Allow me to share a bit from my day, most of which was spent in and around Old City, Philadelphia.
A thirty-something man approached me, near the corner of 2nd and Market Streets, with that look I've seen before, one of a person looking for some assistance, possibly just for directions. What the heck, I thought. I'm in a decent mood.
But no, this was to be more than that.
He pulled some papers out of his jacket pocket, and then began his well-rehearsed spiel:
"Sir, I just spent ten years in state prison and . . . "
Whoa! Hold on there a second, pal. If you're looking to establish trust, maybe gain a smidge of my confidence, you're going to need a better opening line.
Yet I have to ask, if there are but 12 or 15 of us in the theater, or more accurately, the screening room, why do you, and I'm talking to you, buddy, feel it necessary to choose the seat directly behind me, only to make matters worse by banging your knees against my back and then tapping your heels against the tile floor?