There comes a time in some people's lives when they unfortunately realize that what was once a part of their social life is now the most dominant force in their entire life. Sweating with nerves and strain they can look around at their friends who are able to enjoy in moderation what to them is now a problem. Life takes on a new purpose - nothing else matters nearly so much as feeding the monkey on their back. More! More!! More!!! Damn the morning after hangovers of a bad night before!! Tonight is a new beginning! The only hope is to turn your life over to a higher power!!! Save me!!! SAVE ME!!!!

Of course I'm referring to the NBA playoffs and the amazing run of our very own New York Knicks! Almost mathematically eliminated one month into the season the Knicks went on an amazing tear and are now just four games away from winning it all. I was worried that because of last Wednesday's game I would have a problem with getting to the hash on time, and hence to the bar on time, and hence to the TV set in time to root my boys on, but thanks to a fresh load of donkey work dropped on my desk at 6pm, I didn't have that exact conflict. In any case, late as I was, after getting home I ran post-haste to the start and made the decision that instead of following a potentially crappy trail through Central Park by myself I would instead run around a bit and then hit the On-In to feed my monkey (the spanking would come later). Lucky me, I ran into the pack a block away from the bar and was able to seamlessly merge in with them Compton-style.

Once inside the Black Hole of Calcutta we ran into the all too frequent type of bartender - the "I'm going to give you 50+ paying customers poor service so I can focus on giving these 5 customers sitting at the bar good service". I don't know what they're thinking. If I was them, I would look at the hash and think cash cow and tell the regulars at the bar "Sorry, pal, private party" and toss them out. Unless, of course, the regulars are capable of giving them $400 worth of business and $50+ in tips for just filling pitchers, in which case they should come join us on the hash. Speaking of the regulars, a gin sozzled gent who looked like Senfeld's J.Peterman took the liberty of generally getting in our way by crashing through our ranks, smacking Rick in the balls, even eating our food at one point. Peter, resident strong arm, wasn't going to sit for this and so took him to task. At one point the two of them were in the bathroom together, no doubt the miscreant was receiving a severe tongue lashing from Peter.

Down-downs were conducted with style and aplomb by RA Crofty and JM Roy, "aided" by a visiting hasher from San Francisco who chose her own down-down songs to bray from the back of the pack. She was probably confused by Roy having just come in from a costume party where he dressed as a nebbish accountant and so took it upon herself to show us how hashing is done. You see, some visitors feel that the NY Hash needs to kick it up a notch and get away from being the relatively safe, orderly, and legal affair that it currently is and instead be more like if the "Lord Of The Flies" kids formed their own fraternity. These people, however, should be glad that we aren't like most New Yorkers or else they'd be on the receiving end of the severe ass-whooping they work so hard to deserve.

OK, I better shut up now. You see, as I didn't ran the trail there's no way I can really comment on it. For that, I have to turn it over to the Full Moon's Sergeant At Arms, "Crazy Bob".

At the risk of sounding like Andy Rooney, "you know the hardest part about these writeups is doing them a week after the hash." On a good day I’m retaining my name and home address, what happened this morning, and how many vacation days I have left in 1999, let alone the occurrences of last Wednesday evening. But it comes back to me in bits and pieces. Yes! Yes! I remember now! We assembled on a warm June evening, not unlike tonight, only a week to the hour before we assembled once again on this night. This is a weekly event. Thankful were we that the temperature dipped below 80 (Fahrenheit) for the first time in June. Our group numbered 42 when we set off from near Columbus Circle to head north along the cobbled sidewalks of Central Park West, before turning east into the west part of Central Park itself, but continuing east into the east part of the park, reaching south toward the south lawn of Central Park, to exit on the north side of West 59th Street, or what is commonly referred to as Central Park South, and due west of the gold plated tribute to General Sherman, our great Union leader who led the "Yankees" to victory, significantly trouncing the opposition some 60 years before anyone around these parts ever heard of the Highlanders or Babe Ruth for that matter. (Did that sentence take more than six lines?)

Then, as I recall, we were substantially duped. A check near General Sherman left us all severely bemused. Some went west, some north and east, others due east, but with no luck. There were rumors abound that the trail was poorly marked, that the marks had been erased, and lastly, cries and screams that the hares had been negligent and were liable for the damage of misdirection. But rising from this pit of despair, some happy hounds did spot a yonder mark and off we galloped back into the park and up the hills only to exit near the skirt of Columbus.

From there, as a I recall, it became mostly a free for all. Some even disappeared into a parking garage and were never seen again. (I don’t know who they were, and I suppose I never will, but I know they did get lost in a parking garage. They are gone. A warning! Stay out of parking garages!)

From amongst this haze and misfortune our destination did reach out and beckon us. All of us, except those lost in the parking garage, made it in time to wet our parched whistles. In recollection, the trail was quite delightful, the right length, with the appropriate rhythm and duration, and just enough ruse to keep it mysterious. Ladies, if the trail was a straight man, that one was worth keeping.

I wish I could remember the name of the on-in, but I can’t. It was an Upper West Side Irish bar, which is geographically distinct from an Upper East Side Irish bar, and geographically, socially, and economically distinct from a Lower East Side Irish bar. I do remember this, the bartender was wearing a black shirt and for the life of me I can’t figure out why anyone, Irish or otherwise, wears a black shirt any time of year, let alone in June. It was audaciously matched by some type of speckled tie. Sticking with the fashion theme, I also recall that some of us thought a hash in heavily starched and cleanly pressed white short sleeve dress shirts was an appropriate summer uniform. More information to come.

What the Upper West Side Irish bar lacked in fashion sense paled its further deficiencies in accommodations and space for a group our size, while suffering from grossly improper ventilation and cooling units. I don’t know how many sweaty hashers you can fit into an enclosed back bar space, or if in fact if there is a legal limit or health department standard guiding such assemblies, but should there be, we positively exceeded that threshold. In an attempt to remain as close to a source of fresh air as was possible, I missed the down downs, but my sources say all went smoothly. No violations of minimum hash standards.

I checked my Zagats guide to see if this Upper West Side Irish bar was listed; it was not. I would also discourage the proprietor from marketing the food over the beer. I would further encourage the proprietor to market the tattoo-breasted woman over the food.

Don’t be offended, but I haven’t mentioned anyone’s names here because I don’t want to leave anyone out. Once again, you were all terrific and performed your duties admirably. There were the required virgins, out-of-towners, civilians, and the usual cast of characters. There was happiness, concern, and bewilderment mixed with emotional trauma, bonding, co-dependency, internal conflict and dilemma, and an evident Knick victory on their way to a surprising Eastern Conference Championship. Yes, it all happens here at the hash. Bring your friends. We’ll keep a light on for ya’.

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