The Kevin Bacon game, with food and drink

What is it about ordering coffee that makes people lose all sense of their surroundings; indeed, all common sense? I mean, yesterday, I went to get an afternoon pick me up at the Caribou Coffee that just opened up across the street, and upon entering, I thought, yay, I'm the next in line. Except there might as well have been a line out the door, because these two mentally blond chicks were in front of me acting like they had never ordered coffee before. They asked a billion questions, changed their orders several times, and caused the cashier to apologize to the line that had accumulated as they stood there processing. They finally decided on a medium skim sugar free vanilla iced latte and a medium skim sugar free hazelnut iced latte. Then they proceeded to pay with all change, after they waited until the total came up to pull out their wallets. As if that weren't enough, they interrupted the woman making my drink to ask for straws that were right behind them.

So I go in today, thinking the same thing couldn't happen two days in a row, right? Wrong. Some woman flipped out because she couldn't order her medium skim vanilla cappacino on ice, and she panicked because it was for her husband and he needed as much caffeine as he could get and she didn't know what he wanted now and what should she do, what should she do? OH NO! CRISIS!

What does this all have to do with baseball? Well, I'm sitting in Antarctica right now drinking my hot coffee, which I finally got despite the hysterical woman at the counter (and yes, the same cashier had to apologize to the line that had accumulated behind her,) as the building managers feel the need to use as much energy as possible, and I am reminded of the time I went to Great American Ballpark (yes, ballpark in real English is one word) a few days after that first Holy Opening Day when it was cold and rainy and we discovered that they did not have hot chocolate anywhere in the ballpark. The Cubs and Cubs fans were in the house, Griffey's arm nearly came off his body, and the April wind whipped off the river like an April wind whips off a river. How cold was it? I waited in line for three innnings to get coffee, as everyone in the ballpark was drinking java juice - woman, children, infants, old men, Mr. Red, Adam Dunn, Marty and Joe, Marge's ghost - and they kept running out. See, I am skilled in the art of going to concessions/bathroom without missing more than a batter or two, as I do not want to miss a pitch of any game I attend. (Tangent - I've been to 14 this year, only four away from my record of 19 set last year.) Yet it was so miserable that night that I didn't care about anything but the coffee.

Speaking of running out of concessions, you should see all the food they have now at RFK. Crab cakes, cajun catfish, cheese fries, fresh kennel corn, ice cream...the ice cream is a true miracle, considering during much of last year Dippin' Dots (frozen chemicals?) was the only iced pleasure one could get. Now if they would only get the tiny helmets!

Speaking of tiny helmets, I picked up two bright orange Mets helmets at Shea last week. Remember when you were a kid and you went around after the game picking up people's discarded souvenir cups? That was me. Last week. Age 29.5.

Speaking of discarded souvenirs, did you see the Deadbirds fans throwing their promotional seat cushions onto the field last night when Cleveland made the error that let St. Louis win the game? Here's another pin for Voodoo Albert!

And with that, I return to work, that being watching the Pirates-White Sox game, which has just resumed after a rain delay.