"Tell me why I don't like Mondays?"
Blasphemous words for a Brooklyn hasher. Nonetheless, it was not a good day and all I really wanted to do was take a nap. I had had almost no sleep the night before, due not to the typical excuse of the Sunday hash, but mainly because for some reason I'd agreed to trek out in pouring rain the night before so I could watch actors give themselves awards for their roles as best supporting bodies for pink dresses, etc. I had accomplished virtually nothing all day, but thought that being incapable of hashing was just too lame. Besides, neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow nor train screwups (or at least a better excuse) shall impede the delivery of the damn writeups.
Both the rain and snow had cleared by that time, but it was still what weather reports call brisk. In certain locations, notably near the Atlantic Avenue station in Brooklyn, that is experienced as a mighty cold wind. A few of us huddled on the side of the Williamsburg Savings Bank building, trying to avoid the gale-force winds swirling around the intersection. After ten minutes, someone finally had the brilliant idea of standing INSIDE the doorway. A few more people showed up and we went to the island in the middle of the whirlwind so the hare could yell his instructions to us: The trail was in chalk and flour, some of which may not have blown away.
Surprisingly, I was able to wade through my mental fog and dive through the surging wind sufficiently enough to avoid being blown into oncoming traffic. As we ran, people reasoned that the hare didn't know Brooklyn, but had set a run to Sparky's before, so that was a good bet. The marks got marginally better as we went on and got used to looking for tiny pink circles that indicated checks. The pack broke apart, but all seemed to go swimmingly through Ft. Greene Park and downtown Brooklyn. I thought I had broken my streak of getting lost on every hash of late. Then, in Brooklyn Heights, we reconvened with Jerry and I realized what had been missing this time--my joint master. Sure enough, before I knew it, I was running in circles around Cobble Hill. The trail had already started the long march down Court Street toward Sparky's before we lost it, so I tried to shortcut for a while but lost heart just before I would have crossed the trail. We finally heard a faint "on-on" from Clinton Street and followed the rest of the trail south to-surprise-Sparky's. I guess it's best to go with your beer gut.
Sparky's has an excellent beer selection. It must also have good acoustics because we sang with gusto for our food and it didn't sound horrible. Like when you sing in the shower. I think the other patrons would have preferred that we'd tried that. As we looked in the boxes to see the evening's selection of pizza, Alice suddenly shouted, "It doesn't matter, it's going to be in my underwear in a minute anyway." However, all appetites were not lost.
A down-down was administered to Geoff--in honor of his excitement at once again having his hand free for its usual unwholesome uses (since he's always hung his beer from his neck, even drinking doesn't get in his way). He's such an experienced hasher, though, he proved he could do it with one arm tied to his back. John deserved a down-down for just showing up at the on-in, but I think he accepted his own excuse that he ran to the bar. Another down-down went to Beth for showing up after a long absence. Her protest of "It's been . . . less than a year" didn't aid her cause. Scott Schnipper, trying to disguise himself as a local barfly again, got one for antisocialism (or, as Geoff translated, capitalism).
The problem with Sparky's is that it's convenient for none of us. I had to leave early so I wouldn't fall asleep on the F train. Paul, Jerry, and I set out to find it having only a faint recollection of where the station was. Jerry said he'd never left the place sober before and couldn't find his bearings. Another challenging hash for all of us. On on.
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