A trip to the phlebotomist.

And, you know, other stuff. I guess they ran out of those sterile cups. Where's the keg?

How I Love Auntie Em's.

(I had the quiche.)

Psycho. Volume 2.

Yesterday morning, I found myself at Los Angeles International Airport, having booked myself a flight to Boston that was to depart at 7:30 am. As you might imagine, I was a bit groggy, and was dragging myself from Starbucks, at one end of the terminal, to my gate (#41), at the other end of the terminal. In fact, most of the waiting passengers seemed quite lethargic as well, except for one. All of a sudden I saw a frantic woman running toward me and managed to, mostly, get out of the way before she sideswiped me. Some moments later, almost at my gate, I feel, what seems like a human body, hit me from behind and keep going at high speed. It was the same frenzied woman. And she heads for, you guessed it, gate #41. Great.

Some of the contents of a mysteriously and long abandoned car in Pasadena.

1. A butter knife.

2. A pirated copy of the film Taken.

3. One patent leather shoe with an approximately three inch heel.

4. A receipt for a gymnastics class.

5. Many garments, several of which were made out of leopard print fabric.

6. An empty bag of Doritos.

7. The keys to the ignition.

Is it a space ship?

Is it a robot?

Is it a teleportation device?

No. It's a scanner. A German one. Ja.

Psycho.

I have had some encounters in my life that would indicate that I am some sort of magnet for the mentally unwell. Perhaps I should write a series of entries just on that topic. But, for now, here's the latest... Not too long ago, my friend Ed and I were eating lunch at a nearby taco place. There was guacamole. It was tasty. All was right with the world. That is, until we had some company. A woman approached our table and, though I couldn't quite understand what she was saying, motioned as if to take one of our vacant chairs. I nodded, thinking that she would take the chair and wander off to her own table. I was a bit surprised when she sat down and started talking. I couldn't tell who, if anyone, she was addressing. She wasn't looking at me, or anyone else for that matter. I was only able to make out one word: modesty. Was this a commentary on my wardrobe? Was she Amish? Was she a Mormon? Was she completely insane? Then, she asked two men at a nearby table if she could have some of their chips. They said no and she replied that she was just kidding. It was at this point that Ed and I, having finished our tacos, exchanged an alarmed glance and decided, very quickly, to abandon our table and go get coffee. I hope she enjoyed the the chips that we left behind.

Anxiety.

Since I work in an academic library, people under the age of eighteen are generally anomalous. For the past several days I have noticed a number of tour groups, comprised of small children, coming into the Library. The objective of these tours still eludes me. Much of the time, they went on their merry way. But sometimes, as it seemed to have been discussed and agreed upon beforehand, they asked a question at the reference desk (where I happened to be perched). First, let me say that I am not good with crowds. They make me nervous. So, when one child came to the desk, apparently acting as spokesperson, and the others crowded around on all sides of the desk I was a bit, um, anxious. And when they asked their question and waited, with bated breath, for my, no doubt accurate and enlightening, response I nearly choked. In the end, I was able to find the call number for Lord of the Rings: PR6039.O32 L67 1954. I also managed to recall, somewhere in the reaches of my memory, that the Library holds roughly 500,000 volumes (eliciting gasps of shock and awe).