It happened again. Just like our Labor Day Run, we had VISITORS1 in Brooklyn. What accounts for this recent surge in popularity of the Brooklyn hash? Is it scenic Park Slope, the good company, cultured drinking establishments, the pizza? Our visitors at Run #207 included Semen Steven and his entourage of impressionable Coast Guard virgins whose ship was en route to Nova Scotia or some other place of danger. I fear the Coast Guard may have been seeking beer checks, hot tubs and other flagrant displays of hedonism, but they got us instead.
The pack met up at Atlantic and Flatbush Avenues. After the usual talk of ailments and beer, we took off toward Park Slope, fearing blue chalk but fortunately not subjected to it, as our hare was none other than blue chalk expunger himself Peter Trunfio.
Reminiscent of our Labor Day run, the trail led us southeast through streets whose names I will never manage to learn toward Prospect Park. Quintessential Brooklyn passed us: grey trees, vague sidewalks, pentecostal churches, building people live and work in. This being a rare hash attended by both on sec and her loyal flunky, I tried to pace Janet to get the engagement scoop, but she was solving checks or some other nonsense. At the outer reaches of Grand Army Plaza, I spied a lanky blur darting into the Park. "On on!" I cried and the pack surged forward into the inky darkness of the Park, sorry for any later poor slobs running alone. Fortunately, our sojourn in the park was a swift one, all of three dark minutes, and then we were in the well-lit unevenness of Park Slope.
Always one to encourage virgins to solve checks, I like to invent rumors of beer checks and babes and boobs ahead. This time no gimmick was needed as the pack was filled with a veritable regiment of happy checkers, allowing me to wait check-side and hone my beer radar. Occasionally, Coast Guard checking power wavered and the pack was forced to rely on faint cowbell clangs and Suck's distant On Ons, grateful for Park Slope's abundance of payphones.
After a while, beer radar and chalk arrows paid off and we stumbled into Smiths. Our on in's windows were opened wide, encouraging us to stare vacantly outside, while tempting burgeoning criminals/future hashers/youth to steal our sheetrock from the sill. A quick bag rearrangement later on the part of John Burke, and the chalk was all that walked. Virgins and visitors were assigned downdowns, most of the Coast Guard drinking on both counts. Everyone else just drank their beer and ate their pizza.
Good thing the scribe stayed late to witness the late arrivals of civilians DB2, business traveler Jakeoff from St. Louis and hash whoremaster Steven, to speculate on DB2's wait for a bus, and to be around for Jerry's allegations that Janet could no longer find her way around Park Slope. Far too late in the night, I staggered off to a cultural experience train ride home, wondering how long I could possibly stall before writing up the write up.
On Out.