"I'M -- WHAT!? -- I'M AT THE COFFEEHOUSE!"

My father, a frequent flyer long before points were awarded for such activity, lamented the decline of air travel from a snob’s point of view. As flying became more affordable, it became more annoying, he argued, because of the influx of hoi polloi. Ever rebellious, I scorned such elitism even as I dodged the flying vomitus from the squalling, overfed infant across the aisle.

Snobbery is hereditary, I suppose, because I shall now bitch to an uncaring world about my coffeehouse problem. Specifically, the invasion of logorrheic jerks who seek out seats as close as possible to me and then holler into their cell phones (and, come on, people, have you not a scrap of self-consciousness about your dorky ringtones? Really? Really?) – while some sugar-infused offspring bellows from a chocolate-smeared kisser for attention.

I’m recalling a halcyon day of coffeehouse peace that probably never existed. I’m suspecting – hoping, even – that Addison and Steele had to put up with this shit. But they put out The Spectator. I’m just writing crap like this.

-- B. A. Nilsson

Comments

[Dan]

Go to Virgil's House in Saratoga Springs - no cell phones or laptops allowed. They have things like checkers, puzzles, BOOKS(!) - a great place to relax - and the coffee, tea and gelato are all great.