Paper Tigers

of their pants. Others keep their fists tightly clenched for the duration of their journey through the Square. Some appear willing to accept on approach, but then, to the dismay of the leafleter, just before of actual handover, reach up and straighten their prop up their eyeglasses. We on Mass, Ave had something of a slogan for these people: "no hands, no business."

But Harvard Square leafleters are themselves quite a crafty bunch, and each of us last Saturday morning developed a personal stategy to seek out and find the elusive receptive hand. As my little league baseball coach always told me, in anything you do it's all in the eye and the wrist.

If the leafleter can make eye contact with somebody as they pass; say, CVS Pharmacy, and maintain it for a few yards--until the sub- the leafleter in front of the Coop--you can be pretty sure you've got yourself a taker. And if the leafleter lones the eye contact, be can still follow through with a well-timed flick of the wrist, bulleting flyer in the right direction.

Sometimes, I found, the potential recipient's previously formed opinions determine his decision about whether to accept the leafleter's offering. One elderly gentleman passed me by, and then turned around. "Oh," he quipped. "I'll take one of them, I thought it was one of things for Spanish classes. Those damn things should be outlawed."

I could only laugh in agreement, of course, and hand him a flyer. But it was my last one, and I crossed over from the Coop on my way back to Adama House for lunch. I was relieved of my burden, and satisfied, as does every leafleter when he gets to the proverbial end of the stack.

But my jovial feelings were shattered as I stepped up on the curb in front of Out of Town News, "Square Deal! Free Square coupons!" said one of the masses that flocked like vultures around me. "Two for one drinks!" another pitched in. "Wheelchair basketball," said a third. I had reverted back--back to my old self and I swore, right there, that I would never return, to the other side of the leaflet.

of their pants. Others keep their fists tightly clenched for the duration of their journey through the Square. Some appear willing to accept on approach, but then, to the dismay of the leafleter, just before of actual handover, reach up and straighten their prop up their eyeglasses. We on Mass, Ave had something of a slogan for these people: "no hands, no business."

But Harvard Square leafleters are themselves quite a crafty bunch, and each of us last Saturday morning developed a personal stategy to seek out and find the elusive receptive hand. As my little league baseball coach always told me, in anything you do it's all in the eye and the wrist.

If the leafleter can make eye contact with somebody as they pass; say, CVS Pharmacy, and maintain it for a few yards--until the sub- the leafleter in front of the Coop--you can be pretty sure you've got yourself a taker. And if the leafleter lones the eye contact, be can still follow through with a well-timed flick of the wrist, bulleting flyer in the right direction.

Sometimes, I found, the potential recipient's previously formed opinions determine his decision about whether to accept the leafleter's offering. One elderly gentleman passed me by, and then turned around. "Oh," he quipped. "I'll take one of them, I thought it was one of things for Spanish classes. Those damn things should be outlawed."

I could only laugh in agreement, of course, and hand him a flyer. But it was my last one, and I crossed over from the Coop on my way back to Adama House for lunch. I was relieved of my burden, and satisfied, as does every leafleter when he gets to the proverbial end of the stack.

But my jovial feelings were shattered as I stepped up on the curb in front of Out of Town News, "Square Deal! Free Square coupons!" said one of the masses that flocked like vultures around me. "Two for one drinks!" another pitched in. "Wheelchair basketball," said a third. I had reverted back--back to my old self and I swore, right there, that I would never return, to the other side of the leaflet.

of their pants. Others keep their fists tightly clenched for the duration of their journey through the Square. Some appear willing to accept on approach, but then, to the dismay of the leafleter, just before of actual handover, reach up and straighten their prop up their eyeglasses. We on Mass, Ave had something of a slogan for these people: "no hands, no business."

But Harvard Square leafleters are themselves quite a crafty bunch, and each of us last Saturday morning developed a personal stategy to seek out and find the elusive receptive hand. As my little league baseball coach always told me, in anything you do it's all in the eye and the wrist.

If the leafleter can make eye contact with somebody as they pass; say, CVS Pharmacy, and maintain it for a few yards--until the sub- the leafleter in front of the Coop--you can be pretty sure you've got yourself a taker. And if the leafleter lones the eye contact, be can still follow through with a well-timed flick of the wrist, bulleting flyer in the right direction.

Sometimes, I found, the potential recipient's previously formed opinions determine his decision about whether to accept the leafleter's offering. One elderly gentleman passed me by, and then turned around. "Oh," he quipped. "I'll take one of them, I thought it was one of things for Spanish classes. Those damn things should be outlawed."

I could only laugh in agreement, of course, and hand him a flyer. But it was my last one, and I crossed over from the Coop on my way back to Adama House for lunch. I was relieved of my burden, and satisfied, as does every leafleter when he gets to the proverbial end of the stack.

But my jovial feelings were shattered as I stepped up on the curb in front of Out of Town News, "Square Deal! Free Square coupons!" said one of the masses that flocked like vultures around me. "Two for one drinks!" another pitched in. "Wheelchair basketball," said a third. I had reverted back--back to my old self and I swore, right there, that I would never return, to the other side of the leaflet.

of their pants. Others keep their fists tightly clenched for the duration of their journey through the Square. Some appear willing to accept on approach, but then, to the dismay of the leafleter, just before of actual handover, reach up and straighten their prop up their eyeglasses. We on Mass, Ave had something of a slogan for these people: "no hands, no business."

But Harvard Square leafleters are themselves quite a crafty bunch, and each of us last Saturday morning developed a personal stategy to seek out and find the elusive receptive hand. As my little league baseball coach always told me, in anything you do it's all in the eye and the wrist.

If the leafleter can make eye contact with somebody as they pass; say, CVS Pharmacy, and maintain it for a few yards--until the sub- the leafleter in front of the Coop--you can be pretty sure you've got yourself a taker. And if the leafleter lones the eye contact, be can still follow through with a well-timed flick of the wrist, bulleting flyer in the right direction.

Sometimes, I found, the potential recipient's previously formed opinions determine his decision about whether to accept the leafleter's offering. One elderly gentleman passed me by, and then turned around. "Oh," he quipped. "I'll take one of them, I thought it was one of things for Spanish classes. Those damn things should be outlawed."

I could only laugh in agreement, of course, and hand him a flyer. But it was my last one, and I crossed over from the Coop on my way back to Adama House for lunch. I was relieved of my burden, and satisfied, as does every leafleter when he gets to the proverbial end of the stack.

But my jovial feelings were shattered as I stepped up on the curb in front of Out of Town News, "Square Deal! Free Square coupons!" said one of the masses that flocked like vultures around me. "Two for one drinks!" another pitched in. "Wheelchair basketball," said a third. I had reverted back--back to my old self and I swore, right there, that I would never return, to the other side of the leaflet.

of their pants. Others keep their fists tightly clenched for the duration of their journey through the Square. Some appear willing to accept on approach, but then, to the dismay of the leafleter, just before of actual handover, reach up and straighten their prop up their eyeglasses. We on Mass, Ave had something of a slogan for these people: "no hands, no business."

But Harvard Square leafleters are themselves quite a crafty bunch, and each of us last Saturday morning developed a personal stategy to seek out and find the elusive receptive hand. As my little league baseball coach always told me, in anything you do it's all in the eye and the wrist.

If the leafleter can make eye contact with somebody as they pass; say, CVS Pharmacy, and maintain it for a few yards--until the sub- the leafleter in front of the Coop--you can be pretty sure you've got yourself a taker. And if the leafleter lones the eye contact, be can still follow through with a well-timed flick of the wrist, bulleting flyer in the right direction.

Sometimes, I found, the potential recipient's previously formed opinions determine his decision about whether to accept the leafleter's offering. One elderly gentleman passed me by, and then turned around. "Oh," he quipped. "I'll take one of them, I thought it was one of things for Spanish classes. Those damn things should be outlawed."

I could only laugh in agreement, of course, and hand him a flyer. But it was my last one, and I crossed over from the Coop on my way back to Adama House for lunch. I was relieved of my burden, and satisfied, as does every leafleter when he gets to the proverbial end of the stack.

But my jovial feelings were shattered as I stepped up on the curb in front of Out of Town News, "Square Deal! Free Square coupons!" said one of the masses that flocked like vultures around me. "Two for one drinks!" another pitched in. "Wheelchair basketball," said a third. I had reverted back--back to my old self and I swore, right there, that I would never return, to the other side of the leaflet.

of their pants. Others keep their fists tightly clenched for the duration of their journey through the Square. Some appear willing to accept on approach, but then, to the dismay of the leafleter, just before of actual handover, reach up and straighten their prop up their eyeglasses. We on Mass, Ave had something of a slogan for these people: "no hands, no business."

But Harvard Square leafleters are themselves quite a crafty bunch, and each of us last Saturday morning developed a personal stategy to seek out and find the elusive receptive hand. As my little league baseball coach always told me, in anything you do it's all in the eye and the wrist.

If the leafleter can make eye contact with somebody as they pass; say, CVS Pharmacy, and maintain it for a few yards--until the sub- the leafleter in front of the Coop--you can be pretty sure you've got yourself a taker. And if the leafleter lones the eye contact, be can still follow through with a well-timed flick of the wrist, bulleting flyer in the right direction.

Sometimes, I found, the potential recipient's previously formed opinions determine his decision about whether to accept the leafleter's offering. One elderly gentleman passed me by, and then turned around. "Oh," he quipped. "I'll take one of them, I thought it was one of things for Spanish classes. Those damn things should be outlawed."

I could only laugh in agreement, of course, and hand him a flyer. But it was my last one, and I crossed over from the Coop on my way back to Adama House for lunch. I was relieved of my burden, and satisfied, as does every leafleter when he gets to the proverbial end of the stack.

But my jovial feelings were shattered as I stepped up on the curb in front of Out of Town News, "Square Deal! Free Square coupons!" said one of the masses that flocked like vultures around me. "Two for one drinks!" another pitched in. "Wheelchair basketball," said a third. I had reverted back--back to my old self and I swore, right there, that I would never return, to the other side of the leaflet.

of their pants. Others keep their fists tightly clenched for the duration of their journey through the Square. Some appear willing to accept on approach, but then, to the dismay of the leafleter, just before of actual handover, reach up and straighten their prop up their eyeglasses. We on Mass, Ave had something of a slogan for these people: "no hands, no business."

But Harvard Square leafleters are themselves quite a crafty bunch, and each of us last Saturday morning developed a personal stategy to seek out and find the elusive receptive hand. As my little league baseball coach always told me, in anything you do it's all in the eye and the wrist.

If the leafleter can make eye contact with somebody as they pass; say, CVS Pharmacy, and maintain it for a few yards--until the sub- the leafleter in front of the Coop--you can be pretty sure you've got yourself a taker. And if the leafleter lones the eye contact, be can still follow through with a well-timed flick of the wrist, bulleting flyer in the right direction.

Sometimes, I found, the potential recipient's previously formed opinions determine his decision about whether to accept the leafleter's offering. One elderly gentleman passed me by, and then turned around. "Oh," he quipped. "I'll take one of them, I thought it was one of things for Spanish classes. Those damn things should be outlawed."

I could only laugh in agreement, of course, and hand him a flyer. But it was my last one, and I crossed over from the Coop on my way back to Adama House for lunch. I was relieved of my burden, and satisfied, as does every leafleter when he gets to the proverbial end of the stack.

But my jovial feelings were shattered as I stepped up on the curb in front of Out of Town News, "Square Deal! Free Square coupons!" said one of the masses that flocked like vultures around me. "Two for one drinks!" another pitched in. "Wheelchair basketball," said a third. I had reverted back--back to my old self and I swore, right there, that I would never return, to the other side of the leaflet.

of their pants. Others keep their fists tightly clenched for the duration of their journey through the Square. Some appear willing to accept on approach, but then, to the dismay of the leafleter, just before of actual handover, reach up and straighten their prop up their eyeglasses. We on Mass, Ave had something of a slogan for these people: "no hands, no business."

But Harvard Square leafleters are themselves quite a crafty bunch, and each of us last Saturday morning developed a personal stategy to seek out and find the elusive receptive hand. As my little league baseball coach always told me, in anything you do it's all in the eye and the wrist.

If the leafleter can make eye contact with somebody as they pass; say, CVS Pharmacy, and maintain it for a few yards--until the sub- the leafleter in front of the Coop--you can be pretty sure you've got yourself a taker. And if the leafleter lones the eye contact, be can still follow through with a well-timed flick of the wrist, bulleting flyer in the right direction.

Sometimes, I found, the potential recipient's previously formed opinions determine his decision about whether to accept the leafleter's offering. One elderly gentleman passed me by, and then turned around. "Oh," he quipped. "I'll take one of them, I thought it was one of things for Spanish classes. Those damn things should be outlawed."

I could only laugh in agreement, of course, and hand him a flyer. But it was my last one, and I crossed over from the Coop on my way back to Adama House for lunch. I was relieved of my burden, and satisfied, as does every leafleter when he gets to the proverbial end of the stack.

But my jovial feelings were shattered as I stepped up on the curb in front of Out of Town News, "Square Deal! Free Square coupons!" said one of the masses that flocked like vultures around me. "Two for one drinks!" another pitched in. "Wheelchair basketball," said a third. I had reverted back--back to my old self and I swore, right there, that I would never return, to the other side of the leaflet.

But Harvard Square leafleters are themselves quite a crafty bunch, and each of us last Saturday morning developed a personal stategy to seek out and find the elusive receptive hand. As my little league baseball coach always told me, in anything you do it's all in the eye and the wrist.

If the leafleter can make eye contact with somebody as they pass; say, CVS Pharmacy, and maintain it for a few yards--until the sub- the leafleter in front of the Coop--you can be pretty sure you've got yourself a taker. And if the leafleter lones the eye contact, be can still follow through with a well-timed flick of the wrist, bulleting flyer in the right direction.

Sometimes, I found, the potential recipient's previously formed opinions determine his decision about whether to accept the leafleter's offering. One elderly gentleman passed me by, and then turned around. "Oh," he quipped. "I'll take one of them, I thought it was one of things for Spanish classes. Those damn things should be outlawed."

I could only laugh in agreement, of course, and hand him a flyer. But it was my last one, and I crossed over from the Coop on my way back to Adama House for lunch. I was relieved of my burden, and satisfied, as does every leafleter when he gets to the proverbial end of the stack.

But my jovial feelings were shattered as I stepped up on the curb in front of Out of Town News, "Square Deal! Free Square coupons!" said one of the masses that flocked like vultures around me. "Two for one drinks!" another pitched in. "Wheelchair basketball," said a third. I had reverted back--back to my old self and I swore, right there, that I would never return, to the other side of the leaflet.

Sometimes, I found, the potential recipient's previously formed opinions determine his decision about whether to accept the leafleter's offering. One elderly gentleman passed me by, and then turned around. "Oh," he quipped. "I'll take one of them, I thought it was one of things for Spanish classes. Those damn things should be outlawed."

I could only laugh in agreement, of course, and hand him a flyer. But it was my last one, and I crossed over from the Coop on my way back to Adama House for lunch. I was relieved of my burden, and satisfied, as does every leafleter when he gets to the proverbial end of the stack.

But my jovial feelings were shattered as I stepped up on the curb in front of Out of Town News, "Square Deal! Free Square coupons!" said one of the masses that flocked like vultures around me. "Two for one drinks!" another pitched in. "Wheelchair basketball," said a third. I had reverted back--back to my old self and I swore, right there, that I would never return, to the other side of the leaflet.