Long ago, in the halcyon days of my suburban youth, Halloween was basically, a children's holiday. It was all purity and innocence back then: Dressing up in costumes, trick or treating, collecting for UNICEF, hiding in the bushes with the garden hose in order to soak any of the neighbor's kids who attempted to vandalize my family's property. This was, of course, before the advertising industry, from which I draw my sustenance, determined that the marketing void that existed between the end of summer and the beginning of the Christmas season could not be tolerated. With ruthless efficiency, we have seduced adults, and more importantly, their money, into the spirit of the day, and created the second most profitable holiday of the year (I read it in the trades). Nature may abhor a vacuum, but the advertising industry does something about it.
Naturally, Halloween has always had more meaning in New York, and more specifically, the West Village, where running around in ridiculous attire is the rule, rather than the exception. It was in this spirit that a group of 20 or so hearty souls, and those of us not sufficiently popular to be invited to a Halloween party, gathered for the GGFMH3 Halloween Special. I'm sure a larger turnout had been expected, but I guess the size of the pack was kept down by the athletes among us who, in preparation for the 26.2 mile battle of attrition the following Sunday, were home loading carbos and getting much needed sleep. It is also likely that others were deterred by the proximity of the annual Halloween parade. I, for one, was certain that no hare could possibly be stupid enough to set a trail near the parade. (But then, I was also certain that no hasher would be stupid enough to run there--more on that later.) We were encouraged to come in costume, with the promise of reduced hash cash (always a major inducement) and prizes for the best attire.
I arrived at the park shortly before 7pm to find nearly everyone there in costume. Unable to recognize anyone, I utilized my Holmesian powers of deduction to determine that those in the running shoes were the hashers. There was Evan dressed as Groucho Marx, and Missy masquerading as a spider web (I love concept costumes). I then recognized Margot, dressed as a tube of Colgate toothpaste. It inspired a tender memory of a past love who once worked at Colgate.
But I digress.
There was plenty of entertainment in the park. First, a conga line of rollerbladers came screeching through. Unfortunately, my hopes for crash and carnage were not realized, although the possibility made for plenty of excitement. Later, Bubble Man, a refugee from the cast of "Rent" with glitter on his face, began to torment us with treacly poetry, in hopes of our staking him to some meal money. Did he ever pick the wrong crowd. There was also the spontaneous bestowal of birthday greetings upon the arrival of Dave Byron-Brown. The best show, however, was put on by Andy, who changed into full female regalia before our eyes. Everyone agreed that his expertise in executing this transformation was proof that he does this more than once a year.
Finally, the arrival of the hares: Marion as a human bomb, and Curtis, fresh from his Hawaiian vacation, in full native garb, including skirt. I'm sure the item has some appropriate name, but it looked like a skirt, so it's a skirt. Anyway, he was announcing to anyone who would listen that he was the most comfortable man in the area. Not the best place to make that proclamation.
Marion gave the instructions, telling us that the main purpose of the run this night was to see the parade. I knew we were in trouble. We were to head west toward the parade, follow the marks as best we could, cross the parade, cross back, and follow the marks from Fifth Avenue and 10th Street towards a special check, and then, the On-In.
Just before leaving, we stopped to pose for a group picture; now seemingly a requirement at any Marion-led hash. It was then that two latecomers made their arrival: Wendy as Medusa (well, she did have snakes in her hair) and a very strange looking girl. My first thought was that I didn't know Guillermo had a daughter. It was then I realized that it was Mike, doing proud by his home borough--Queens, in case you weren't sure. Like Andy, it appeared that he's had some practice in this particular style of costume.
As far as the trail is concerned, the less said, the better. In fact, there's little to be said because it, mostly, wasn't there. After starting from the park and going west, then north, then west again, we were confronted by the sea of humanity on Sixth Avenue. Several of us cut through the hot dog stand on the corner, and then forced our way up Sixth until we could head back east. So much for a supposed lack of stupidity.
After running a couple of blocks alone, I met up with a small group at Fifth Avenue and 10th Street. This was, pretty much, the last mark I saw all night. After going north, south and east for two blocks, and not seeing any marks, I decided to go back to the park, find the location of the On-In, and just head there. I was accompanied by another Mike, and a couple of virgins. As the four of us headed east toward Psycho Mungo's, I was struck by the sight that we must have made: Yours truly, dressed all in black with a "Jason-style" hockey mask (I couldn't find a skeleton mask), carrying a toy scythe; Mike, with turtleneck over his head, carrying a false head, as if he were one of my victims, neither of us with the ability to see much more than a couple of feet ahead. s we approached Astor Place, I thought about trying to find the trial there, but decided against it. I had the same thought near Tompkins Square. I was told later that this was the location of the evening's first treat--going into the parade must have been the trick--a tequila check. It was probably an act of providence that I missed this, as tequila and I have been on very dicey terms since our first meeting during my first year of college.
Mike and I arrived at Psycho's (I'm not a regular; I heard the bartender answer the phone this way) sans the two virgins--they showed up later--to find a small group who had also given up on the trail. After several minutes of general grousing, we began ordering beers. We all began feeling a lot better.
The On-In was quite an event. Psycho Mungo's appears to be, at the very least, in the top 5 of dive bars in which we have landed in my slightly over 2 years of hashing. Reportedly, there was a couple doing lines of cocaine in the back. There were also several tattooed drunks playing pool. You kind of have to wonder what these individuals do during daylight hours. One particular decrepit inebriate, apparently an employee, was clearing away glasses in between yelling at people for leaning against the pool table, and making his own woebegone attempts at playing the game. The ambiance was furthered by the choice of repast for the evening: burritos. This is the type of dish that tastes better when not seen. I chose the darkest spot in the bar I could find.
Down-downs were awarded for the usual offenses, as well as for being out of costume. The hash cash discount, by the way, was a measly dollar. One particular unlucky out of costume virgin, Nancy, had to chug two beers. She left relatively early. The awards for best costumes were won by the aforementioned Andy in the male/hermaphrodite category (Mike was a close second), and Mary, beautifully decked out as what appeared (to me at least) to be a turn of the century Parisian/New Orleans lady of the evening, in the female category.
Towards the end of the evening, Betsy arrived as an especially eerie Bob Dole, complete with pen clutched in crippled right hand. This led one particular young lady into a diatribe on the virtues of our current president, as contrasted with the former senator from Kansas. She's obviously not seen a newspaper lately. As I listened, all I could think of was how people are always asking why we can't do better in our presidential candidates; why they can't be better people, and more like us. We give ourselves far too much credit. Actually, given the general banality of the populace, we get pretty much what we deserve. By the time you read this, the choice will have been made, and saving the apocalypse, we'll have 4 more years of lower lip-biting, waffling and triangulation. Of course it beats the alternative. Kind of makes your want to jump off that bridge to the 21st century.
That said, it was a fairly festive evening, and a commendable job by Marion and Curtis. Good intentions do count for something.
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