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.

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.