I have now finished the first volume of Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time (À la recherche du temps perdu) “Swann’s Way”. One volume down, six to go. Or 400 pages down 3,000 more to go.

So I’ve been going to the gym almost every day this past month. My muscles have been aching just a bit more. My hormones are completely out of control. It looks like I have acne yet again. There are some highlights though. I see a hot guy every now and again. Not regulars, mind you, but nice looking guys. Of course I get the shrill women also. But seeing the nice looking guys make up for it.

But I’m wondering several things. How the fuck do people have conversations on the phone at the gym? Long conversations. Long loud conversations. Just because most of us use headphones doesn’t mean that we can’t hear shrill voice. Granted I can’t hear the details of the conversation, but the voice itself is distracting enough to make it annoying.

Also, how to people gossip on the treadmill? I’m usually running myself into a breathless sweaty mess, and talking is usually out of reach of my capabilities. If they can gossip, what’s the fucking point? Just gossip over some sugary coffee drink over some pastries and just get fat and die of diabetes. Fucking cows.

Finally, why would someone use their Beats by Dre headphones at the gym? I use these cheap Sony earbuds that are fairly unobtrusive. But those huge headphones?

I watched The Artist last night. Yes I did tear up.

Okay, I have a general distaste and distrust of children. But this was an adorable video, and even I couldn’t resist.

I’ve been trying to watch as many of the Oscar nominated and snubbed films. So here are some capsule reviews:

Beginners: This was a charming film with a tinge of melancholy flowing right beneath the surface. No, a 75 year old gay man that just comes out never gets a doctor from ER in real life, but it’s nice to think that it does. I can see why Christopher Plummer got an Oscar nod for his performance.

The Tree of Life: I’ve heard a lot about the controversy surrounding this film. I’ll just say this: I completely understand why director Terrance Malick is a hermit. I liked the middle third of the movie that was solely about the kid’s childhood. But the animation of the creation of the universe, the insipid voice overs, the pretentious imagery. It was too much.

I don’t understand how this film won the Palme d’or at Cannes. In a nutshell I fucking hated this film so much so that if I were to meet Sean Penn and Brad Pitt on the street, I will punch them both in the nuts until they fall out.

Melancholia: Loved loved loved this film. I loved that director Lars von Trier makes it known the world will be destroyed in the end. I loved Kirsten Dunst’s performance. Perhaps it’s because I’m a constant depressed mess, but I really identified with what she was going through. And it is true. It’s the depressed people of the world who can best handle crisis.

Madd and I went over to Honey’s Kettle last night for some fried chicken, supposedly the best fried chicken in LA. We were both famished when we got there, so there are no pictures of the food as it was presented to us. So there are just the carcasses. The chicken was wonderful, but the biscuits and the hotcakes were probably even more divine. Just so ya know, you know? Hopefully you don’t have an overly complicated name like “Jimmy”. They might fuck it up.

I just installed Mr. Driller for PC on my lappy, and I couldn’t be more thrilled. In fact when I first turned it on, I did tear up a bit.

It’s a very simple game. You have to drill through the colored blocks that have filled the sewers. You have to make sure you don’t get crushed and get enough air capsules to ensure you can breathe. During the Santa Barbara years, namely 2000-01, we wasted our lives on booze, caffeine, drugs and Mr. Driller.

Here is a video demonstrating the crack-ish nature of the game.

Okay, this is clearly nostalgic wanking bullshit on my part. But fuck it. I’ll let myself wallow in it for just a bit.

With all of the post cigarette weight I’ve piled on the last six months (yes, I’m going to blame it on cigarettes and not my tendency towards inertia or horrid eating habits), I’ve been diligent the last couple of weeks going to the gym. When I hung out with Madd the other day, she was startled at the weight I’ve lost. Hell, even my mom noticed, and Koreans are completely weight obsessed.

Anyhow after covering the Kings game last night I was feeling a bit hungry. For some reason I decided to stop by Del Taco for a chicken quesadilla and fries. At around 4 a.m. I woke up with the most horrendous pain in my stomach. I went to the bathroom and everything exploded out with cramping I’ve not felt since I was lactose intolerant. Oh it was bad.

I think that was a sign, a penance for eating fast food. I have sinned, and I fully paid for it. Hell, I still feel a little rumble in the belly right now. Oof.

So I guess I’ll be cutting that out of my diet.

That is indeed a shot of me taken at my desk at home chugging a bottle of scotch.

I spent the night at STAPLES Center watching the Kings demolish the Vancouver Canucks. That was fun. By the time all the postgame interviews were done, it was 10:05 and I had a decision since I decided to Metro it to the game to avoid the shit-for-brains on the road. Do I finish my story at the arena and ring in the new year in LA Live somewhere, or do I jet home and celebrate 2012 by myself?

I obviously chose the latter since I really hate humanity. So there it is, me drinking while finishing my story and being the very last story on LAist for 2011. I think I will buy that noose right now.

Nothing more needs to be said.

Before you fuckers start being all thankful that your god was born, I say fuck it all.