"The breeze? The breeze was a rush of air entering my body via my gaping maw as I began to rapidly inhale air sufficient to allow me to put forth a wail that to this day is still spoken about by aging ushers at theatres in southern Ontario. This was no hiccuping fit of sobs or even a sizeable jag. This was one long, horrendous, eardrum shattering wail that lasted from the start of the credits, continued as I was carried out of the theatre by my apologetic parents, failed to abate during the ride home and went on until some time later that evening when professionals were brought in to sedate me."
"... I looked around. To my left were an older gent and a middle-aged woman. Across from me was an elderly woman, her bags taking up the window seat next to her. She looked for all the world as if Yoda and Mickey Rooney had a baby. A white-haired, wizened Sicilian baby. She had what appeared to be every daily newspaper available to the Italian people stacked up around her in messy piles and was pouring over them with deep scrutiny. And finally, I noticed, she had lined her seat with more newspapers. That’s reasonable, I suppose, if you are germ freak. But then would a germ freak have feet like that? Wedged into sensible sandals, and without the benefit of any socks, were the most fungal appendages I have ever clapped eyes on. I swear there was a tiny “condemned” notice tacked to the nail of her left big toe."