Biting the heads off rabbits has been my primary activity during this past week, the fact that almost all of them have been composed of chocolate not lessening to any degree the feeling of gluttony-borne guilt. The vast amounts of candy comestibles consumed at this time of year is an echo back to my childhood, the only difference being that the chocolate back then was ingested in the form of eggs, hollow inside and filled with Smarties or Buttons in disgusting quantities. These one would guzzle throughout the course of Easter Sunday until vomiting was induced, and then some more, the only logistical problem being to have the whole process completed before suppertime. Then one would return to school on Monday morning, with another year to pass until the solitary orgiastic ritual was to be repeated. Here in the U.S., things are done much differently: not only, and most important, are the chocolate vessels in the form of the aforementioned rabbits, they are consumed in relatively moderate quantities, the far more important purpose of the day being to spend time in communion with one's relatives, in quiet contemplation of the rising of the Savior. This collective obligation, together with the coincident falling of Passover on the same weekend, where much the same sort of family-oriented thing surely goes on, led to an extraordinarily low turnout at last Sunday's City Hash, a gesture of great disrespect to the recently crowned Westchester Joint Master and his babe, who tore themselves away from their own religious meditations to conduct the event.
The Higher Power, however, still did not seem pleased that the heathens were conducting even this reduced event. For the entire morning until about five minutes after the trail ended, she dumped on the city a rain of sufficient vehemence to deter even the most Hardy. (The most Hardy was among those forced to absent himself to do the relation visiting thing.) I should have been wise to this ruse, but foolishly hustled to the start with my customary tardiness, doubting my sanity at even bothering to set out, but arrived to find the pack departed and the On-In location thoughtfully marked on the ground. "Drat" said I to myself. Since my bag is far too finely crafted and expensive to replace to be exposed to the rigors that would entail accompanying me on an entire trail, I resolved to protect it, and a M86 bus was conveniently waiting for the purpose. It quickly sped us both home and dry to Fitzpatrick's, where the pack arrived more or less simultaneously.
Actually, Ms. Kingsley, Christian spinster of this parish, was not the original co-Hare for the day's activities. Apparently, Phillip received a frantic telephone call from the scheduled Pierre, who, on his way to Manhattan from his remote Long Island home, somehow contrived to lose one of the wheels of his car while crossing the Triborough Bridge. Now, presumably, it was not stolen or repossessed, as normally only the entirely of the vehicle is considered for such actions, so one can only put it down to sheer carelessness on Pierre's part. This incident, on a par with losing one's job while on vacation or losing one's virginity in the changing rooms, just proves that in today's complex society one must maintain constant vigilance in order to keep possession of the items one holds most dear. Pierre clearly did not, and was forced to pay the price. As I was leaving around 5:30, Pierre duly appeared at the pub, looking like the proverbial drowned rat and with his normally cheerful smile looking distinctly strained. While on future Hashes, particularly in the areas around the Triborough Bridge, I would suggest that the pack keep an eye out for stray wheels - their owner would be most appreciative.
Coincidence led to automobiles' featuring heavily in the day's events. Upon arriving a little early at the start in the pouring rain, David Croft espied young Kurt Krauss sitting in his vehicle, which subsequently was pressed into service as Hashmobile, and invited himself inside to shelter from the rain. Now, apparently Kurt works out of his car, and possibly lives in it as well, as, by the description from our hero, there was more "stuff" in there than is to be found in the average backwoods cabin in Montana. Kurt hastily threw several pounds of clothes and papers into the back seat, but Croft still found himself sitting on newspapers dating back to the last time the Mets won the World Series. Speaking as a voracious consumer of newspapers, hoarder of trash, and owner of what I took to be the untidiest vehicle in the region, I can only, from this account, throw in the towel and express my heartfelt admiration, tinged with a little envy, to Kurt for his achievement. During his time in the car, Croft did apparently receive a lengthy disquisition from Kurt on the supermarket industry, his role in it and the reasons why his car was so untidy, but Croft is sworn to secrecy and refuses to reveal even the slightest detail of what he was told. Since I am always concerned about accidentally or subconsciously leaving somebody out, it is not my policy to name everybody in attendance at an On-In, although it would be relatively easy in this case. Most of those present were the usual suspects, although neither Joint Master made it, leaving the next generation to perform the Down-Downs. Present was the new regular Curtis, who seems a most chipper fellow, which reminds me of a great new movie called Fargo which I recommend to everyone. The young bartenderette was induced to perform a Down-Down, something I have not seen before, although who was trying to addle whom is not quite clear. At the start of proceedings, Andi was heard describing how this would not be a long event, since they were off home to prepare a lovely Easter supper; subsequent re-visiting of the subject as the beer flowed, much of it into Phillip, revealed that the plans were steadily been scaled down from a four-course candlelit supper to a quick steak on the grill to the opening of a can of beans. What finally happened is between the protagonists, although, several hours after their departure, they were spotted by the rump of the pack, drinking late into the night (they shall remain anonymous although you can probably figure out one or two of them), "popping back" into Fitzpatrick's to check on their erstwhile charges. The perfect Hash hosts.
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