Walking the streets on St. Patrick’s Day in New York City is akin to walking into an insane asylum in which all the inmates have been starved for days, denied all their medications, punched about the head a few times, then painted green and released from their cells. Also, someone has pissed in all the corners.

One memorably chaotic St. Patrick’s Day I acquired a sidekick—a thick black man who had painted green shamrocks on his dark cheeks—by the name of Ronald. Ronald approached me while I was buying a beer in a hot, smoky bar on the Upper East Side. His Yankees cap was turned to the side. He woofed like a dog at random moments. It was odd.

“Yo, my man, buy me a drink,” he demanded. Then woofed.

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