There was barely half the usual number of hashers at the start, due to hash exhaustion from the NYCH3 AGM weekend. More evidence for Manhattan snobs that Brooklyn is also part of New York City (It's been 100 years, people, get over it). We waited around for Paul, clearly a nonnative Manhattanite, to fetch his Jaguar hashmobile (but don't dare call it that!), from its safe parking spot somewhere in Connecticut. Paul had promised a short run, and Keith gave several compelling reasons why we'd be going over the bridge. Then Paul threw us off by, first, having Joyce actually show up at the start in Brooklyn rather than meet us near home in Manhattan and, second, having us run around Brooklyn Heights until we couldn't tell the difference between where the trail went and where we'd already gone.
It was a beautiful night, but started out very windy and chilly. It rained exactly 5 drops and then the storm had passed. All the flowers in the Heights were blooming. Joyce particularly liked the landscaped traffic islands under the Brooklyn Bridge that few people besides hashers get to appreciate.
After we finally reached the bridge, Jerry led the way back down the Brooklyn-bound ramp insisting he was On. So I yelled at the top of my lungs for Byron-Brown, who may have even heard me, but knew better than to listen to Jerry, who had earlier insisted on circling the Heights a couple more times rather than follow everyone else to the bridge. Then, naturally, Jerry returned red-faced from the false, and we sheepishly followed Byron-Brown over to Manhattan. Resist it all you want, but you have to face your fate: sometimes even the true path shall lead you astray.
After the bridge, the trail split and we were given a route for SCBs and the name of the on-in. It took us a few minutes to remember what SCB stands for, so we figured we weren't any and instead took the other route, the MGT (masochistic garbage tour). It detoured long enough for a run past a dumpster parking lot and through some complex where the trail suddenly disappeared. Paul later explained that that was where a security guard chased him and prevented him from continuing the trail. Next time, accidentally rip a small hole in the flour bag as you run. That way, we'll either find the trail or find you and bail you out.
Good on-in, since this time we came with an appropriately small group. We ordered from the extensive menu of fried stuff (under $4.50 only!) and had plenty of beer. We were subjected to some down-downs, but I don't remember exactly why--essentially just for being, and being in eyesight of the joint masters. I got the usual gratuitous down-down, I think just because I need the practice. Practice for what, I ask you? At least the cheap beer was more palatable this time. Our singing barely but definitively topped the softball team in the front of the bar. I finally discovered where this bar really is (it just seems to pop out of an alley behind some dumpsters). Hey, it's not Brooklyn, but somebody has to drink the beer. People discussed overcommitted hash/social schedules and the innumerable reasons why you shouldn't let the hash masses into your home. Not only were all of the Brooklyn officers present, but everyone present was an officeholder on an NYC hash (if not more than one). I guess someone had to show up despite all the recent hashes, and we were most likely to be guilt-ridden. It also proves that if you can't come up with something better to do, someone will put you in charge. That may explain why we have no idea who's in charge of what anymore and what fools put them in charge. Must be those fools who missed a good evening of hashing. Half in foreign territory, but not half bad.
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