Had Michael Bahamonde been there he'd surely have said this run was too tall and too wide. The night before this GGFMH the hares led a misguided few on a lunar eclipse pub crawl to celebrate the final full eclipse see-able from the Northern Hemisphere this millennium. As penance for whatever sins ensued, the hares set a dastardly hash on Friday.
To recap the major events: GM Marian made the rounds just before the hash asking who had a headache, not because she was offering her services to release said cranial discomfort but because she could not herself remember who had been present the night before; hoping to shortcut, she hooked onto some instructions from Curtis at the start, read a bit much into the missive to note that the date was 9/27, headed to 9th Ave. and 27th St., and was not heard from again. Needless to say, the On-In was nowhere near 9th and 27th but rather much nearer 90th St. and 2nd Ave., more or less catty-corner on the opposite end of Manhattan, by way of a cute check at the 34th St. PATH/subway station that served more to spread the pack out than bring it together, over to Park Ave., Madison Ave., back to the library, i.e., right past the start, up to Radio City for more confusion, past a long line of tourists waiting to get in to Jekyll and Hyde who were appropriately heckled to "go to a real bar," through Central Park for extra confusion (the message concerning the significance of the date was given because the run skirted and mixed with the trail set two days prior, so the marks were marked with "9/27" to differentiate them and avoid confusion--the rest of the confusion on the trail was intended--thank you, hares), up to 90th and 2nd for some marathon training, to a check half a block away from the On-In, which as you read this is causing one of two reactions, I'm sure: Curtis and Michael are guffawing pretty heartily and the rest of us/you are moaning recalling, or even reading for the first time, of this final insult.
Like I said, Marian never made it in; the first in got there after just over an hour and everyone else came in somewhere between the two (1+ hours and never), but down-downs had to wait for Andy Reybauld, who holds some mysterious office with the GGFMH3 and was the alleged leader of the pack that set off for 9th and 27th (he eventually came in after about 2 hours). So, the way I figure it, these hares are forever cursed. I, the scribe, was treated with exceptional service, but losing a GM and other office-holders on the trail, that's pretty bad, even if the hares are not entirely to blame.
Still, surprisingly few cried for her, Argentina. The Bear Bar's a pleasant enough place, much resembling any suburban neighbor's teen's basement/party room or particularly adolescent frat house (complete with a very tired fuzzy couch that had some very impudent springs and an equally impudent squadron of Upper East Side riff-raff attempting to toss darts without muffing up one's hair). It served our purposes just fine, and most present received no small amount of glee from watching Curtis run up and down the stairs to get beer every few minutes. Pizza was on the menu, with a nice added touch of garlic knots, as well as some decent beer. There were some virgins, none of whom I met (bad, bad scribe) so I can't comment on their virtues (but then why would we want virtuous virgins anyway?), nor even their names ("if you hear a young dove crying, you'll know it's me to blame, for I never got her number, never know her name" quoth the mighty.
[And that's where I lost the writeup due to some faulty wiring and an exposed valve line. As I recall, though, the writeup ended with the author whose name escapes me right now. For now, substitute "Tickle Me, Elmo." --Ed.]
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