Ahhh, the Rites of Spring…the planting of crocus bulbs, the wearing of Easter bonnets, the beginning of dining alfresco…drinking alfresco…making love alfresco……and -- oh right, The NYCH3 Red Dress Run.

It was a gorgeous spring day and as we descended upon Off the Wagon and began disrobing in earnest without any warning whatsoever to the management, we were summarily asked to settle down, and then asked to leave the premises altogether. We made it as far as the sidewalk outside, where the Red Dress pageantry really began and a group of 60 or so men and women of various sizes and ages gathered to pose for photos with friends and onlookers, all the while primping and priming themselves for the run.

Those who were perhaps most memorably dressed for the occasion included Sarah from DownUnder (who chose to wear a red negligee instead of a dress), Vince McCloud (oh, the horror), Lesley Brough (as usual, in another last minute knock-out number causing jealousy throughout the ranks), beau Peter (what's this about the Socks?), Devo('s Woody) and Jesse (in more of a burgundy number, but with a matching wig that really brings out his gorgeous green eyes). The big surprises of the day were that Dave Long chose not to go all out in full drag, while Crazy Bob let us all down by not wearing a red dress at all, but rather some kind of Carmen Miranda get up with Elton John sunglasses and his Kurt Cobain best baggy trousers and non-descript, albeit red, grunge shirt.

The hares called us to disorder, threw chalk at us, and handed us little informational flyers that described in detail who we were and what we were up to. It read something like this….

Pay no attention to the teeming horde of people tearing down the street in red dresses. We have no real goal or cause - other than to ultimately drink ourselves silly and have a good laugh. We don't normally run in red dresses and drink (although we do normally run and drink), and just every so often we get the urge to get really rowdy and decide to break out the red dresses. It's for the guys really…some guys secretly love to wear red dresses, while others just love to see the women in them. It's all in good fun, though, so just ignore us. Really.

Bemused and perplexed, we took our little flyers and chalk and hit the trail towards Washington Square Park, where we interrupted a rally protesting the wearing of clothing made in China. With more than 80 percent of the pack wearing clothing that was probably made in China and which was, ironically, China Red, the questions began. Are you protesting our protest, protesters asked? Nope, read the damn flyer. Then it was on through Soho, where we were the center of the day's attention, stopping traffic even and then through the East Village, through Tompkins Square Park and onward and inward to Ace Bar, our dingy, dark, definitely depressing and disgusting on-in locale.

The on-in got off to a slow start, with bar maidens again unaware of our impending arrival and of any kind of "deal" made on our behalf. They were even less forthcoming about any deals given our garb (just image Akbari and Troise in little red dresses trying to negotiate a break on the cost of beer from a woman with tattoos all over herself and a pierced lip and nose). In addition to our clothing, apparently we weren't scoring any points by ordering more complicated drinks like "black and tans," either, so the entire group was relegated to Bud Lite and Rheingold until we adjusted our attitudes a bit.

As the on-in pageantry continued, a group huddled by the light of the front window including Mike Murphy, who shaved his legs for the occasion (and I thought it was because he was getting serious about cycling), Cree (who looked ever so demure and ready for a tea party in a blonde wig and big bow), Rebecca and Steve (hmmmm….are they officially a couple??), and Devo with his unwavering willy. Soon after, pizza arrived and the melée officially began. Seriously, I've never seen a group of people dive bomb like that for a lousy slice of cheese pie in my entire life. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought not getting a slice might have meant never eating again.

So, onto the down-downs…what down-downs, you ask? Right. Poor JM Trunfio having to lead down-downs to this pack of wildebeests. I couldn't hear a thing really, other than the fact that Yi Shan won best legs (and I always thought I had the market cornered with my 36-inch inseam! Bastards, all of you!). Visitors complained that we didn't know enough songs (so bugger off then!) and Fireman Bob drove me crazy by the constant flaunting of his breasts (they're balloons, Bob, they're not real!!) all the while the threat of ruining pool tables with spilled beers loomed large.

Once we kicked all the kegs in the joint and broke all the toilets (well, Lawrence did, even though we just thought he had just passed out in the Women's room), we sauntered over to Zum, a little Bavarian Beer joint around the block in hopes of causing more destruction and drank until the evening turned into fuzzy madness. Peter painted toenails, I tried hooking up with another civilian (as if my last attempt didn't result in a big enough disaster), and Crofty and I began plotting our next escape to Barbados. Needless to say, there was a crushing aftermath of hangovers and many of us laid guilt-ridden and comatose in bed the next day which was said to be the nicest of the year so far. On-out.