M. and I are walking through the East Village on a warm spring evening. As we’re passing by the crowded plaza on Astor Place and 4th Avenue a woman approaches us waiving a finger menacingly and spouting biblical phrases. Neither of us acknowledge her at first. But when she says to M., ‘Who has permission to walk through the East Village looking like a crack whore with Santa Claus!’ I turn to her, and, without breaking stride and mutter, ‘Fuck off.’ Before we’re out of earshot I hear her cursing us and continuing her bizarre, biblical rant. As we’re walking down 3rd Avenue I turn to M. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask. ‘Yeah,’ M. says, ‘I don’t necessarily dislike what she said, I just don’t like how she said it.’