NYCH3 August 2, 2000
Hares: Chris Troise and Jimmy Akhbari
On In: The Gold Rush
Scribe: Heather Malloy
I don’t know about you, but I am beside myself with excitement about the Republican National Convention. To those of you who think that I got up at 2:30 to take a conference call, I must confess that I really wanted to turn on CNBC to make sure that I wasn’t missing one minute of Republican fun in that big, compassionate-conservative tent they’ve put up. What a gathering they’re expecting this time! In addition to a broad spectrum of middle aged white guys, women of all stripes were invited this year, from the Ladies Temperance Society to Modern Women for the Rhythm Method. And what would “Dubya” say to this great melting pot? How would he address all of those whispered concerns about his lack of experience, paucity of intellect? I, for one, am more than confident that my man “Dubya” will confront these naysayers head on, and tell them that, in the grand tradition of New England aristocracy, he will make a fine president because his father already was one. And if they’re concerned about “Dubya” playing in the war room with all those shiny red buttons, well, that’s covered as Daddy has assigned his very own defense chief as babysitter.
I was worn out after a day of restless anticipation, so it was with great relief that I realized that tonight’s run would be a HALT trail in honor of Chris and Jimmy’s birthdays. We haven’t seen much of these two since their birthday triumph of last summer, on the heels of which they ran off to become husbands and one, a father, in no particular order. It seemed as though I wasn’t the only one itching to run a fifteen minute trail, heading directly to a beer soaked on-in with a landslide of greasy pizza and the convention on wide-screens. The start on the south side of Union Square was host to the largest pack so far this summer, and included a number of MIA FRBs. The HALT brothers explained the marks to the virgins, and then asked for the pack’s assistance in finding a cab rather than sending us off on trail. Such was their Bush-esque charisma that the pack actually listened, instead of laughing and running off on their merry way, and stood around trying to look helpful. I had enough of ‘helpful’ after about thirty seconds, and headed west on 14th to the first mark, which was about where I got run over by a stampede of FRBs who finally came to their senses and started running.
The trail went west, then up through Chelsea. There were a few checks in the vicinity of 8th Ave., which were rather trickier than most expected, and did a fairly good job of keeping the pack together. The trail swung dangerously close to Westside Tavern, but went safely by before all the hash cash was squandered on a single pint. We made a right on 9th Ave., and got stuck for awhile at a particularly sticky check at 28th Street. Most of the pack headed north, but Ariane, wanting to soak in as much authentic New York experience as possible before being transferred back to Belgium, chose to circle the housing project instead. Like the genius I am, I followed her, and we eventually caught up with the pack somewhere around 32nd. The rest of the pack had managed to split up while invisible to us, with Fluffy and Christine somehow finding the shortest distance to the on-in. True trail was found going north on 10th Ave. At this point, most of the pack was dumbfounded at the length of the trail, which already exceeded the HALT 1 ½ mile limit. (Read my lips: No Long Trails! All good campaign promises must eventually be proven hollow, I suppose. Perhaps someday, their children will lead packs by empty platitudes of their own?) We veered west in order to get in a scenic view of the Jacob Javits center and a large number of tourist buses, and also a guy walking eight German short-haired pointers without a leash or a discreet plastic bag in sight. A few blocks later, we were on-in at the Gold Rush.
Befitting a HALT on-in, there was plenty of beer from the instant the first hasher walked in, but to my dismay, soccer was featured on the television rather than the convention. Well, we wouldn’t want too much excitement with so much beer around, riots could break out. The hashers had to content themselves with a minor tussle to get a good viewing angle on Mike B’s photos from his recent mountain-climbing trip in the Andes. Peter wasted no time in herding the pack into the sweat tent attached to the bar for down-downs, and barred the doors to ensure a captive audience. It may not be the GOP big top, but at least it was a tent, so the night wasn’t a total loss. First, Jimmy and Chris drank for haring the run. Then, not satisfied with locking us all into the sauna for his speech, Peter punished Christine for talking while his pontification was in progress. Virgins Noel, Laura, Soma (A key player in Aldous Huxley’s vision of a Brave New World), Josh, Michelle, and Elise came forward, but needed further instructions on how to drink fluids, as Noel dropped his, and Josh drank Elise’s. Fluffy got the rabbit ears for first in, or just because they compliment his name so nicely, and swallowed his gum while chugging. Lots of drinking problems coming out of the closet tonight. Bo and Jimmy were called up for getting married in the last year, but already hiding their wedding rings. I guess Diane’s presence kind of blew Jimmy’s cover, though. John Burke got a retroactive “new duds” down-down for buying a whole new outfit just before last week’s hash, and abandoning the bag and store tags at the on-in. Debbie Ulis made the whole pack proud with a George Whipple award for winning free cable that very morning via a New York 1 contest. Mike B, long lost Hash Cash officer, got a Sir Edmund Hillary down-down. Seth came up to claim the footlocker he had brought to the start. Finally, AOTY went for the very first time to a virgin, Noel, for dropping his beer. Now, I’d like to take a moment in order to address a bone of contention. I ALREADY DRANK FOR THESE FUCKING SHOES, OK? If you don’t believe me, please refer to Christine’s writeup of Andy Millard’s 6/28 run, referencing ONE of the THREE down-downs I have done for them so far, which can be viewed on the Internet. Thank you.
After such extensive down-downs and an unexpectedly lengthy trail, everyone had worked up a good appetite. Well, tough for everyone, as they had to fight over exactly 48 wings, 10 potato skins, and 12 mozzarella sticks. Two young women were actually spotted sharing a single wing, and Jeff Feinsod resorted to eating the marinara sauce with his fingers. As a result, yours truly suddenly found herself cross-eyed rather early in the evening, and became convinced someone had stolen her bag. I thought it best to head for home while still on two feet, and perhaps go to sleep to the dulcet tones of Dick Cheney’s speech on television. On out.