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WARNING: This being the first Greater Gotham Full Moon Hash House Harriers (G2FMH3) writeup to emerge in years, I am taking the liberty of giving this extended dance mix version (a) in an effort to make up for lost writeups, and (b) because as the new G2FMH3 On-Sec I can make the writeup as long or as short as I want. In other words, if you're reading this at the hash, fill your beer before you continue reading. And if you happen to finish your beer before you're done reading the writeup, fill your beer again and finish reading this at home. This ain't no Book Club, you know.
It's strange how the mind works. To misquote Miller in Repo Man, "Suppose you're thinking about a plate of shrimp.Then somebody says, plate' or shrimp' or plate of shrimp.' It's all a part of the great cosmic unconsciousness. So there Iwas a couple weeks ago at the Black Bass (There. another gratuitous mentioning of what has to have been the best hash of the year) marveling at David Croft acting as a good On-Sec in administering the down-downs in the absence of both NYCH3 Joint Masters, and I remember thinking to myself, "On-Sec. Now there's a thankless job. Later, Marion summoned me into a deep embrace that made me feel like I was about to be whacked by Michael Corleone, "How would you like to be the new On-Sec for the Greater Gotham Full Moon Hash? she throatily whispered into my ear. Cosmic unconsciousness? More like Marion's beer-addled consciousness. But I vaguely recall accepting the offer and so herewith I dispense my first duty as On-Sec for the G2FMH3: doing the fucking writeup.
Be careful what you wish for. Friday morning I was walking to work with my hashgear on my back and I started to wonder about some dear hashers who left New York to settle in Boston. "I wonder how Ayme and Christophe are doing, I wondered as I wandered. That night, just as the pack of approximately 45 hashers with nothing better to do on a Friday night took off from Bowling Green, my earlier ponderings materialized in a frantic Ayme running against the pack to drop her bag on the corner. More cosmic unconsciousness. "I'll catch up! she called out. That was the last time I saw Ayme on trail. I caught up to Christophe, though, as he nimbly bounded up a couple knee-high steps then bolted down an alley leaving me to follow Peter along a deft, yet ineffective, shortcut deep in the bowels of the concrete canyons that are downtown New York.
Do as I say, not as I do. A while ago, there was some consternation within the hash regarding the prepoderance of virgin hares and their innumerous screw-ups. This prompted NYCH3 Trailmaster, Roy Gilbert, to lay down some basic tenets of setting trails. Apparently, though, his simple guidelines failed to carryover into the G2FMH3. Unwieldy checks one smack in the middle of City Hall Park and various others in locations that left more options than one has fingers, dastardly false trails, and an On-In playing its music with the volume attenuator set to "11. Good job, Roy!
The Trail. As accurately as I can report, the trail wound through some of the Financial District's less-famous destinations with an excellent false trail through some yuppie scum bar set up in an alley, then into the aforementioned City Hall area. Now although we were told the entire trail was marked in chalk, just outside of Chinatown the pack happened upon a flour arrow and what looked like trail. This successfully confused a good handful of hounds and had me cursing and getting thirsty-mad until I heard the "On On! cries cutting through the smell of rotting fish and fried noodles wafting out of Chinatown. In Chinatown, I was forced to follow trail because the Brothers proved useless in giving me a good shortcut. The trail then cut through a small slice of Little Italy, took a dead sprint down Broome Street into SoHo, dropped back down to Canal where I choked back an impending sense of doom that we were going to attempt a Holland Tunnel crossing, then walkwayed over Tunnel traffic onto Laight St. toward Hudson where we finally found the On-In. Somewhere on the trail, there was a chicken-eagle split, but I never saw it until I found where the two trails rejoined. Which trail was I on? "I think that was the eagle trail, offered Marie as she danced off the walkway. "Donner Trail would be more accurate . . . only without the bitter winter in the Sierras and that hush hush cannibalism. But if you can't eat your friends, who can you eat?
Thematic development. As any other hack journalist would do, I took pad and pen in hand at the On-In and proceeded on my quest for an underlying theme and salient quotes to develop a more than mildly interesting writeup. The following are some of the evening's contenders.
What's that smell? It may have been that the On-In was too close to either the Hudson or New Jersey, but there was definitely a pervasive olfactory affront that seemed to be on a constant attack far outweighing the normal stench that rises from the hash at the end of a humid summer trail. My attempts to locate the singlemost prominent offender were for naught, though. A sniffing inspection of Cathy, reminiscent of that usually reserved for two dogs meeting, yielded only her response of, "I'm the kind of person who sprays on Elizabeth Arden before going out to the hash. I then zeroed in on Guillermo and Leslie exchanging shirts thinking I found the culprits, but was disappointed to hear Leslie comment to Mr. Metz, "You smell good.{tee hee}
Fast Times at Hash House High. Once Bon Jovi stopped wailing through the bar's speakers, Marion and Andy dispensed the down-downs, with what seemed the iron-hand rule of a 9th grade history teacher, to a pack of hashers offering attention rivalling that of a class of disaffected Spring term high school seniors. Hares Roy and Yoshi (his virgin trail) demonstrated the proper method of doing a down-down. Virgins Paul, Steven, and Tom and Keith (a couple of kids who looked like they were still freshly working their way through post-pubescence) received their down-down initiation with the newcomer trepidation and determination of freshmen boys when they first walk into the locker room. Visitors/Refugee hashers Ayme and Christophe showed us that even though they seem to have assimilated well into their more gentrified lifestyle in Bahston, they can still drink beer like rock n roll superstars.
Then the call went out for what may very well become an Olympic demonstration event: The Flick Challenge. Our lithe Champion strode to the front with the humble confidence of a Greek warrior to meet her challenger, a newish guy named Andy who stood with the puffed out cockiness of a World Federation wrestler. Results: Lisa continuing reigning champion, even after drinking a beer with a difficulty rating of 4.2% alcohol content; Andy nil, but he did end up wearing a good amount of his beer. Lisa later shared with me some of the banter exchanged in the ring of battle, but it involved a lot of names of schools I'm unfamiliar with so I can't relate the details here. Suffice it to say, though, that the general tone of our Champion was that of immodest resignation. To misquote her, "I don't know why they keep making me do this, but no one's going to kick my ass. Since she is on the varsity team, I wasn't about to argue with her. With the down-downs completed, the fourth period bell rang, Pizza Guy completed his delivery, and Foreigner started blaring from the stereo.
Bite Me. I don't exactly know how it started, but people started sharing this sentiment with me throughout the evening. At last count, Guillermo, Idaho Sue, Mike Hoffman, Gus, Kyle, and Yoshi all wished me a fond, "Bite me. Now there's a good way to land your Candyass in the writeup: tell the scribe, "Bite me. That, or let the scribe hear you say something totally random and let him misconstrue it. For example, I later heard Mike say, "My hands are all sticky after he emerged from the bathroom. I also overheard a doleful Gus Pope sigh out, "I lost it. Draw your own conclusions.
Hash Crash. Two incidents to report. First, young Tom the virgin was taking an early On-Out, muttering something about his mother imposing an early curfew, when he recounted that he had been sideswiped by a green Cadillac while on trail. Back in my mother hash of Denver, we have a hasher who was duly named "Speed Bump for such a similar transgression committed by the vehicular scourge only he was hit by a bus while on trail. I think Tom would have to settle for something less glamorous like "Luxury Hood Ornament.
Second, I mentioned, before, the presence of a flour trail. Well it seems Geoff, in his own wayward fashion, followed this trail only to end up crashing another On-In at the South Street Seaport. Apparently, some Florida hashers (I learned later that it was Otis' Trust Me Hash) took it upon themselves to lay a pub crawl trail in our fair metropolis whilst on their way to the Rumson Payback Hash. Now the last time a group made the mistake of crossing into the wrong turf in New York City, Riff got Bernardo's knife in his gut prompting Tony to put a blade into Bernardo which, in turn, caused Chino to shoot Tony thus leaving a tear-streaked Maria alone in the world without her true love. But that's West Side Story, and this is the Hash. Fortunately, no such tragedy occurred, but Geoff did earn the rare privilege of doing two hashes in one night. Way to go Geoff! Roy, however, was left wondering, "Why, out of 45 hashers, was Geoff the only one to find the other trail? Roy must have been Officer Krupke in a previous life.
Don't leave me here. So with the night's odor faded (or, God forbid, I got used to it), the Detention Hall doors swung open, and most of the "Bite me contingency gone, I took a lingering On-Out with Jerry, Yoshi, and Janet; leaving Basil and Geoff to oggle Alice's breakdancing routine. To the hares: Nice job boys try not to let it happen again.
On On and faithfully yours in the Great Cosmic Unconsciousness, Your new and loyal G2FMH3 On-Sec
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