Deja vu all over again. No, you cynics, I'm not complaining about the agony of lack of resources that perpetually plague my life (money, good sex, well most other items fall under one or the other), but of trying to write up a Full Moon on the eve of the next one, this time, one which I am setting! And it started the same way the last one did--Curtis showing up early at the start, saying he could not run, could I pass out the writeups, and could I write up this one also? My foolish answer being: O.K. to all the above. {Jerry is such a good sport, er sucker, when asked nicely and scratched behind the ears. --CF}
All of this is even further confounded by my trip to my midwestern origin last week, where I was reminded of drinking beer and then riding my Suzuki naked through the countryside. (Doesn't he ever change you may ask, well, I did trade in my trail bike for Nike Triax Structures.) {Some things are better left unsaid and not in print. For example, have I told you I was in Marie Claire magazine . . . --CF} I'm reminded of one of my favorite Sci Fi novels by Robert Silverberg, To the Land of the Living, where the ancient King Gilgamesh and his sidekick Enkidu find themselves in a world of the deceased of all ages who battle to make it back to life. They can be killed and come back with no problem, but they always feel the pain of their death. I guess they didn't need marathons and hashes like we do.
But back to Yoshi and Beth's Hash, and its pain. The early parts were mundane--over to the Hudson, up through Soho moving east to the Village, and then we fell into a painful vacuum that even a writer like Silverberg couldn't dream up.
It was somewhere around Sixth Avenue and Greenwich where a check appeared in a concrete island in the middle of the street. And marks were found no more. The pack wasn't particularly large or experienced, but everyone tried to check, and Roy, Paul, Joyce, and I were wearing out our overpronations doing figure eights trying to find even a hint of a mark. Yoshi later claimed since it was a short run, he planned it that way. Right.
Eventually we did find our way back to the North and east to a new establishment that I believe was in the vicinity of 23rd and 3rd Ave. At this point I believe the success of the night must be attributed to Beth and her dog, who evidently regularly scout out bars--if they allow dogs, hashers have a chance.
I did down downs in a rather efficient but effective order, with the assistance of Asshole of the Year, Yoshi's compadre (when Vince isn't around). There were a number of virgins, including the establishment's manager, and visitors, not the least of which were a couple from Summit who complained about why we don't sing more--which to me is like asking them "Well, it's like, why the hell do you live in New Jersey?" I explained this was the Greater Gotham Full Moon Hash. {And their being from Summit, that seems to have been sufficient explanation. They were, after all, asking Jerry who was most likely adorned in his headband and running tight shorts which constantly remind of his *ahem* tendencies to the Left. --CF}
We had several lovely selections of beer, including Newcastle Brown and a New Amsterdam IPA. But what really impressed was the food, and the service that went with it. Some lovely young lady kept a huge salad bowl full for us and then presented a tray of warm linguini with broccoli and grated cheese (and bread of course) but without any of the usual cheap, canned red sauce! Definitely a refreshing change.
It appeared the almost Brooklyn size group enjoyed the evening and it was an interesting combination of virgins, visitors, non-marathoning old timers (there was a 20-mile NYRRC run the next morning--boooring), relatively new boots, and even a few civilians, which included a rare appearance by Prodigy and a young lady who claimed to know Yoshi in college, and was willing to talk about it! Luckily for Yoshi, most people weren't as interested in hearing her stories as he was watching which female hashers I kissed and commenting on my techniques.
G2FMH3 On-Sec's note. I like having Jerry guest scribe for me for many reasons. One, he's always so easy to connive into doing the writeup for me. Two, as some sort of sick payback, he always faxes me his diatribe in barely legible handwritten scrawl so that I have to type the whole thing over again which, in turn I think, gives me free license to make up whatever I want when I can't read his writing. Three, there's always something poignantly revealing in his writeups--witness the Suzuki-Beer-Nudity through midwestern corn fields imagery. And four, he's not afraid to make up stuff--Jerry kissing female hashers? Preposterous!
Now that I have all this space left over, I'm going to share a down down song that I would like to see emerge. I know, I know. You're saying, "But Curtis, we already have songs we sing during down downs." And I'm saying, "Two ain't gonna cut it." So here you go. Get it right before the CD comes out and before it's performed with different lyrics at some funeral broadcast around the globe.
"Here's to Brother (Sister) Hasher"
(sung to "Auf du Leibe Augustine")
Here's to Brother Hasher
Brother Hasher
Brother Hasher.
Here's to Brother Hasher
May he chug-a-lug.
He's drunk and he's jolly
He's fucked up by golly, so
Here's to Brother Hasher
May he chug-a-lug.
Drink it down down down down down . . .