Brooklyn Run #199 June 12, 2000

Hare: Michael Bahamonde

Start: Bedford stop, L train

On In: The Abbey, by consensus

Guest Scribe: Tiger's Woody

I have a theory about Brooklyn hashes. They only happen in shitty weather. I have yet to witness a Brooklyn run on a decent night. Run #199 was graced by slow, relentless rain.

Standing under a pharmacy awning in Williamsburg, our hare Mike Bahamonde quiets pack after only four OYOYOYs and declares, "We're starting a new tradition. The pack picks the on in." After no whining-that's right, NO

whining, we agree on the Abbey. It is probably the only instance of hash consensus on record. The Brooklyn hash-the agreeable hash.

I notice the hare is wearing street clothes and lacks telltale signs of flour. I wait for an announcement about the pack laying trail but fortunately it is not forthcoming. We walk our bags two blocks to the Abbey to help the hare. The agreeable Brooklyn hash thing again.

The trail points southwest toward Williamsburg's parts unknown. It's still raining. Tonight it's a lot of Brooklyn regulars. John's here and fast like normal. Jerry's here and talkative like normal. Steven is back after a long time away. I slog jog along, not caring that I am DFL. I let the pack decipher soggy flour from soggy trash.

We pass Marcy Avenue and cross below BQE underpasses and JMZ tracks to find the wet remnants of a check in the middle of a housing project. Finally FRBs Sucks and Crofty sleuth out a visible mark blocks away and we find ourselves at a dead end street bounded by junkyards, rusty warehouses, and the East River. We hope for a nice river promenade to jog along, but only an oil spill and chain link greet us. No dead bodies, but no flour. We make a quick stop for a photo op for visitor Sophie before sniffing out the trail a block north.

We pass more shitty buildings, a bunch of Puerto Rican flags tired after the weekend's Puerto Rican Day festivities, a couple of bars, and circle back to Williamsburg where the hare waits. He does some spur of the moment negotiating with the barmaid and we get the happy hour deal.

It's time for down downs. Mini down downs tonight, but there are few complaints. Laird mutters, "I remember when down downs were full pints," but his hash trash is cloaked in benevolence rather than criticism. Two inches of beer for the Hare, another two inches for visitor Sophie, a Parisian hasher from Athens, two inches more to Ewa for bad singing. A final down down to model drinker Paul for chivalry when he waited on trail for the back-of-the-pack omen, all of whom had already shortcutted to the on in. The hare wanders off to make a pizza order. Peter arrives about 9:30, delayed by invisible wet checks and drenched after hours on trail.

So it's another nice, small shitty night at the Brooklyn hash. Until the next miserable Monday evening,

On out.