Night has fallen in Manhattan as St. Patrick's Day winds down. Weirdness is in the air. I saw a very tall man, wearing just a thong, his body painted green. Two guys in kilts were kissing at the corner of 46th Street and 8th Ave. I saw cackling harpies sitting on the curb drinking green beer out of plastic cups. There were black people dressed like leprechuans. Little old ladies in lime green trench coats. Homeless people sporting "Kiss Me - I'm Irish" buttons on their tattered jackets. I saw a shirtless woman with strategically-placed shamrocks. I listened to an ancient Chinese man croaking "When Irish Eyes are Smiling." I followed a drunk girl wearing a green plastic derby as she stumbled down 8th Avenue, stopping to hug the cops. I saw a wicked thin socialite, striding purposefully down the street at 10:45 PM, wearing cheap green beads, her six-year-old daughter in tow. In this world of uncertainty and heartache, New Yorkers and touristas are misbehaving and blowing off steam. Many of these people will be nursing 4-star hangovers in the morning.
God bless us all, and good night.
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