On Monday evening, I went to a local indie show. There were two drummers, two bassists, one saxophonist, one guitarist, and two graphic artists. There were also two models, sitting in the corner smiling at people, and about eighty of–well, of us, the hipster detritus that collects somewhere like Sarasota. Most of stood quietly, sipping beer and wiggling uncommitedly. But a few people, without asking, walked among the musicians, brushing past them when they felt like it and constantly shoving gadgets in their faces.
Why does carrying a camera excuse egregious violations of norms regarding personal and social space?