Yo-yo, yo the Starbucks boat!

There is an amazing talent of human beings to be totally oblivious to people who are watching them. I'm not talking about people who are *really* into something, like a book or work or a movie - situations where you probably need to be concentrating - but the whole "I'm in public but I don't give a fig who's watching me. Thus, the yo-yo lady.

I'm rolling into the urban Starbucks, which is fast becoming my favorite place, if only it didn't involve an 85-mile round trip. (I can only go there when I'm already in that area for other, work-related things)

There's a woman yo-yoing in the middle of the joint.

I should mention that this is one of those Starbucks carved out of a pre-existing building, so it is like threading a needle to get around in there. Narrow doesn't quite describe it. There's the register - and then the condiment bar is two steps away. There's a long bar that looks out on the street, with barstools so you can people watch.

Yo Yo Ma (wait, that might be libel) Yo-Yo Grande has parked herself in front of the condiment bar and is "performing" for a group of people on the barstools. She's also blocking traffic like a champ. She's also bad. Very, very, very bad. Baaaaaaaaaaaaad.

Sarah Palin as vice-presidential candidate bad.

Al Gore as presidential candidate bad.

Jimmy Carter as president bad.

That bad. Uh-huh. I said it. He won a Nobel. That came later. He still stunk up the joint and paved the way for Ron-Ron and voodoo economics. Deal with it.

I edge by, because this skinny cow ain't moving. You all will be happy to know that I resisted the urge to hip-check her into the creamer and half-and-half. I'll just write about her.

I'm ordering and reminding the cute but stupid barista about my personal cup discount when I hear a *thunk* followed by another *thunk* and then another *thunk* and yet another *thunk* - lots of these noises.

I look, because the cute but stupid barista is slow making the drink and Yo-Yo Grande is not really yo-yoing, as I first thought.

She's trying, I'll give her that. She's winding up the yo-yo, then dropping it, trying to get it to unspool and wind back up.

Only it slams the floor. *THUNK*

Back up again. Back down again. *THUNK*


Back up again. Back down again. *THUNK*

Poor Yo-Yo Grande. Only it doesn't really connect. She keeps trying. And she keeps making noise. *THUNK*

And it shouldn't have surprised me. It was a moderately chilly night. Yo-Yo Grande was wearing a black spaghetti-strap mini-dress with festive red and white striped knee-high socks and what looked for all the world like ballet flats. Pink ballet flats, mind you.

I didn't see a coat.

Neither did I see a minder. Maybe she had wandered away from the crazy place and just wanted a latte. I can't imagine the coffee in those place is pretty good. 

Where did she get the yo-you though? Don't they take the string away, so the patients can't strangle themselves?

I ate and drank and left. She was still there, *THUNK*-ing the yo-yo and walking the imaginary dog. I wish she were crazy, but I really do think she was just not able to yo-yo.