Phone etiquette, or rather the lack thereof, is a problem that spans America’s class divide. But for man-about-town, Richard Kirshenbaum there are few types of so-called “i-addicts” in the upper echelons that consistently cross the line.
There is what Kirshenbaum calls “the Poseur” who loves the ego trip of being indemand and therefore cannot help but take calls anywhere or at anytime. Like Kirshenbaum, I think phones are bad for digestion.
Another is the over sharer who wants to show off X-rated photos of their conquests.
“You should see her in this pose. She gets waxed like a baby,” a bachelor fresh from a $400 million divorce told Kirshenbaum while showing him revealing photos. I’m afraid many of us have been through this kind of thing.
And then there is “the Full-Throated Warbler:”
“Just as I settled in [poolside at a famous resort], I heard a ring tone, followed by a booming nasal voice,” Kirshenbaum writes. “The braying belonged to a well-preserved woman in a cowboy hat who sat on a nearby lounge, flaunting her implants and treating nearby guests to a 30-minute description of her previous evening’s sexual exploits.”
But perhaps the worst offense – in my book anyway – is made by “the Voiceless Throng” who text through dinner without uttering a word. The more I see this sort of thing, the more I can’t help but feel that it portends the death of one of life’s most noble pursuits: the mastery of dinner conversation.