NYCH3 Run# 812 Hares: Mike Slow To Blow Andonov & Karin Mickey Mouth Schweitzer

Start: 181^st St. on the A train On-In: Cannons, Broadway & 103^rd (ish)

Scribe: Dave Long

Poor Mike. After a long hard week of cleaning up his apartment, laid waste by revelling hashers on New Year's Eve, he was now tasked with setting Sunday's run in the wilds of Washington Heights and thus setting himself up for further abuse at the hands of the great hash unwashed. Slow To Blow and Mickey Mouth would seem to be a pretty compatible pairing namewise, and MM would indeed be Mike's partner in crime this day. It seemed like about the tenth time the start had been at 181^st St this winter, the upside of which is that now people realize that it's possible to hash up there without getting shot at, more people are showing up. An expectant crowd of about twenty were at the start when I arrived, including Heather, who did a good impersonation of Tigger by bounding up to me and almost bowling me over in welcome. With all the vegging out and partying back home over Xmas, it certainly did feel like an age since I had hashed, so I paid attention to the hare's instructions for once so I'd know what the hell I was supposed to be doing. STB gave out some fairly vague advice about there being two Turkey-Eagle splits or something, but he didn't seem entirely sure of what he was saying. Copious amounts of pencil-thin chalk were distributed and I hoped the trail had been marked in something a bit more substantial (it wasn’t).

The esteemed Obi-Wan Kanaga once described an infamous hash trail as “the most fucked up thing I’ve ever been involved with that was supposed to be a straight line”, and this comment came to mind as we trudged round, or rather along, this trail. Not that it was particularly fucked up, in fact nobody got lost at all, but this was in the main a geometrically perfect straight line. The Romans only wish they could have built roads as straight as this; Billy Clinton would doubtless love for his dick to be so straight. The early part of the trail meandered around the uptown streets for a while, until a check led us over the Henry Hudson Parkway. The next part of the trail went through some of the lesser-explored parts of Fort Washington Park. Perhaps because they are rocky and full of gorse bushes? Of which more later. As we passed the GW bridge going south, it looked increasingly unlikely that we were Bronx-bound unless the hares had thrown in some outrageously sadistic loop. Apparently this wasn't clear to all present though, It's Pat having to explain to a couple of newbies that we were not in fact already in the Bronx. So it's true that some people never go north of 86^th St? As the trail headed unerringly south, an amazing and bizarre sight greeted us - no, not a turn in the trail, but people in shorts playing tennis. Middle of January, New York, and people are playing tennis for Christ's sake. What gives? Don't tell me Guiliani has banned winter in New York as well?

Riverbank Park, sewage plant turned sports complex, was the next attraction. Having remarked earlier in the run about how you never seem to notice the smell, the first thing I get after climbing the steps (and actually solving a check for once, I might add) is the great smell of raw sewage right up my nostrils. It's enough to make you pine for the meat district. This check was the last one I saw, as the rest of the trail was a two-mile run along Riverside Drive and through Riverside Park before mercifully turning left and leading straight (of course) to the on-in, Cannons. Boy, are these people going to be sick of us! Seems like every other on-in is here these days. At least they are very obliging with the beer and water. Not forgetting the ice, of course. Unfortunately, hashers are not very adept at using pitchers with ice in based on the evidence here, as one after another people inexplicably poured ice all over the floor (and all over my leg eh, Stacey?). Fortunately, we are much better at knowing what to do with beer, namely drinking it in copious quantities. Meanwhile, Scott arrived with blood streaming from both legs, which he attributed to the aforementioned bushes in F.W. Park. I didn't see this, but apparently in true Marine fashion he had been throwing himself over bushes like they were barbed wire and allowing everyone else to run over him so they wouldn't get scratched. What a guy - maybe we should forever call him Bloody Bush in memory of his heroics. See you on next summer's NASS trails, BB!

It was Mickey Mouth's 21^st birthday again, so she doled out party hats which resembled dunce's caps, quite fitting for some hashers really, to a rousing chorus of "Happy Birthday Fuck You!". How very New Yorkish that people seem somewhat reluctant to join in with some of the other songs, but as soon as they get a chance to say "Fuck You!" to somebody, the place sounds like the National Chorale at Carnegie Hall. Meanwhile, new boot Andrea enquired as to whether there would be food, which I promised there would be. I was wrong however, what actually arrived looked like something that had failed an audition for Return Of The Blob. I swear this stuff was alive. One piece actually physically resisted leaving its box by clinging on for dear life to the lid. So scary that even Seth might have thought twice. Of course, however bad it may have been, it all got eaten - this is the hash. With that disposed of, the serious business of getting trashed resumed. While the more faint-hearted among us slinked out to get some real food, my sources tell me that the festivities continued well into the evening, getting a little sleazy at one point with a virtual gang-bang between three boys and a girl hasher, who shall of course remain anonymous (which didn't seem to bother you much last Sunday) - you know who are! Question is, why do it for free in Cannons when there are other bars which will pay good money for shows like that?

On out.