It was the day after the deluge. Why is it that as soon as they declare a drought emergency, suddenly we're deluged with deluges? This was the one that shut down all the subways and Metro North. Remember? The streets and sidewalks were scrubbed clean of all previous hash trails and reminders of the vast population of city dogs. Trails in the park might be puddly and muddy, but the days were growing shorter, and with gray, threatening skies obscuring the allegedly full moon, the hares were sure to avoid the parks anyway, right?
A group of about two dozen assembled at the corner of Broadway and 71st. The hares, dressed in civilian clothes and one wearing Birkenstocks (did your mother ever tell you never to trust a hare in Birkenstocks? She should have.), quickly explained the arcane markings of the hash to the virgins who willingly identified themselves (for some reason, such self-identification would not be nearly so forthcoming at the On-In) and sent us on our way. The trail headed to a check at the southeast corner of Riverside Park. The check was reasonably easily solved as the trail picked up, duh, in the park.
We proceeded north, exiting the park by going over the Soldiers and Sailors Memorial and past an outdoor play in which the actors seemed unperturbed by the howling pack of pre-drunken revelers (the show must go on!). The next check was also promptly solved as the trail headed east toward, duh, Central Park.
The Even-a-Blind-Pig-Finds-an-Acorn-from-Time-to-Time Award goes to relative newbie John (a federal prosecutor, so watch what you say around him (or write about him)). He arrived at the start just after the hares had departed. Though they say they saw John standing forlornly, carrying a backpack the size of a small refrigerator, and say they had the cab honk at him, the hares did not feel enough compassion to stop, take his bag, and send him in the right direction (perhaps after learning of his station in life, this mistake will not be repeated). John, for his part, was not sharp enough to notice the address of the On-In written on the sidewalk (It's comforting to know that our streets are being kept clear of criminals by the observant), but was lucky enough to head north.
Timing being everything, John’s path north exactly coincided with the FRB’s path headed east after the second check. Because John was hoping to run with his main squeeze who he was sure was going to be at the back of the pack, he asked the FRB’s if they were in front or behind and, in yet another stroke of luck (whether good or bad depends on your philosophy of life), they assured him they were in the back. So John, lugging his backpack, ran the rest of the trail with the FRB’s, and was among the first to the On-In.
But I digress.
The trail entered Central Park, headed north through a soccer game to a check that was quickly solved as heading north (putting the first mark about 20 yards from the check seems to inhibit dawdling). The trail exited the park and headed north on Central Park West. Though the hares tried to entice the pack over the park wall and back into the park, it was not to be. We were several miles into the trail and wanted the On-In to come soon.
Have you ever noticed that at the start of a hash, there is a lot of whooping and displays of exuberance? Even though you know the nearest hasher is no more than 2 inches behind you, you still feel the need to yell "on-on" at every mark you see? But, after the trail has gone 4 miles (and you're sure you've run at least 6), there is very little calling of "on-on," and most hashers adopt the every-hasher-for-himself-get-me-to-the-on-in-as-quickly-as-possible-and-screw-everybody-else-so-I-can-start-drinking-beer philosophy? Well, that's where we were at this point. Faces were grim as we mentally turned over the possibilities of where the On-In would be. Those in the know were certain it would be the Dive Bar.
Sure enough, we turned West and then North on Amsterdam. Though it turned on 96th and aimed right at it, the trail went right on by the Dive Bar to a check on 96th and Broadway. What’s this? A check? This late in the game? The trail was picked up North only to lead to a false on the median. Oh, you Birkenstock-wearing mistress (and master) of cruelty! How could there be a false more than four miles in on a Friday, so-far-beerless night?
Fortunately, the trail was soon found going west, north and then west again into, duh, Riverside Park. Though tired and thirsty, a mental note was made to congratulate the hares for not fearing to bring the pack into parks after dark. Take back our parks! The mental note was quickly forgotten, however, upon encountering another check in the park (and a different mental note was made). While almost everybody headed north on Riverside Drive, Crofty did the gentlemanly (or is that hashly?) thing, and marked the check in the park.
Now, all thoughts turned to Tap-a-Keg as our certain destination. In a last betrayal of trust, the hares passed up Tap-a-Keg and took us to Cannons. The On-In, most recently the terminus of TWTOTY (of a different NYC Hash, so it doesn’t count for the GGFMH3, we were informed), had completely re-done its facade. Whether the change was made due to the generous influx of cash provided by hashes gone by or because of management’s desire not to be associated with TWTOTY (of that other hash) was a matter of much speculation that evening.
Perhaps the most sedate, and certainly the most reluctant, down-downs of the year were presided over by Jerry and Mike. First came the hares. Though the trail was long, the checks were easy and the use of flour abundant (who was it who said hares are never punished for too many marks? Whoever she was, she's right -- future hares take note), so the mob was not out for blood. Shortly after their down-downs, the hares were observed engaging in a most peculiar ritual, apparently trying to see how the other's beer tasted. It is hoped that this ritual between hares does not become common (later in the evening after far more beer has been consumed, and between other hashers and hariettes, is another matter).
Although several virgins had presented themselves at the start, they were noticeably less noticeable when the time for their down-downs arrived. After some investigation, virgins Alice and Michelle were identified and treated appropriately. Four reluctant civilians, Crazy Bob, Mike, one rendered anonymous by your scribe's ingestion of alcohol, and one camouflaged in running attire (we won't mention any names, but it is said that she is responsible for another, unnamed hash's WTOTY), were brought up for their down-downs. Furthering the GGFMH3's reputation as the hash that knows more than two songs, the civilians were serenaded with "What a Wank" (okay, so the words aren't that hard to remember, we still know more than two songs).
Though one glass of beer remained, Jerry and Mike, exhausted by the long, park-laden trail and heavy duties as MCs, could find no trail offense sufficient to warrant the last down-down. The beer situation was ideal: Unlimited choice and a supply that lasted until midnight (when the beer seemed to be flowing endlessly and at no additional expense, comparisons of the hares and beer to Jesus and the fish and loaves began to be made). As midnight drew nigh and possible pumpkinhood approached, and, more important, it appearing that a fresh supply of beer would require him to pull his wallet from his pocket, your scribe departed.
On-Out.
The Full Moon Hash Hymnal
Consider Yourself
Consider yourself, On-In
Consider yourself, One of the Harriers
We’ve taken to you
So strong
Its true, we’re, going to get along.
Drink it down down …
Here’s to Brother Hasher
(Sung to the tune of "My left testicle is killing me")
Here’s to brother hasher, brother hasher, brother hasher
Here’s to brother hasher may he chug-a-lug.
He’s happy, he’s jolly,
He’s fucked up by golly
So here’s to brother hasher may he chug-a-lug
Drink it down down …
Shitty Trail
(Sung to the tune of "Mickey Mouse")
S-H-I, T-T-Y, T-R-A-I-L
Shitty trail, (Shitty trail!)
Shitty trail, (Shitty trail!)
The mother fucker gave us shitty trail!
I would rather drink some beer, Than hash your shitty trail,
S-H-I, T-T-Y, T-R-A-I-L
Drink it down down …
Horse’s Ass
Joooooe Blow,
Joooooe Blow,
Joooooe Blow is a Horse’s Ass
He’s the meanest,
Sucks the biggest penis
Joooooe Blow is a Horse’s Ass
[optional 2nd refrain]
Ever since he found it,
All he does is pound it,
Joooooe Blow is a Horse's Ass
Drink it down down …
What A Wank
(Sung to William Tell Overture)
What a wank, what a wank, what a wank, wank, wank,
What a wank, what a wank, what a wank, wank, wank,
What a wank, what a wank, what a wank, wank, wank,
What a wank, what a wank, wank, wank.
Drink it down down …
The Beer Prayer
Our lager,
Which art in barrels,
Hallowed be thy drink.
Thy will be drunk (I will be drunk),
At home as it is in the tavern.
Give us this day our foamy head,
And forgive us our spillages,
As we forgive those who spill against us.
And lead us not to incarceration,
But deliver us from hangovers.
For thine is the porter, the stout,
And the pilsner,
For ever and ever.
Barman!
The Greater Gotham Full Moon Hash House Harriers
The Gambling Hash
August 28th, 1999
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