Bovine spongiform encephalopathy. What a wonderfully evocative term for the disease currently ravaging the British countryside, turning the brains of affected cattle to Swiss cheese, as if great things had previously been expected from those organs. On my recent trip to the auld country, this was pretty much the only talking point, apart from the various and numerous bonk partners of Princess Diana (to return to Swiss cheese for brains) and that old staple, the weather. You would not have believed how, in the twenty-two days of my trip, blue sky did not appear until the twenty-second, the ghastliness of weather being responsible for a head cold which prevented my exploring in detail the numerous Hashes to be found in the London area and on which I had intended to report back. Which is why I am forced to ramble on about Mad Cow Disease, the popular term for bovine spongiform encephalopathy, the last mention of which was wholly gratuitous and inserted only because I like saying it to myself. The latest development on this subject seems to be the decision, enforced by the Frogs and Krauts and our other European Union chums, to burn vast numbers of the older cattle, a process which is apparently likely to prove difficult since there are not sufficient incinerators in the entire country to handle the job. Maybe the Germans would care to assist in this matter. (Which reminds me of a joke I just heard "What do you think of Pat Buchanan?" "I enjoyed many of his speeches in the original German.") Many thanks, by the way, to those who filled the gap during my absence, particularly to Steve Kurtzer who had the perceptiveness to point out the common structure of the average writeup, the beginning paragraph consisting of completely irrelevant musings before reaching the matter in hand. However, as one can see, his skills in literary criticism are not as finely honed as they might be, since this week's effort, as anybody without Swiss cheese for brains can see, is totally on the subject from the start. In a similar vein, one was forced to question the sanity of our Hares last Sunday in starting a trail in the middle of Fifth Avenue on Greek Independence Day. Actually, this is slightly unfair, since the departure from the originally scheduled location in Queens (all of one stop out of Manhattan) was forced on them by certain Upper East Side resident members of the committee who felt that the following day's Queens Hash would cause too many Hashes in Queens in too short a time. Now, I know that Queens is an extremely foreign place where those who are not U.S. citizens risk compromising their immigration status by spending too much time, but this is compensated for by the friendly inhabitants and sunny beaches. I believe it is also possible, for those unable to get into U.S medical schools, more easily to gain a place at one in Queens, although you can no longer expect to be rescued by the military if some strange invasion occurs on the part of the neighboring Nassau County tribe and things start to get hairy. Get a grip.
Walking down a completely traffic-free Fifth Avenue, I bumped into the Kanaga family en pleine promenade, Keith himself dressed in a jacket and tie in a refreshing nod to old-fashioned standards of civility. They indicated that Hashing was the farthest thing from their minds, but then what were they doing so close to the start location at the start time? I think we should be told. Michael and Sue had apparently realized the potential disaster in having fifty bags and two Hares on a sidewalk half a mile from the nearest functioning traffic street, and had borrowed a team of bearers, a group of strapping lads of their generation (i.e. not yet broken down by age and sex) to perform burro duties. I can only deduce that this is what happened, since all offers of assistance were rebuffed and a pleasing little lateral thinking problem was presented, which I am glad was not mine.
The trail took place mostly in the Park, apparently. It was a very nice day for it, but, after a couple of minutes wandering among the baby carriages in the esteemed company of Westchester Joint Master Phillip Essenhigh and the esteemed company of New York City Trail Master Jonathan Federman, I decided enough was enough, still being of slightly delicate physical condition, and headed for the previously observed trail mark on 79th Street. I immediately found myself in the middle of 100,000 Greeks, very few of whom looked like they had ever set foot in Manhattan before. I presume Astoria must already have been booked for the afternoon. I kept a very beady eye out for my lamented ex-wife, whose latest marriage has made her a fully-fledged member of the Pennsylvania Greek community, but none of the thousands of elderly ladies in black dresses and support stockings seemed to bear any resemblance to her, so I guess she didn't make the trip. Darting among the marchers, I arrived with little further ado at the On-In location before anybody else; being overcome with an attack of guilt (I really must have been early), I then went for a little jog along by the river and up to Carl Schurz Park, where once again I was able to observe the mating rituals in the dog run. The dogs also managed to amuse themselves by running around, chasing frisbees, smelling each other's genitalia etc. etc.
Having skillfully avoided disaster on the trail, our Hares came a lot closer with the On-In. Once again, the chosen venue was another of those frat boy pubs (apparently young Lisa is a regular) where any customers in before 10:00 p.m. are considered icing on the cake. This makes it all the more surprising that somehow the deal went seriously awry. In the absence of pitchers, $2 pints are normally a perfectly adequate substitute and guaranteed to keep the masses drinking for quite long enough. On this occasion, however, we coughed up our twelve dollars and a supplement was demanded more or less at the same time the pizza was arriving. Being a cheap bastard, I decided to try and slip one more in before the barrier came down at the bar. Unfortunately, I was too late, and in the time it took me to cough up the extra cash and fork it over, what pizza there was had been totally demolished. So, I was by now $14 out for a total of four pints, which, although outrageous by Hash standards, I have to say - grudgingly - it sticks in the throat - is still cheap at most prices. Nonetheless, I propose the appointment of an Internal Auditor on next year's committee, to ensure that this sort of thing does not happen again.
P.S. The following night saw the aforementioned Queens inaugural Hash. I am very glad I didn't have to write this little baby up.
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