I have a little — but increasingly passive-aggressive — thing for people who talk loudly on their cell phone. Modern technology is great: you don’t need to scream into your phone for that person 2,000 miles away to hear you. On Sunday I had two profoundly disturbing experiences of this sort. The first was at Paradise Cafe in Chelsea, the joint notorious for its awful service, and I suppose, sometimes awful clientele (yours truly excluded), too. When I stopped in for my usual weekend morning iced coffee fix, the same girl who was there talking loudly on her phone last weekend was back, chirping away, although this time she had lovingly placed her bare feet on another chair. Eeeewww! (See the photo snapped from afar for visual evidence.)
In my second hair-pulling moment of the day, I was over at Joe The Art of Coffee, on 23rd Street, getting my usual weekend afternoon iced coffee fix. The man sitting next to me clearly has relationship issues with his wife and control issues with his children. I learned all this, you see, because said man was talking at a decibel level that would give a lawn mower a run for its money. Truth be told, he also sounds like he has a touch of manic depression. In any event, I never thought I’d be able to snap a shot of said social-etiquette-offender without him noticing — you’ll remember, I was sitting next to him. But he was such a space cadet it was a cinch.