Close encounter of the naked kind

I'd just arrived in the city from church in Jersey this afternoon, guitar case in hand. As I crossed Seventh Avenue, who should I see but the Naked Cowboy. He was walking down Seventh headed in my direction, bare muscles rippling, strumming his white guitar and singing at the top of his substantial lungs. For one terrifying moment, our eyes met, and I thought I'd find myself in some bizarre guitar duel a la Crossroads, my soul on the line. And then he sang his next verse, I kept walking up 32nd Street, and it was over.