More than enough has been written in these pages about dear, sweet, innocent Melanie, friend of puppy dogs and other small furry animals, bringer of light and sunshine to all whom she encounters, that this time I'll cut to the chase and say she fucked up on pretty much all fronts this time. Of course, it was not really her fault (how did you guess?): she was scheduled to set this one in tandem with her darker alter ego, the slightly less dear, sweet and innocent Matt, who deserted his post at the last minute and left Melanie on her own, with only Basil, and presumably his motorbike for the bags, as support. The reason for Matt's sudden withdrawal, if you'll pardon the expression, was shrouded in mystery, and became even more unclear as Matt periodically popped up on the trail, bearing an expression of utter mystification, as if he had taken the wrong turn in a science fiction story. The only possible explanation for his distracted air was the launch this week on to an unsuspecting stock-buying public of his company, known as New Spare A Dime Systems, purveyors of software designed to make toasters interface with vacuum cleaners, or something like that. Unfortunately, this much-awaited event was overshadowed, it seems, by the floating of the slightly better known Netscape, a gap which Matt attempted to bridge at the end of the evening by distributing Lego models. Presumably the link between same and products enabling cats to talk to fish is known to the undoubtedly expensive marketing gurus responsible, but it sure soars over my head. But then I always suffer from sour grapes when I miss out on toys.
But let's go back to the beginning, as indeed many were forced to do: my habitual late arrival was witnessed by Melanie and Junko, to whom I handed my bag as the pack disappeared around the corner. Another depressing solo run, I feared, as my lack of fitness and staying power led me to lose sight of everybody after the first thirty seconds. However, I had not bargained with the Hare's ability to set checks of impossibly difficult proportions, a source of annoyance to many but a source of great relief to me, as, for once, after catching up with the confused pack at Madison Square Park, I ran for the rest of the trail with somebody or other in sight, and arrived in with at least twenty people behind me.
But let's go back to the beginning, as indeed many were forced to do. One rule of life which has served me well through the years has been "always listen to your elders and betters." Now, as a youth, my response to this was "but you've had so many more years' practice in screwing up, why should I listen to you?", but as I head toward middle age (this being always a few years older than one actually is), I realize how appallingly ignorant and stupid all younger people are, and focus my respect on the elder generation. At one point in the trail, Roark, he being the representative of the aforementioned elder and better generation, intoned "it's obvious: Madison Square, Union Square, Washington Square." "Silly old fool," I thought to myself, smiling politely and moving on. Having followed the trail, sheep-like, down the West Side, along Houston Street, and back up to - er - Washington Square, I began to admire the ingenuity of the Hare, but, even more, the perspicacity of the old boy. Upon arriving at Boo Radley's, which would not actually have taken a brain surgeon to figure out, I immediately bounded up to Roark and said in an admiring pupil-to-sensei tone "so, you must have been in for hours, then eh?" "Oh, no, I ran the whole trail." When the ghastly truth dawned on me that not only had I witnessed Roark in the embarrassing act of talking to himself on the trail, but also that he could not understand what he was saying, my admiration turned to pity and another contribution to the Hemlock Society.
But let's go back a ways, as indeed many were forced to do. Hares do not always realize the danger to which they are subjecting their packs, as such probably-best-never-traveled locales as the area near Yankee Stadium and the Metro-North railroad tracks will attest. Into this category must go the lengthy stretch of trail down the West Side Highway, between Chelsea and Houston St., where those of us with rippling muscles and above-average gorgeousness were eyed by the locals with gleeful expressions of anticipation. Once it was explained that Black Hole was not available, but that Asshole of the Year would be along shortly, they appeared satisfied and allowed me to pass unchallenged.
But let's go straight to the On-In, as indeed many were forced to do. As I arrived, after about 90 minutes, the Hot Line was just being set, which makes me look like a damned fool, since it says, if you turn the page over, that you can call an hour after the start and find out the On-In location. God, can't anybody be trusted these days to do anything right? Is it the educational system, is it the breakdown of traditional family values, is it the fact that homosexuals are allowed openly to walk the streets without being shot? Whatever it is, it wouldn't have happened in my day, whenever that was. Anyway, most affected by this snafu was Joint Master Burke, who went all the way to Madison Square Garden on a hunch, which made about as much sense as Madison, WI. His absence meant that ceremonies were conducted by a pair of very poor substitutes: among those toasted were a very old-timer from Sweden, whose name contains many vowels beyond the capabilities of this keyboard, but is close to "Bjorn." . At one point, Melanie exclaimed "I can't believe it - we've drunk sixty-five pitchers already!", which presumably meant that somebody was already in the bathroom getting rid of the contents of the other sixty-four. Apparently, one had to be patient, i.e. by remaining past midnight.
Oh, and there was a check on Union Square. It was impossible. Yes, Melanie, impossible.