1) The Roving Bouncer. Perhaps the basis for a comedy sketch, perhaps a premise for a Candid Camera-type show. Hey, he could even be part of the concept for a piss-take of those Highway to Heaven/Touched by an Angel/The Incredible Hulk “stranger comes to town” type shows.

The idea is that there’s this guy who roams the country, insinuating himself seamlessly into crowds of people wherever people are crowded together, and acts as a bouncer when faux pas and other social transgressions occur. One minute you’re at a party crossing the line from macking to harrassment, next thing you know the Roving Bouncer is tapping you on the shoulder and letting you know it’s time to leave.

2) Untitled Scavenger Hunt Project

I’m a bit fuzzy on this one, but I do recall it was teh best idea EV3RR!!1! when we came up with it. Basically it’s a formulaic film derived from the scavenger hunt plot–those of my age will recall the abundance of such on cable in our youth–but with the famous Universal monsters comprising the various teams. Also, there are hairdressers and soap salesmen involved somehow.

Was supposed to meet fella tonight, fella who I knew only through anonymous words and certainly no pictures. Maybe he was there and maybe he wasn’t–there was one good candidate for him-ness and one lesser–and I don’t know which would be better or worse.

It’s strange, but for a person who is so totally opposed to sentiment as I it may well be more painful to admit that I’m upset than to actually be upset. This, I think, is further evidence against Intelligent Design.

The evidence of my clothes and of the tape measure indicates that I’ve lost weight over the last few weeks, but looking in the mirror I see myself as actually having put on several pounds. This is, to put it mildly, damned peculiar.

Choc mousse melts immediately on contact with hot fudge icing[1]. It’s true! And ruinous.

[1] Disambiguation: That should be read hot “fudge icing”, not “hot fudge” icing.

Going away party for Lyda tonight. Sniff. As my contribution, I’m making a cake. Not just any cake, mind, but a Super-Chocolatey Mind-Blowingly Fantastalicious Choco-Supremo Chocolate Cake. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

For the filling, I’m using this Decadent Chocolate Mousse recipe. I’ve never made a mousse before, and I’m hoping this comes out OK. I’m already pretty sure I didn’t whip the egg whites stiff enough and that I stirred and folded less gently than was optimal, but here’s hoping.

The cake itself is from a box, as my attempts at scratch cakes have been consistently disastrous. I’m doing one layer choc fudge, one layer German chocolate. Mousse in the middle, and then I’m covering the whole thing with a double coating of this chocolate fudge icing, although I will be substituting Bailey’s for the milk in the recipe.

Review by the morning, I should think.

Thursday: Trip to the mental hut. Inadvertent slasher-flick antics on a golf course. Lesbian doggies. Drinks, crowd too young, ‘nother bar, fun! but intimidated.

Friday: Prank. More TA responsibilities, which honestly yay! Kendrick’s late, Frannie’s sick, everybody else but Danny bails. Kendrick! Balderdash. Drinks, too crowded. X-Men. Drinks w/ pool. Why is the guy who never responded to my emails so friendly? Baba ganoush, Sideshow Bob, one thousand Paris Hilton clones.

Saturday: Woke up at 8:30, somehow didn’t get out of bed until noon. Groceries. Cake. Blogging.

Simple can be so effective. Just take an old copy of the New York Times, a few pieces of tape, and about five minutes et voila!, your cube-neighbor returns from lunch and finds his chair has in his absence been buried under paperwork.

The truly great thing about this one is that my cube neighbor is currently fomenting a prank war between Cataloging, where we work, and Circulation. This appears, then, to be a rapid escalation of antagonisms by Circ when in fact it is an insiduous opening up of a second front. Bwahahaha! He’s going to come back, think Circ struck hard, and immediately plot vengeance. I wonder how long I should wait before sending him a link to this post?

Now here’s something those of you who’ve never been Very Fat Indeed have likely never noticed; it is, in fact, something I did not notice myself until I made progress down to what appears to be generally considered the lower limit of VFI.

It’s about the cut of pants. This is going to be hard for me to adequately explain, lacking as I am in seamstery terminology, but I’ll give it a go: While VFI and non-VFI pants are functionally the same and similar enough in appearance that one could be mistaken for the other with sufficient Hobbity trick photography, they in fact turn out to be entirely different beasts. It is, I think, an example of parallel evolution in action.

OK, how to put this? VFI pants, it seems, are actually designed along the lines of simple, shapeless skirts: The sole structure and support is found in the waistband, all other fabric being intended to hang loosely and to cover flesh as innocuously as possible. Non-VFI pants, conversely, are designed to actually conform with the underlying flesh, not to merely conceal it in the most expedient possible manner.

This may sound like a bizarre thing to be going on about, but it really does fascinate me. Here’s why: I was just now pulling on one of my new pairs of pants and was discouraged to find that they didn’t seem to be going on well. I was having to tug a bit here and maneuver a bit there, where in years before I’d become accustomed to simply slipping legs in holes and pulling up. I was convinced that I had made a dreadful mistake, that my new pants would not fit at all.

But then it came time to do the buttoning, and tab entered slot not only with no resistance but with a rather pleasing amount of slack. And then I realized: Hey! These are actually pants, where for the last ten years I’ve been wearing artfully modified tents.

It sounds bizarre to be saying it, but this really is going to take some getting used to, like if I’d woken up one morning left-handed.

Down (just barely) another pants size, so since mid-August that’s about ten inches and at least 65 pounds. Not too very shabby, but I still have quite a ways to go before I’m not, y’know, gross.

I just don’t care for works that try to make assholes into sympathetic characters, even if their assholery is the result of environmental factors.

More later, I’m sure.