Different year, more or less same shit. Actually, a little more different than usual since, through circumstances beyond my control but not to my disliking, I woke up on the morning of January 1st without a hangover, having spent a quiet more or less booze-free evening at home. In truth, it has always struck me as a little odd that, at the dawning of a new year, when one is supposed to be focusing on resolutions to improve past bad behavior and turning over a new leaf for the change of year, that people typically start out by ending up in bed at 5:00 a.m. and waking up at noon, feeling the worst they are going to feel the whole year. As the old joke has it, "with a mouth feeling like the bottom of a parrot's cage."
But thank Goodness for the Hash, there to ensure that the process of feeling grim was only put off for twenty-four hours. The traditional start place, in the form of Laird's apartment, and the traditional Hare, in the form of Religious Advisor Kanaga, were once again observed this year, and I duly presented myself the traditional fifteen minutes late to find Keith and Laird watching with amusement as Brooklyn JM Croft attempted to take off his coat and stuff it into his bag with a speed and precision normally reserved for brain surgery. Once the delicate maneuver was finally completed, and another ten minutes had been added to the delay, we set off in a westerly direction. The temperature had actually risen to the dizzying heights of 41 degrees Fahrenheit, leading to an outbreak of bare-leggedness on Croft's part, but his bravery was not matched by his condition, as we jogged along at more or less the same pace for a large portion of the trail. This was attributed by him to his parlous state of hungoverness, by me to my steadily increasing running ability, but, whatever the reason, we passed a pleasant hour in examining some of the West Side's lesser-known landmarks.
Hare Kanaga, who is more used these days to guiding his packs through the industrial desolation of Brooklyn, and who, indeed, had designated this affair, it being held on a Monday, as a joint NYC / Brooklyn event, certainly stayed true to form on this one. After a minimal amount of ducking and weaving, we found ourselves crossing under the West Side Highway, care having been taken to ensure that we did not use any paths from which the snow had been cleared, but rather only those where the warmer temperatures were destined to lure us into a false sense of security and run the usual tail-jarring risks. Escaping, however, unscathed, we subsequently proceeded in a Southerly direction into what was announced by a City sign as a New Park. This, I was informed by my companion, was the venue for the geriatric Englishmen's soccer game held a few weeks ago, where a group of chaps who should know better attempted to recreate their youth without doctor's permission, and with consequent damage to their failing bodies. Since then, however, a group of large bad sculptures has been moved into the center of the field, which should presumably put a stop to their sad little games.
Exiting this near-Park through a hole in the fence, we found ourselves in the closest thing to Brooklyn I have ever seen in Manhattan, a vast open space under the West Side Highway looking out West over New Jersey and East to the West Side in what seems like the far distance. It is a disgrace that such a large open space still exists in Manhattan, and one hopes that a bright young entrepreneur like, say, Donald Trump, will step in and remedy the situation forthwith, even if he has to divert the highway to do so. Anyway, despite my fear that we were actually trapped inside a private area patrolled by vicious dogs, we covered the space from top to bottom, our paths splitting only when Croft elected to follow the trail across the disused railroad tracks and I chose the coward's detour around the bus garage and out on to 12th Avenue. As I stared down at the tracks from the safety of the street, smug in my finding the detour, an Amtrak train rolled out of the tunnel and over the trail, demonstrating that "disused" is a relative term.
After that, the trail was relatively uneventful. I was forced, once again, to resort to the telephone, by an impossible check outside an apartment building by Amsterdam Avenue. I believe what happened there was that I was so transfixed by the magnificent opulence of this particular building and in such a daydream contemplating the glamorous, sophisticated lives that must be lived by its inhabitants ("maybe one day," I said to myself, "I will be rich and successful enough to have an apartment in this building") that I completely lost concentration and overlooked the obvious on-trail. The Hotline guided me a few blocks downtown to that other temple of glitter, the Shandon Star, beloved by Keith for his own reasons. There a group of mostly shell-shocked New Year's victims were standing around drinking Bass Ale with a certain degree of unease, wondering if this were something they should be doing so soon after the last time. Your scribe, in his previously described pristine condition, had no such qualms, and went at the stuff with commendable gusto. The main topics of conversation were, as might be expected, what people received for Christmas, and, a close second, who blew chunks over whom at the New Year's party. Discretion, and my own absence, prevent me from naming names, except in the case of Chris Tyree, who apparently did not get enough to eat the first time around and had to go looking for a second helping in a rather unusual place. All in all, it seems that Laird and Christine are not-so-secretly glad that their imminent move will relieve them of the responsibility of hosting the party, and will be happy to leave it to whatever poor bastard takes the apartment next.
Among notable attendees were Tom Galvin and Joe Landy, not seen in many a month, and Neil "Spike" McCarthy, former choirmaster, not seen in a very long time but who "intends to show up more often" in future. Yeah yeah yeah. Among notable near-attendees were Alice, who showed up precisely two hours late at the start, ran the entire trail and turned up two and a bit hours late at the On-In. Well done and Happy New Year!