230p: As the grey skies get even darker from the slowly worsening snowstorm, I begin to notice a general atmospheric change within the SantaCon community. People seem tired, belligerent, and chilly. Most of my queries to take a photo are met with guttural laughs and middle fingers.
This sharp barometric drop in character becomes especially evident on the corner of St. Marks and Second Ave, as I witness two separate Santa groups attempt to consolidate into one. A brave diplomat steps out from Group A and attempts to start a conversation with an elf lighting a cigarette from Group B.
“Yo dude, which bar are you guys coming from?”
“Cigarette-ville,” says the elf, not taking his eye off his lighter.
“Ah, go f*ck yourself.”