time and you get the idea.)

The other pictures are just views of the STAPLES Center that not many people get to see.

Hulu employees are overwhelmingly young. Most are just out of college, and it shows when you walk around the office looking at the assorted curation of cubicle art and assorted curios. But sometimes these bitches make me feel fucking old. Take for instance this VD anecdote which further fuels my disdain for the fake holiday.

I know this is completely sophomoric, but it just cracks me up when I tell people, “Happy VD!” I realize it’s trite and all, but it still cracks me up to no end.

However today I heard the one thing that turned my silliness into pure unadulterated hate. I said this to someone at the office, and in return I received a blank look. This was beyond my comprehension. After all this was a fucking joke!

“What’s VD,” this person asked.

And it was then I realized that this person was too young to remember when STDs were referred to as venereal diseases. The urge to stab this person in the throat almost became too insurmountable to overcome, but after a couple of deep breaths and daggers from my eyes, it made way into a desire to just walk away.

I talked to Froggie (a girl from Montreal on the finance team whose job I still don’t quite understand) during lunch, and she reassured me that she knew what VD was. For a minute I felt a smidge better about myself. Then she had to open up her big fucking mouth.

“But I only know about that because of South Park.”

This is the point where you picture me grinding my teeth to their nubs.

Anyhow thankfully I had a bevvy of work and stress to dilute this hatred running through my veins (including an Excel crash scare where a whole day’s worth of work almost went down the drain). The clock struck six, and everything seemed to be all right with the world.

Then I stepped out into the traffic quagmire that was West Los Angeles. It took me one hour, ONE HOUR, to go from the parking lot to the freeway. Then another hour to get home in San Pedro.

After all of that with my bladder aching to be released, I’m really hating this day.

I went to over to visit my new fake niece. Well the baby is real, but my relationship really isn’t since I’m not blood related or anything. But for all intents and purposes, I’m the big fat gay uncle Jimmy.

[By the way, that baby pictured above is not Niecey.]

For many years I’ve had a very cynical take on the childbirth mythology, that it was a beautiful a thing, a miracle even. Bullshit. I’ve compared it to looking like a murder scene, hours upon hours of pain that results in an exhausted mother and loud crying baby.

Anyhow it was nice to see Niecey even though she’s a shriveled red thing that just cries and sleeps. It was nice seeing mother doing well though battered by the 36 hours of labor. It was nice seeing father being a good husband. It was also nice that it stirred no paternal or maternal instinct in me. I didn’t want to touch Niecey, hold Niecey. Nothing like that. So that’s nice to know.

So with a new life on the planet, it makes it odd to realize that Whitney Houston is dead. Say what you want about her life and her art. But her voice was a treasure for this planet. I still get chills listening to her National Anthem sung at the Super Bowl in 1991 at the Sombrero in Tampa.

Okay, it’s her fault that we get singers trying to ham up the song. What people need to realize is that Whitney did it the best and no one will ever come close to it.

I just remember how revolutionary her rendition was. The song is in 3/4 time, but she added an extra beat to make it 4/4. Still gives me chills over 20 years later.

For the third time, I am working at Hulu again playing the role of an accountant. I started their in Nov. 2007 and quit in July 2009. Restarted Nov. 2010 and left Mar. 2011. Here I am again. And yes, it is like riding a bicycle. Without a seat, that is.