At various points in the evening, practically everyone in the mid-sized, mid-town restaurant turned to look at the woman and her companions. Not because they were particularly well-dressed or unusually attractive, especially by Manhattan standards. But when the overly-made-up blonde threw back her head to laugh, it was a little too loud; and every few minutes, the cellphone belonging to one of her companions would emit a jarringly loud ring, inevitably triggering an extended conversation easily overheard by anyone within a three-table vicinity.

Even the coldest of winds blowing outside the restaurant on that blustery winter night couldn’t match the chill of the glares directed toward the woman and her companions, who remained either blissfully oblivious to the level of annoyance their behavior was causing or, as seemed increasingly likely, didn’t care in the least.

Despite my best efforts, their boisterous conduct eventually managed to impact my own mood and evening, leading me to join my fellow diners in shooting icy glares at the diners to absolutely no avail.

I left the restaurant with a hunger for a smackdown that went unfulfilled.

Fastforward a week or two. Another restaurant, another racous group of diners, another group of neighboring tables being disturbed by peals of loud laughter and excited exclamations.

This time, I was seated much closer to the action… right in the middle of it, in fact. I’d been out for drinks with friends and we’d decided to stop in one of our favorite restaurants for something to eat. Thanks to the good time already in progress — not to mention several rounds of cocktails — we had unwittingly become “those people.”

We were now the people at the next table.

The ones who had annoyed me only a week earlier with their loud conversation and fun-fueled frolicking. We were cackling wildly at our own jokes as we drunk dialed a friend and tweeted every thought that entered our alcohol-soaked brains.

And never did it occur to us that we’d become Those People, at least not until it was much too late and the cold glares I’d reserved for others were now being directed toward me and my fellow diners.

Like many who wind up on the receiving end of looks that could, but don’t, kill, it wasn’t our intention to disturb anyone. And had we been able to step outside ourselves and witness the scene from another perspective, I’d like to think we’d have been mortified… or at least mollified.

But the next time you’re in a situation where a tableful of diners are having a little more fun than you might like them to be having, instead of looking upon them with anger, smile and remember that almost every single one of us has been, at one point or another, in their place.

We’ve all been the people at the next table.

Having spent a recent evening repeatedly thinking (and occasionally saying ) “shut up” to rude people (read about the experience here) I thought perhaps some of you might have people in need of a talking to about piping down.

So use the comments and, as politely as possible, let ‘er rip.

Who needs to just close their yap?

Among those making my list today: Dick Cheney (who had nothing to say when people asked him to answer questions in an official capacity and now won’t stop talking no matter how much we beg), the loud woman who lives behind me and keeps screaming to her children for no apparent reason and New York City Mayor Mike Bloomberg, who has been really workin’ my nerves of late.

Who makes YOUR list?

Excuse me, I don’t mean to be rude or put too fine a point on it, but I feel I have to ask: What the HELL are you doing here?

That’s what I wanted to say to a handful of the people surrounding me during what should have been a lovely, relaxing evening last night.

Several hundred people were at the Highline Ballroom to hear the gorgeous song stylings of Katie Melua.

Four or five were there to ruin the experience for everyone else. To them, I say, at least on my own behalf, Mission: Accomplished.

As I sat there with three of my closest friends enjoying the concert, the drunk man standing behind me had a series of increasingly loud conversations. He was asked by me and several others to keep quiet. But of course, he didn’t listen, and things rapidly progressed to the point where another agitated member of my party was ready to take the guy out, physically and literally, and I sought a manager to have the guy kicked out, which he eventually was.

Then there was the loud, obnoxious, foreign fans.

Why is it that oftentimes, a performer’s biggest fans are the most obnoxious?

In this case, there were two sects. First, there were the photographers, including two young men who spent the entire show taking pictures and then showing them to one another and laughing, giggling, comparing notes loudly. Then there was the group of women who kept screaming out song unwanted song requests and phrases in Russian (which the singer speaks)… and then talking through each number she performed. Two of the women at several points got onto their cell phones to have loud conversations and, when asked if they might take the conversation outside the venue, glared as if they’d been asked to put the phones into their va jay-jay’s.

To all of these people I’d like to ask, again: What the hell were you doing there? Why did you feel the need to ruin the evening for people who’d not only bought tickets but then, in many cases — including that of my group — spent several hundred dollars on food and drink – in an attempt to have a pleasant, civilized evening on the town?

What gave YOU the right to ruin OUR evening?

And why, if you intended to spend the night talking or being rowdy, did you not go to a bar as opposed to a showroom where people had obviously and specifically gone to see the performer in question? This was not a rock concert or a piano bar, this was a quiet, simple performance… a woman, her guitar and her piano.

By the end of the evening, one of my companions was mad at me for making a big deal of the situation (although, in my defense, by the time I had the most offensive party removed from the venue, he’d begun flicking water at my head and calling me some rather nasty names) and it’s safe to say that the entire evening was ruined for my entire party.

And that leads me to these quetions:

Have we gotten to the point where one can no longer venture out into society without expecting to have to deal with rude people who don’t give a rat’s ass if they ruin the evening of those around them?

Are the 95 percent of us who want to sit through a movie without someone behind us taking a cell phone call or talking loudly simply expected to sit in (the shattered) silence rather than complain, if only for fear of being physically attacked?

In any case, next time a performer I want to see comes to town, rather than risk spending a small fortune only to have my evening ruined by the rude, crude and socially unacceptable folks of the world, I’ll stay home and listen to the performer’s CD’s.

I serve better drinks at my place anyway.

This piece was the funniest, and sadly so true.

The rudeness that the invention of personal cell phones caused (as opposed to “car” phones… remember them?) is uncontrollable. Recently when I took my dad out to dinner a woman sitting many, many, tables over had her cell phone ring. She had to answer, but politely stood up and walked from her dinner companions to be more private. She walked and walked until she was standing just over my shoulder, talking loudly. I was horrified that she thought it was all right, polite even, to walk from her table, but to walk over to another one and annoy those people. My dad,  who is 90% deaf,  motioned that I had a frown on my face. Just then I stood up to tell her we were still in the same lovely, quiet, dining room that she was when seated at her own table, but she snapped her clam shut and toddled off! Everyone looked at me with that “go after her and kick her butt”  look, but I wondered what made them sit in their seats afraid to say something.

The airline official in charge of boarding the plane did his best to remain patient… even as his instructions were being blatantly ignored. 

 

“Folks,” he said, trying yet again, “we are attempting to get everyone on board the aircraft in the swiftest manner possible. It would be a great help to us — and would assure that your flight departs on schedule — if you would please not approach the gate until the row listed on your boarding pass has been called. Thank you for your cooperation. At this time, we’d like to begin boarding the plane from the rear. Those seated in rows 25 and higher may proceed to the gate.”

Being in row 29 — the last row on the plane — I proceeded to the gate as instructed… or at least tried to. But it was proved an impossible task thanks to the 100 or so would-be passengers blocking the gate, all impatiently waiting for their row to be called.

 

 

“Why can’t they just all let us on?” whined a woman wearing the brightest shirt I’d ever seen and dragging behind her a suitcase that was obviously far too large to fit in the overhead bins or underneath the seat in front of her. Her husband pushed his way to the front, nearly knocking over two children in the process, thrusting their tickets into the face of the employee. 

“We got to the airport early, went through security. Let us on the damn plane,” the man demanded, his wife shaking her head, swathed as it was in a not-even-close-to-realistic-looking hairpiece meant for a woman 30 years younger, in agreement. 

Looking at their tickets, the attendant sighed. “I’m sorry sir, ma’am, but you’re in row 14. We’re now boarding…”

“Who cares. We’re here now, just let us on!” the man declared.

Conceding the battle if not the war, the attendant agreed to let the man and his wife board… but pointed out that their carry-on item far exceeded the maximum size and weight. “That will have to be checked, sir. I’ll see if I can get it on…”

I tuned out at that point, realizing the already-delayed flight wouldn’t be taking off anytime soon if this pair had anything to say about it.

With nothing but time on my hand, I couldn’t help but ponder why so many people do exactly what this couple was doing. I mean, why push and shove to get on a plane that isn’t going anywhere until everyone can be processed anyway? Do they think they know something about boarding planes in an efficient manner that the airlines have overlooked? 

 

 It’s not like pushing and shoving and boarding in a disorderly fashion was going to get this couple a better seat. In fact, I’m not gonna lie: I got a great deal of pleasure in seeing that the pair wound up surrounded by unruly tots. Seat-kickers behind them. Criers in front of them. Crayon-throwers across the aisle. 

Settling into my seat — with two very nice, quiet, book-reading adults as my row companions — and slipping my iPod buds into my ears, I couldn’t help but think maybe there really is something to the whole karmic thing.

To the incredibly loud guy sitting in starbucks right now who is laughing like a hyenna, burping, having a wildly loud phone conversation and just generally disturbing everyone around him: Thanks for that. Guess given the price of coffee here, we should be grateful for the show!

 The woman behind the counter looked at me with an expression that might best be described as the textbook-definition of the word “blank.” She shook her head. And then, just for added benefit, she shrugged.

And then she said those three little words I so despise.

 “No hablo Ingles.” 

Despite her apparent inability to understand my words, I spoke, flabbergasted. “Seriously? You’re working behind the counter of a store in Manhattan and don’t speak English?” 

Again, the blank look, and again, those words. 

“No hablo Ingles.” 

There was no other employee in the store with whom I could speak, and even if one were lurking somewhere behind the scenes, I’d first have to get the woman at the counter to understand the words “Can someone else help me” and that was obviously not going to happen.

Un. Acceptable.

And yet, you see it all the time. People who have been in this country for years and yet can’t speak the language and don’t seem all that interested in even attempting to. Children who have never been taught English are plopped into classrooms with teachers who suddenly have to deal with a language barrier which takes away from previously-planned lessons.

Personally, I could never imagine moving to another country and not wanting to learn the language. And it seems perfectly reasonable to expect that in this day and age, immigrants be expected to. How about we put forth a new rule: Upon arriving in America, immigrants have four years go learn the basics of the English language.

College students do so in less time, as do professionals who want to take part in the international business community. Or perhaps we have our reasons for not encouraging newcomers to learn the lingo. After all, by not “forcing” immigrants to learn the language, we are, in essence, encouraging them to remain the low men on the socio-economic totem pole. It’s a new take on the age-old tale of “the man” workin’ to keep people in their place. 

But one thing is for certain: If you are working behind the counter of a store in this country– or if you are hiring someone to work behind the counter — the ability to interact with English-speaking customers isn’t an option. Because until further notice, English is spoken here. 

A week ago I was out on a coffee-hunt between classes and while walking from the classroom where I teach music I saw a rabid student swinging a chair over the heads of his “pals”. I told him to sit his behind down on it instead and boy did I get an earful of nastiness I feel too polite to post here. When I was 14 years old I wouldn’t have dreamed of saying even a tenth of what he called me to a teacher. What ever happened to the good old fashion thing called respect huh?

I’m sitting at an Internet cafe, because for all of the talk on pretentious people “working”, I’m usually a hell of a lot more productive out of the home than in it
I mind my own business, I keep headphones on. When someone sits down, I, generally, move my stuff out of the way. I have even been known to assist wayward people on how to connect their computers to the wireless connection.

Rarely do people’s quirks get on my nerves, so, quite possibly I’m allowing the sinus headache to infiltrate my mood, but a man sat down next to me. For a while, he was gone –  left his laptop and just took off. This was after he took an entire phone call sitting right next to me and proceeded to continue speaking to the girl after he hung up with her. (That I know it was a girl indicates how familiar the public conversation was…) When he came back, about an hour later, he sat down and put in his headphones and started humming.

I’m not talking about under the breath humming or even humming along with the music playing over the loudspeakers of the cafe. I’m talking about humming so loudly that I can hear him through the music I now have turned up EXTREMELY high on my own laptop and my own headphones.

Is it just me, or is this rude? I mean, I’ve got Defying Gravity going full blast and if I’m at home, I’ve been known to attempt a song or two along with my music, but in public, I just figure it’s a general polite no-no.

They say that wherever you go, there you are. And over the years, it’s also proven true that wherever you are, there too exist the world’s worst drivers.

 

“New Jersey drivers are the worst in the world!” declare those who frequent the garden state’s byways, while those traversing the highways of Pennsylvania claim that state holds bragging rights to the claim.

 

But what few ever dare to ask the bad drivers who populate our country is… where are y’all in such a hurry to get to? You. Yes, you, the one parked in the fire lane in front of a store just long enough to dash in for a few items. Or the man driving on the shoulder past those of us waiting in line at the toll booth only to then try nosing your way back in. (Better still, having the nerve to get pissed when people won’t let you!)

 

What the hell makes your time so much more valuable than ours?

 

I witnessed what has to be the height of vehicular hubris last week when a man pulled up to the sidewalk in front of a Starbucks and sat in his car, engine idling (what energy crisis?) while his passenger dashed in for a latte., both of them completely ignoring the gigantic “No Parking” sign less than two feet away. The best part? The car had handicapped plates, meaning they could have taken the very legal, very empty parking spot specifically reserved for their use about five feet away.

 

I’m sorry, sir, tell me again… what was it that makes you so special?

 

I can only assume he was related to a man I’d met a few days earlier while coming out of a theater. As I and many other mere mortals attempted to exit, a rather large man — dressed in a crisp white suit, wearing more bling than a posse of rap stars  and clasping the hand of a wife whose breasts had obviously cost more than many people make in a year — literally tried to push me aside. When I stood my ground, the man elbowed me and said, “Look, I gotta get outta here and get to my car before the traffic gets bad, so stay the hell outta my way.”

 

Only he didn’t say “hell.”

 

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “I’ll bet nobody else in this theater is hoping to beat traffic. You’re a very, very wise man.”

 

The guy — did I mention he was ginormous? — stopped for a moment and I swear, I thought I was about to get punched. Instead, he settled for a few well-rehearsed (if not entirely original) compound-adjectives involving mothers and sexual acts. Because, really, what intelligent reply could he possibly have summoned? And profanity is, of course, the last recourse of the intellectual… which made it his first option.

 

Upon reaching the parking lot just as the man was pulling out, I can’t say that I was at all surprised to see that the vehicle was a sports car, or that he pulled into traffic without looking at the pedestrians he’d nearly run down.

 

After all, he was obviously a very important man with very important places to go, just like so many of the people he would be jostling for position with on the roads.