I once saw a bumper sticker which read "Enjoy it today - it may be illegal tomorrow". Prophetic words indeed; while madmen are going on killing sprees all over the rest of the country, madmen of a different kind (i.e. the powers that be in New York) continue with killjoy sprees of their own. Latest to get in on the act is good old Gov. Pataki, who in an effort to stamp out "irresponsible binge drinking" has decided to outlaw free drinks in NewYork bars. Yes folks - no more buy-backs, happy hours or ladies nights. Obviously the heatwave has addled the poor sod's brain; if it lasts much longer, I'm afraid we may see another prohibition bill being passed. Hey George, chill out - switch on the AC, have a drink on me, and start dealing with some important issues.
Of course, at the hash we have never been averse to paying for our irresponsible binge drinking, of which more later. Normal service had been resumed this week; Baldwin was back, it wasn't National Anything Day, the temperature was still in the bit marked "fucking hot" on my thermometer, and there were only two hares, the dynamic FRB duo of Devo and Dumb Dick. Well, almost normal anyway, until Marc proudly announced that this trail was to be "live". For those that still don't know, a "live" trail is one where the hare runs ahead of the pack and sets the trail as he goes. I guess there are those purists in the hashing community who consider this "real" hashing, and refuse to do anything else; certainly, the pioneering hashers out in the jungles of Malaysia would have done it that way (thereby lessening the chance of being eaten by a tiger). It's a feat rarely attempted in New York however, in fact quite the opposite; there are those, who shall be nameless, who have been known to set trails in the morning or even the day before, and then wondered why nobody could find them. Now, as Sucks After Dark has it, only the "strongest, fastest and most handsome" of hares dare to set a "live" trail, but I guess Devo thought he'd give it a go anyway 85.
He picked a good starting location to lose the pack. Slap in the middle of Times Square, outside the police booth. Kelly was spotted flirting with some of the handsome officers, obviously disgusted by the lack of male talent at the hash. Marc showed us to a lovely rotting pile of garbage, next to which was parked the hashmobile, and asked us to wait there for ten minutes so he could make a clean getaway and we could all make ourselves nauseous from the smell. Co-hare Dumb Dick dutifully counted down the time and after a couple of false starts, we were off. A spontaneous decision was made to let the women go first, which they thought was good manners for a change, in fact it was just a ruse so that they would do all of the early checking in the heat. Nice one Roy and Crofty. Sure enough Devo took the most crowded possible routes to slow us down. First to (and through) Port Authority and to the first check, which eventually was solved heading south on ninth. Across to Madison Square Garden and then under it via Penn Station. It was here that Rick decided to take an alternate route down an escalator, using the gap between "up" and "down" as a ramp/slide. Rick came out unscathed, but unfortunately Jimmy did not, receiving a forearm smash to the head as Rick flew off the end of the escalator. Don't try this one at home, kids. Another check outside MSG seemed to spread everyone far and wide, the on-trail headed towards Herald Square and then north where it went back underground through a car park. This fooled many people it seemed, including me, and indeed was the last I saw of the trail before calling in. Most people were a little more resourceful it seems and by luck or judgment found the trail again, which went over to Grand Central before looping back west to Hell's Kitchen.
Since I started on the subject of madmen, it's fitting in a way that we ended at Rudy's, although judging by the state of the place it was here long before Rudy G., Governor of Arkansas 85.er 85. I mean Mayor of New York, I get so confused these days. Fortunately it was a nicer day than the last time we used it, during The Great Flood, so we were able to take over the beer garden and managed to make enough noise that most of the regulars got pissed off and left. Certainly, if you want an authentic New York inner city drinking experience, you could do worse than this place; here you can sit amongst fire escapes and trash cans, with washing lines hanging overhead - there's a distinct danger you could get a pair of undies landing in your pint, but at least they'd be clean. That's if you were lucky enough to be in possession of a pint of course. Since Dumb Dick was apparently taking no further part in the proceedings, Devo was left to collect the money and keep the beer flowing at the same time, not an easy task. We may not have been able to catch him on the trail but were certainly keeping pace with him in the beer department. Meanwhile, some guy who evidently worked there kept appearing and shouting something at us which may have been in English or Spanish, I'm not sure. I think the general gist was "You are not welcome here. We do not want your business now or in the future. Please piss off and never darken our doors again" (maybe he was an agent working for Pataki?). Of course, hashers can never take a hint, so we remained. There were various down-downs which have mostly been erased from my memory by alcohol; Elaine was there so that's a given, Bill and Catherine got two back-dated to the previous week, the first for disappearing on the trail, the second for disappearing before they got their down-down. They promptly disappeared again. Rick got one for being a safety hazard to himself and others. As well as being hare, Devo got a special Geek Of The Week award for getting his mug in New York Runner and pulling a funny face into the bargain. There was also a Mr. Magoo Award for Slow To Blow, who managed to lose an eye and replace it without breaking stride. Now that's talent.
There was just time for Idaho Sue to make a surprise entrance before Mr. Charisma once again appeared and ordered us out for the last time or he would call the cops. Actually, maybe it was Sue's arrival which precipitated this act? Anyway, our insatiable desire for beer had not been quashed, so an on-on-in was proposed. The venue of choice was O'Flaherty's, my old local, which resides on the tackily-named Restaurant Row on 46th St. This place is a little more upmarket than Rudy's and there is no underwear in sight; they are not really used to serving drunken people in running gear either. Devo dropped the remaining hash cash behind the bar and this was soon magically transformed into booze. At this point somebody started a rumour that Crofty's credit card was behind the bar, which caused something of a feeding frenzy, but this turned out to be false. We were on our own, but this didn't discourage people; the beer consumption, the conversation volume, and the bullshit level all continued to rise. Cabaret was provided by Crazy Bob, Mark and American Dave, with their impression of the Temptations (or was it The Supremes?) - nice moves guys. Much trash-talking was going on about some running race up in the Catskills, predictably for the time of night it had gone from "who can run the fastest?" into "who can drink the most and still get up in time for the race?". More to the point, who the hell was going to get up in time for work the next day? When the topic of conversation became something called Captain Kangaroo I decided it was time to call it quits. As I headed out for an on-on-on-in back on the Upper East Side, it was 1:30 and the party was still going strong. A fine night of irresponsible drinking, all paid for, by consenting adults. Mr. Pataki - fuck you!
On out.
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