Brooklyn Hash House Harriers

Millenial General Meeting and 200th Run June 24, 2000
Hares: The Cardinal and Fluffy Start: York St. on the F
On-In: Some tiny Polish restaurant at Metropolitan and Nassau Aves. in Greenpoint

No Exit

Thank god for the horribly long trail! In marking this milestone in the history of the Brooklyn Hash, our joint masters took on the thankless task of keeping the pack busy while the advance team at the On-In fretted about the key element of the hash. (That would be the beer, for any of you who have never hashed before). Tiger's Woody and I, hobbled by injuries, joined Aleks and Alex, a nonrunner along for nominal (and some physical) support to Aleks, at the On-In to wait for the keg. We thought we had an easy assignment, since John, our joint master, had scheduled the keg delivery, and it was coming straight from the source: the Brooklyn Brewery. An hour and a half or so after the scheduled time, nothing had arrived save for some blintzes we'd offered to sample for our menu. We were facing the first Brooklyn hash-and a special occasion at that-at which we had NO beer. We looked around at the local groceries wondering if we'd have to buy individual bottles of Heineken in paper bags to distribute to the pack. That was what all the other customers at the restaurant brought with them, but not exactly what we'd had in mind. When Fluffy arrived, assuring us that the trail was damn long so we still had some time, we walked all the way over to the brewery to track down our keg. The people at the T-shirt/information booth told us that the keg was on the delivery truck and that as soon as the truck made its full route around the tri-state area, it would undoubtedly deliver the keg to us. Our ranting and raving had to be cut short, though, because they had spotted the pirated Brooklyn Brewery logo on Jerry's hash shirt and were demanding explanations. Way to dress for the occasion, Jerry! We had to slink back to the On-In and pray that the keg would win the race against the runners. We won by a head. Upon spotting a brewery truck, Fluffy hurled his body in its path, and we rushed a keg into the back garden. Clearly the rest of the hash was oblivious to this drama, as evidenced by their merciless griping as they stumbled in from the baking sidewalk. And, frankly, we weren't in a mood to hear it-we'd been there for hours but were still stone cold sober. Near the beginning of the trail the pack had been led right through an art installation called NoiseGate. It was an exhibition of blinding darkness with flashing lights, videos and exit signs surrounding the viewers--but there was no clear way out. But this ain't no party, this ain't no disco, this ain't no cultural outing-this is the hash! And that involves running. After a nice, small loop around the waterfront, they made the long, hot trek north to Greenpoint. The hares claimed that they were trying to be nice by not veering too far off the direct route. It went right through various distinctive neighborhoods of the borough, but still people complained about the lack of grass, dirt, shade. This is Brooklyn, people; you know where the parks are and they're even more out of the way! People eventually settled in at our lovely oasis/hole-in-the-wall.
Wax My Ass from San Diego was friendly but seemed content to sit near the door and the water cooler. Does anyone remember if he ever made it to the back garden with the rest of us? A bunch of other visitors, including Lifa from Tokyo and a bunch of hashers from Washington, made themselves comfortable. There was the old guy proudly showing off his scar from recent heart surgery and making people feel his new pacemaker. Moments later he was smoking a cigar and passing more out to all the boys who'd apparently missed the irony. In honor of the occasion, Spiritual Adviser Paul wrote a cadence about the Brooklyn Hash. Without a single rehearsal, the crowd belted out-badly but spiritedly-his account featuring of all the usual Brooklyn hashers, plus several people who never hash with us, just for good measure. We had down-downs of all sorts, including ones for the hares, visitors and virgins. I was given one again for being a Brooklyn officer and having the gall to move out of the borough. Evan had to join me for being the cause of my degeneracy. Jerry did a down-down for his birthday, and Sucks After Dark did one for requesting that he have his beer on top of water. His down-down was not diluted. Crofty got one for being a former joint master but not until later because we forgot about him, as is now tradition. The restaurant owner was ready for us, bringing his own mug, wearing his new hash shirt and drinking like a professional. We also decided to install some new officers, since no resignations were accepted from or by the mismanagement. Pierre was welcomed as our M*A*S*H officer (medic) and presented with some deodorant body spray for administering first aid. Stephen, our new Hash Monger, or Monster, or Mambo King, or whatever it is, didn't bother to show up, so Pierre also accepted a key chain with a posable female hasher for him. I gave Stacie an official Star Trek communicator/clock to aid her in her duties as my On Sec Flunky (I swear, she requested that title). A follow up to our appointments: Pierre narrowly avoided abdicating because of imminent deportation by getting a new visa to stay In Country a while longer. Stephen, on the other hand, not only skipped the MGM, but at the next hash also asked me when we were planning to hold it. Later he abandoned the amnesia excuse and claimed that he was in Germany or Austria, or some other place where we wouldn't bother checking. My own flunky since e-mailed me that she was going out of town so her communicator would be out of range for the next two hashes. All in all, not the best. Then again, not the brightest either. We hung out for a while eating our pierogies and potato pancakes and wearing our new shirts. Count on John to commission T-shirts that say "Brooklyn . . . where the trail goes on forever." Truth in advertising. The neighbors started complaining when people started singing hash songs, and there was a bit too much public kissing between John and our proprietor, so we left for another locale. Dave Long and Debbie were already in Mug's when we got there. Great place to go if you're trying to get away from us, guys! Mug's was also the first stop on the pub crawl the night before. I felt as if I were spinning in an endless cycle of hashes, bars, writeups and beer, so I made my way to the exit, hoping it was real. On out.