By almost any standard, it's been a very weird couple of weeks. When first we heard the news of our president's latest dalliance, it was accompanied by dire predictions that either his impeachment or resignation was nigh. Since then, due to some reasonable spinning (lying), the incredible incompetence and venality of the right wing stooge in charge of the prosecution, the defective personalities and motives of some his accusers as well as the other protagonist, and, more than anything else, the apparent solid state of the economy, the crisis is abating, and Li'l Abner's approval ratings are the highest they've been since he took office. You have to start to wonder what this guy has to do, at this stage, to get thrown out. Worse, you kind of get the feeling that he's going to keep pushing until he does something so absolutely heinous, we have no choice but to have him removed. Then there is the state of Texas' foray into the issue of equality between the sexes, showing that a female has the same right to be murdered by the state as a male. Whatever your opinions concerning capital punishment (not a deterrent, more expensive than life imprisonment, barbaric, hypocritical--not to mention the inability to correct mistakes), it was interesting to see all the supposed death penalty proponents, suddenly gushing all over themselves to have the sentence commuted, because of this person's religious conversion. The fact that she was a white Christian women, rather than a black, muslim male had nothing to do with it. Frankly, the governor of the state, the imbecilic son of the preppy twerp who used to be the president, had little choice but to have her killed, should he want any kind of future in elective politics. Nice to know that all involved in this affair are so high minded.
How wonderful then, to have the hash, and a special one at that, to count on and come to. A group of about 50 showed up in front of the Library to mark our 700th run, with JM Croft haring solo, given another of JM Unger's many trips to the west coast. We were delayed a short time, waiting for Haberdasher Burke to arrive with the hashmobile. Based on his recent attendance, we're probably lucky that he showed up at all. Hash Cash Cloud arrived from the Garden, where he had been attending the Knicks-Heat game, with his running tights on under his jeans. Hardy arrived, first demanding his 700th hash commemorative shirt, to add to his set of shirts from the 100th, 200th, 300th, 400th, 500th and 600th, and then announcing that he was taking off his sweat pants, and that it was time to start. Faced with a potential uprising--not the first time--Croft gave his instructions, warning that the trail might not be up to the standard of his previous efforts (or, unfortunately that it might be), and showing us a new kind of arrow--one with a little tail on the end--necessitated by high concentration of hashes on the upper east side in recent weeks. As the pack raced north, five of us stayed behind to help load the bags into Burke's van, taking care, more or less, not to be tuned into roadkill by oncoming traffic (quite an adrenaline rush, however). The bags loaded, we took off after the rest of the pack, the older heads, Laird, Basil and I, lagging back as the younger ones, Mike Hoffman and Rick, charged ahead, continuing to tempt fate by dodging oncoming cars. They are, after all, expendable.
The trail was a fairly simple one, and, for the most part, very well marked. After going a few blocks north on Fifth, the trail turned west, and then north again, on Sixth, eventually, to the first check. Continuing north, there were several arrows pointing into the various fountains that dot the front of buildings on the west side of the avenue. I don't believe anyone wound up taking a swim this day, however. There was another check around 57th Street, and the trail continued east, and then north, back up Fifth, to check number three in front of the Plaza. By this time, I had lost my compatriots, a victim of the first check. Thankfully, Laird reappeared, and we discovered the trail after a while, in Central Park. The trail continued north and east through the park, eventually leading up a rocky embankment. Arrows then pointed down to the traverse, apparently David's tribute to the previous Wednesday's run when Rick and Mike Murphy sent us up the Queensboro Bridge, with the trail only visible after climbing up several ledges. As David spent quite a long time at this particular dead end, he obviously hoped to inflict the same pain on the pack this day. From here, it was a relatively quick jaunt up Park, then farther east and north, until we spied the visitor from Kent known as Mr. Magoo standing around the corner from the on-in at Crossroads. Just about the entire pack had arrived in around 1/2 hour's time. A very fine run on a very nice day.
There was excellent beer, including the bar's own dark ale, and a Saranac Black and Tan. David had scheduled the arrival of the food for 5pm, so at 4:30, we began the down-downs. First David did his (yours truly presiding), followed by down-downs for a group of virgins--I remember Jimmy, Anna and Rachel (a rabid San Francisco 49er fan and Steve Young admirer), as well as Bernadette, the bartender at Fiddlesticks, who we had met the previous Friday night during Little John's farewell pub crawl, and who had been convinced by Young Matt to come out and hash with us--well, he has a well documented weakness for Irish women. There was a down-down for the visitor, the aforementioned Mr. Magoo, as well as one for Chris and Petra, who arrived at the start by cab--something at home having kept them there till too late, although what Jimmy, who had to join them in the chugging, was doing with them, we'll never know. It was then that someone noticed that Jimmy was wearing new shoes--down-down number 3, this time, out of the shoe. David then awarded a down-down to his nemesis, Mike Bahamonde, for his display at the previous week's on-in, and one for Rick, the impresario, as it were, who took care of the presenting. Somewhat later, there was a down-down for Dave Long, soon to be departing for six months, I think, to the UK for business reasons. We were then left to wait for the food. While Burke did a brisk business in selling shirts with the familiar skyline decor, 5:00 came and went--as did 5:15, and 5:30. Lucy sunk deeper and deeper into her chair, complaining of low blood sugar. Finally, at 5:35, the food arrived: falafels and tuna sandwiches--a nice change from the usual fare, and fairly tasty, as well.
The evening eventually deteriorated as all good on-ins do. Chris Tyree was seen trying to pick up women by brandishing what he claimed to be a picture of his parents. I suppose that's possible, but I had heard that his parents left the country in shame shortly after Chris's birth--I'm betting that the picture came with the frame. There was even a Holden sighting, Ross fresh from his stirring court win over the forces of corporate environmental evil in the form of Exxon. On the down side, we'll probably be seeing more of him from now on.
There was also another unfortunate rendition of the card game "A**hole," this time featuring Mike Hoffman, so we had our "a**hole of the year" playing "A**hole." During the game, Rick again demonstrated his amazing belly talent--for someone who has professed a desire to stay out of the write-ups, he sure has a habit of getting into them. In all, a fine day for Run 700. If we keep at this, we'll eventually get it right.
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