The Chinese have a traditional saying: “May you live in interesting times.” I have yet to decide, however, whether this particular sentiment is a blessing or a curse. A few more years as interesting as this and I’ll either be in the ground or in a straitjacket and padded cell. Naturally, the end of a year brings with it a veritable deluge of thoughts, primarily in the vein of, “What an incredibly awful year,” Thank heaven this god-forsaken year is over,” “I can’t believe I’ve completely wasted another year of my life,” and, of course, “Please, in the name of all that is holy, don’t let next year be as bad as this one.” Along with these ruminations come inevitable examples of human foolishness and natural disaster making clear only that, despite our best efforts and hopes, we are, indeed, doomed. Much of the discussion of the last week concerned the imminent, self-imposed demise of an incredibly ordinary, unfunny half-hour situation comedy, set in a city much like this one, tracking events and conversations both ridiculous and trivial. I understand, of course, that this is an opinion in the extreme minority, as I am, perhaps, the only Jew in captivity, let alone New York, who is not a fan of this program. On the other hand, we must be grateful to the show’s creators for making the denizens of our city, if we can believe the Nielsen ratings, appear somewhat more cuddly, if eccentric, to the rest of the nation. So tourism is up, the economy hums along, and Rudy responds by putting up cattle pens in midtown to attempt to control the crowds. Soon he’ll be putting up “Strength through Walk” signs, and setting up orchestras to serenade the passing pedestrians. Maybe this is what the newly hired additional 1,600 cops have been assigned to do. And speaking of Sodom-on-the-Hudson, perhaps we are being punished. As the year ended, no fewer than five buildings around town began to collapse. No sooner had Il Duce taken the oath of office for his second term than water and gas mains began bursting in midtown, creating floods and fires, and Fifth Avenue turned into a giant sinkhole. So this is the wrath of God, urban style, approaching the third millennium.

In the meantime, on the other side of the country, two fine examples of the rise of the mediocracy met their ends, each while trying to ski between a tree. One, the scion of privileged schizophrenia, could not understand why, in spite of some moderate good works and somewhat good intentions, he was to be best remembered for the statutory rape of his children’s 14 year old babysitter--an activity he flaunted, in fine family style. The other, a talentless relic from a bygone era who rose to fame based on the limited appeal of his wife, and then parlayed this notoriety into elected office representing a severely oppressed minority--rich, old people--actually believed that he was on the leading edge of revolutionary political thought. Rather, he was merely one of the more visible and ludicrous examples of the cyclical nature of representative democracy and the rabble’s fascination with celebrity.

Of course, as 1997 became 1998, we set about marking the occasion as only the hash can. First, five souls with more time than sense, braved the wind chill for Alice and Geoff’s NAWW run, basically a four mile loop around Central Park followed by a champagne on-in at Strawberry Fields. A few hours later, it was time for the New Year’s Eve Party at Dive 75. This was, as all in attendance will testify, a splendid affair. Shortly after 9:30, the bar began to fill, with regular hashers, friends and family, former NYC veterans, and several friends of acquaintances, most of whom will never be seen again, but to whom we are grateful for their contributions, both physical and financial. With most of us properly black-tied, it showed that at least some of us do clean up fairly well, and you can, on occasion, make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Among the unfamiliar faces, so to speak, were a number of single women who added, immeasurably, to the evening’s enjoyment. One veteran of these celebrations noted that in all his years of hash New Year’s Eve parties, he had never seen such a “babe fest.”

 One particular hash family member who was not enjoying his first New Year’s Eve was young Gregory Stiefvater, suffering from an ear infection, as if he could sense that Christine and Laird were about to go out without him. As it worked out Mom and Dad were able to tag team the party with Christine taking the early shift, and Laird the late. Everything seemed to work out fine. As the hour approached midnight, televisions were tuned to the events in Times Square, and champagne glasses were passed around. At the stroke of 12:00, we drank our toasts to the new year, while in a corner, a group performed Auld Lang Syne, and others, of a more romantic disposition, performed tongue tonsillectomies upon each other. The time after midnight is a bit fuzzy, but there was plenty of drinking, both of the available ales, as well as some of the top shelf liquors. There were sightings, as the night went along, of various couplings, of both amorous and argumentative natures. Such is the nature of these parties. The names of the various participants and offenders are being withheld to protect the innocent, the guilty, the indiscreet and the stupid.

 Before too long, it was 4 am and it was time for the twenty of so of us remaining to head home. (It’s been an awfully long time since I closed a bar--I hope it’s a long time before I do so again.) In all, it was an excellent party. The food and drink was excellent, and there was plenty of room--overcrowding never became a problem. JM’s Unger and Croft deserve our thanks for a job well done.

 The morning after was particularly brutal--luckily, the recovery run, a.k.a., hare of the dog, was scheduled for 3:00 that afternoon. A pack of about 15 braved the ten degree wind chill for an excellent (read short) run set by the sage of recovery (runs), Keith Kanaga. Leaving from in front of the scene of the past evening’s crimes, we headed west, eventually making our way into Riverside Park. The run consisted, mainly, of straight stretches, interspersed with several circular detours. There was a backcheck by the handball court near the Hudson, and a large roundabout near the boat basin. At what turned out to be the final check, I followed Dave Hardy back east on 79th Street and north on West End, where we ran into the trail, up to McAleer’s. I am indebted to Keith for supplementing my observations at the on-in.

 Most of the pack was in within 25 minutes, with a couple of stragglers in a bit later. Laird headed for Shandon Star--not an unreasonable assumption for the on-in--while JM Croft was deserted at the boat basin. The larger problem, was getting into the bar with one’s hands intact. Rather than installing a door closer, the management had put up “Please Close this Door” signs. A number of us got fingers caught in the door when we tried. There was beer, of course, though none of us was too keen to imbibe that deeply. We approached the elixir slowly and cautiously, both knowing of its beneficial properties, while remembering how we’d been destroyed by it only several hours earlier. The down-downs were conducted quickly, JM Croft presiding. Down-downs were awarded for the hare, several virgins, and those who had distinguished (shamed) themselves at the previous evening’s party. After a while, Mary the Greek and Mike B. arrived, fresh from the coronation ceremonies for the Emperor Guiliani.

 Hash cash was a thrifty $10--beer and a few plates of chicken wings and french fries--just enough, under the circumstances. As it happened, the service wasn’t that great. As Keith noted:
 

· The two service staff the bartender and our waitress both had their minds on other things. Our waitress's boyfriend was in the bar for the first hour of the On-In, and they spent a considerable amount of time trying to work out some difficulty or other. I suspect he came out the loser, since he slouched off with that defeated look, while she looked positively relieved he'd gone.

· The bartender, the skinny woman with the huge hair, kept trying to grab the balls of the Irish guy in the green sweater and no teeth.

· The replacement waitress we got at the very end, the one in the black, with matching witch's boots, who kept trying to plow her way through us to get to the kitchen, instead of taking the way 'round everyone else had taken for several hours, had a case of the ass about customers in general, and us in particular, since we were on HER PATH to the kitchen.
 

 · Hash Cash ranges from $10 to $15 per person, and usually includes lots of beer and {food}. Everyone is expected to contribute the full amount, whether you eat/drink or not, even if you're leaving shortly after your arrival.

 Please keep in mind, that in addition to paying for the food and drink, as well as the gratuity for the service staff, hash cash also supports the hotline, newsletter and the web site, as well as giving us a fund to supplement the cost of special events, and enables us to advance payment for haberdashery. Hares are generally reasonable, and despite the rule, will accept less than the full amount from those who don't drink or eat. As all benefit, all should contribute. (This last bastion of Socialism actually works.)

 By the time Sunday arrived, I think most of us had recovered from our earlier excesses. Besides this, the temperature had soared to near 60 degrees, and a pack of 40 of so gathered at Columbus Circle for the latest haring effort by the estimable Mr. Stiefvater. As several recent hares, your scribe included, have pretty much covered most of the Upper West Side in recent weeks, Laird was left to find some other, relatively virgin, territory on which to set his trail. After alluding to the possibility that we might be running on the Upper West Side again, Laird sent us east through the southern end of the park, and then south, eventually to a check in Rockefeller Center. While checking on Fifth Avenue, I got my first actual sighting of Rudy’s “pedestrian pens.” For the most part, the various post-New Year’s strollers appeared to be quite well-behaved, properly adhering to the proscribed crossing areas. The few rowdy souls who opted for anarchy and attempted to ignore the barriers were promptly set upon by the stationed constabulary, subdued with the cattle prods that had replaced their billy clubs, and taken from the scene. I’m unsure as to where they were taken, but has anyone checked inside that pit on lower Fifth Avenue? In any event, as I ran down Fifth, weaving through traffic, I was pursued by a particularly evil-looking storm trooper who was screaming something about his need to apprehend all lawbreakers and to serve his master, the great god Rudolf. At that moment, I spied Roy, checking a block south. He led me safely across the street, back into the Plaza, where we discovered the on-trail and made good our escape from this minion of the law.

The trail continued south and west into the Times Square area. Here things got mildly confused as trail markings became somewhat inconsistent, probably the result of pedestrian traffic, or some revelers left over from New Year’s Eve believing that they might have discovered a secret cache of some narcotic or another. Before too long, the call of on-on was heard again, heading farther south down Seventh Avenue. We continued south and west to the next check, a block or so east of the Lincoln Tunnel. While checking south and then west near Ninth Avenue, I latched onto the end of a group strongly led by Basil and Bo. By now, we had been out roughly 30 minutes, and it was time to play guess the bar. I figured that we had not been out long enough to make the Garden Tavern a likelihood, but it was possible that we might wind up at Wilson’s on 23rd Street. At one point while running south, we passed by a billboard for Express Mail. One would expect no less from an accomplished advertising professional, such as our hare, that he attempt to maximize exposure to his client’s message by any means possible. I’m certain that the extra 40 or so impressions we provided have been figured into the Postal Service’s media delivery mix, and that Laird’s next promotion is imminent. In any event, we continued south and west and south and west, running through the playgrounds and parks that surround some of the apartment complexes in the west 20s. Running further south, we passed 23rd Street, which seemed to eliminate Wilson’s, and made the Village Idiot a probability.

 We continued south and west to 11th Avenue, and a check near 16th Street. I followed Bo toward the corner of 14th Street and found the arrow pointing back east. Within a few minutes, several of us arrived at the Village Idiot, where we were greeted by the scent of the pungent disinfectant that the place--except the bathrooms (well, at least the men’s room)--is slathered in each Sunday morning. Once again, Laird did an excellent job of setting an interesting trail, and ending up at one of the better of our tried and true on-in venues. As any Upper West Side hasher will acknowledge, in terms of an on-in bar, the only thing more desirable than one on a West Side subway line is one that is within walking distance of home.

 One of the better characteristics of the Village Idiot is the size of the back room. As this was the warmest day we’ve run since probably August, we were happy for the extra space. There was, as always, plenty of beer, and for those less concerned with social amenities, the Broncos-Chiefs game was on the tube. Before long, JM Croft began organizing the down-downs, and, due to JM Unger’s absence, asked for my assistance. Normally, I help get the pitchers and pour the cups, but this time, David assigned me a somewhat more vital task: I was to stand guard at his right side, and keep an eye on Bahamonde who has, recently, taken to attempting to de-pants our venerable Joint Master. It appears that, of late, David has come to enjoy the center stage aspect of the down-downs, for they seem to be getting longer, and given out for more and more offenses. Perhaps he has become inspired in this regard since the visit of the West London Hash. I’ve forgotten some of the more esoteric, but there were down-downs for the hare, virgins, visitors, civilians, and a special one honoring old guardsman Geof Connor. There was also a down-down for Vince, the Great White Hunter, just back from safari in Zimbabwe. In true hashing style, he arrived at the on-in within a few hours of his plane’s landing at JFK. Finally, former JM (and On-Sec) Byron-Brown took the floor to award a down-down to JM Croft for organizing the New Year’s Eve Party. Seconds before quaffing his beer, he gave proper credit to Lisa. Once again, thanks to both. On the subject of DB2, I was pleased to pass out his write-up of my run the previous week. I include it this package, first, because the hash newsletter abhors a blank side, and second, to proffer it as an example of work to which all scribes should aspire. He also included a write-up from the Gypsies in the Palace H3, a renegade San Francisco outfit, that was recently privileged to play host to both him and Dave Long. The write-up was titled “Night of the Living Daves.” Representatives of the NYCH3 have now visited two of the major San Francisco hashes in the past 3 months. Future NYCH3 visitors to the Bay area should probably consider discretion in identifying themselves on hashes there.

 Before too long, the pizza arrived. I am grateful to Laird for saving me the last piece with sausage topping--such is the cooperation among us Jews that it even extends to forbidden foods. Later discovering the barmaid, a lovely and healthy young thing, was named Cloud--she explained that her parents were hippies--I sought to introduce her to Vince, setting up the possibility that, should they wed, she would be Cloud Cloud. A small group of us then discussed some other bizarre names of people we have known--my personal favorite being a cousin of a former girlfriend who was named Allison Wunderlund. Hang on all, it’s going to be another interesting year.
 

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