Last evening, in celebration of our wedding anniversary, my husband and I reported to a trendy restaurant at 8:00 p.m. sharp, per our reservation. Leading us to the bar, our hostess told us our table would be available shortly. A bartender sidled up, ready to happily relieve of us of $20 for two drinks. Declining the offer, we stood and waited. Then we waited some more. Thirty minutes later, we left, fuming.

In this age of South Park, Howard Stern, and chit-chat about stained blue dresses from the Gap, such rudeness shouldn't come as a surprise. Yet, I'm amazed at the new instances of incivility that I run into everyday.

Won't Someone Pay Attention!?

This morning, the "barista" at my local Starbucks couldn't quite absorb my not-too-complicated order. His blank stare suggested he had been paying no attention to what I'd said. It's bad enough that my breakfast consisted of two Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a double espresso. It's worse that I had to repeat the specifics.

When he finally got everything clear, he tossed my change onto the counter, continuing a conversation with his co-worker. As the transaction ended, I received no "thank you," no "you're welcome," and certainly no direct eye contact.

Back home, I listened to a message left on my answering machine: a business associate needed to cancel our lunch meeting. Several hours later, the phone rang and my best friend requested that we reschedule a dinner date, because she was "too tired." Now, at the mid-point of my work day, several of my emails and voice mails from a few days ago still languish, left hanging unacknowledged and unreturned.

Those Were the Days

What's going on here? Shouldn't our prosperous and ever-advancing society have mastered the basic niceties of everyday discourse by now? After all, in 18th century Europe and America, a new affluence saw the rise of "polite society," a perhaps overly-refined structure of powdered wigs, ritualized duels, literary salons, "courtesy books," and calling cards.

The novels of Jane Austen perfectly capture this era. The arch emphasis on manners and doing the right thing, of elaborate forms of address and dress, were a code. They were, indeed, a "social contract," where citizens agreed to give up their freedom to do entirely as they pleased in return for the promise of an ordered society.

We all know where this led . . . to the French Revolution. Fifty years after that, an effete concern with proprieties further bastardized the ideas into the puritanism of the Victorians.

So, yes, this society wasn't perfect and, yes, it is "suspiciously easy to polemicize an instance of bad behavior into an emblem of the decay of the times," as critic Mark Caldwell writes in "A Short History of Rudeness" (Picador, 1999). Nevertheless, I do think that modern men and women--loaded down as we all are with gadgets and geegaws--seem to practice an especially virulent strain of rudeness.

Too Much Communicating, Too Little Talking

We revel in a preponderance of ways in which to communicate--voice mail, e-mail, fax machines, beepers. But, along the way, we've forgotten how to interact with each other as living, breathing human beings. Such devices, as well as innovations like ATMs, portable stereos, and distance learning classes, assume the role of what author John L. Locke terms "tongue depressors." In "Why We Don't Talk to Each Other Anymore," (Touchstone/Simon & Schuster, 1998), Locke delves into the "de-voicing" of a modern society where technology is driving out the sound of human voices.

Talking, he says, is the way in which we build human relationships, and maintain them. Tongue depressors allow us to merely exchange electronic factoids and to-the-point information. Those of us who work from home are perhaps more guilty of this than anyone. On a daily basis, email allows us to deal with complete strangers, people we've never met or even spoken to. It's but a short leap to relating to our closest intimates in the same fashion. And so we email our thank you's, email our birthday "cards," and even email our "wish lists.

"It follows, then, that a recent study linked increased use of the Internet to a heightened sense of isolation. But faced with raging drivers and surly clerks, rude maitre d's and pushy shoppers, retreating into an i-world almost makes sense. What better way to avoid the whole mess than to stay in your pajamas and commence in a little e-commerce? And when you feel an urge to "communicate" --well, forwarding a barrage of jokes is fast and efficient.

Person-to-Person

Perhaps the solution, then, is to eliminate all human interaction. Locke writes of glimpsing this future in Tokyo at Super Roboshop 24. It is, he writes, "a fully automatic convenience store with no employees behind the counter. In fact, there is no counter at all but a series of electronic buckets that circulate in vending-machine style around an island of aftershave lotion, milk, and fresh sushi. 'This is everybody's dream,' gushes the owner Tsuneo Kanetsuka."

It's funny, though, because while the Japanese are virtuosos of vending (and indeed of robotics), they also live in the most service-oriented of societies.

I'll never forget my experience buying a $28 "happi coat" from a Ginza department store. A uniformed, white-gloved elevator attendant announced the offerings of each floor, delicately stepping aside to let passengers off. Everywhere on the floor, salespeople waited at attention. As I hesitated over an item, one gracefully moved to my side, ready to help me choose. Before I knew it, she'd rung up the sale, wrapped the modest treasure in a halo of tissue paper, and presented it to me with extended hands and a courteous bow. After such a show of attention, how could I resist when, slyly glancing at my husband, she murmured: "Men's happi coat, too?" Ka-ching! Another sale.

It's a cultural thing, I guess, something that supersedes any new-fangled technological advances. I like that. And so I'll keep on saying "good morning" and I'll continue returning phone calls--even if I time them to land on someone's answering machine. Occasionally, I'll even write a thank you note.

After all, it's the least I can do.

JoANN GRECO writes polite diatribes from her home office in Philadelphia.