Date: Saturday, May 13, 2000
Hares: J.M.’s Roy Gilbert & David Croft??
On-In: Ukrainian National Home & Restaurant
The AGM weekend is one of the most highly anticipated on the Hash calendar. To look at the ashen faces gathered at the start, (undoubtedly an aftereffect of Friday night’s pub crawl), one might wonder why. But, they say working up a good sweat is the best cure for a hangover, so the Awfully-Small-For-An-AGM turnout set off on the trail from Union Square, heading south on University. Or maybe they thought they could escape Ewa’s relentless schmatta-hawking? In any case, things got rather sticky from the beginning, when we came around to Fifth Avenue and 14th Street again (is it us, or are checks at that location cursed?). When we finally figured it out, we ran down through the West Village, over to Bleecker Street, then through the NYU campus, then a bit east on Houston. At one point, we passed Mojo’s, a much-mourned former On-In location where the legendary Best Male Ass Competition had taken place one scandalous night late this winter. A few hashers spotted construction at the site, and took the liberty of letting themselves in to check it out. Christine’s remark of “look, they’re turning it into a nice bar” was quickly drowned out by Danny’s laments of, “it already was.” So true, so true. Just a little bit further on and we were at the On-In…. where the real fun began.
Ah, the ‘ol National Ukrainian Homestead. There may in fact still be people recovering from last year’s hangover-n-hypothermia phenomena. This year actually outdid last, with the frigid Artic air they import from the Hinterland for our special events obviating the need to ice the kegs. The consensus was that it was actually colder this year, but that the Sam Adams was fresher, so it was a draw. However, the chicken was much pinker, and woe betide any hungry hasher who didn’t notice in time. Perhaps this explains the pack of about seven who ran Sunday’s hash… The rest of the food was quite edible, as evidenced by Michele and Heather chasing the remains of the pasta with their fingers, much to the horror of Dave Byron-Brown.
But, before Ed Lynch was able to dive-bomb the food, a number of honors and awards were to be presented, and the new committee remained to be announced. In no particular order, and with no promises of inclusiveness and/or accuracy, a whole buncha folks got down-downs. [Ed: no one took notes due to a disagreement between the outgoing and incoming scribes as to whom this chore belonged.] David Croft Memorial Falling Down (down, down)s went to Lesley, who may in fact be going for lifetime achievement status, Heather for falling off of her bike, [Ed: speaking of the bike, it did not go unnoticed that her bike outfit was much more attractive than Basil’s spaceman outfit of the previous AGM] ?? and ??. Troise got a special down-down for bungling scribe duties, mismanaging a Toga run, laying false claim to the HALT idea, and (ahem) screwing up Petra, among offenses too numerous to remember. Elaine ‘n’ Pat garnered Worst Run of the Year for the infamous Seinfeld hash, which surprised only them, of course. Heather and Mike B didn’t even have to wait to be called to step forward for the Worst On-In down-down for the Westside Tavern Highway Robbery. Kerry and Kelly were graced with a lovely map of NYC, in hopes that they would be inspired to set more interesting trails. Many hashers were heard to worry that if Kerry were press-ganged into setting more trails, she would either get lost, or head for the mountains at the eleventh hour in a panic. Most Improved Body went to Lesley Lips for her new breasts, with silicone gel refills as the booby prize. [Ed: the scribes have done several down-downs for this bad pun.] Rick Chann earned Asshole of the Week for… well, who remembers, but he definitely deserved it. Rick did a second down-down for kidnapping Junior from the totalitarian state of New Jersey. A huge crowd drank for getting engaged/married/procreating, though not necessarily accomplishing these things in such order. Debbie and John won Couple of the Year for failing to get engaged. Following a multi-year delay, Dave Hardy was finally awarded the coveted Asshole of the Year golden plunger. Last but not least, the Hash Glitterati, aka the new committee, stepped forward to commemorate their elevation with a group down-down.
Some of the earlier evening highlights included Geoff finally being taught a new song or two and practicing with his “choir” and the legendary Ian Cummings, father of the NY hash, who did his rather explicit rendition of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”, with Alice as a backup singer. Speaking of Ian, David Byron-Brown mentioned that he and Ian were talking by the urinals, and Ian said, “I’ve never had more fun at a New York City hash -- EVER!!” (Sorry, Ian, we all respect you for being a legendary hasher and bringing hashing to the Empire State – but you’ve got to get out more often!)
As the night wore on, Michele was getting bored. That’s when Devo suggested another best-ass contest, at which point Michele and Christine cajoled Steve (Who?) Yeoman to make the official announcement for the open competition. Things didn’t go to well, however -- because hashers, being who they are -- all decided to give poor Steve the big “boo-hiss,” throwing little packets of sugar and cupfuls of beer at him. Taking it all in stride, Steve continued drinking himself into oblivion, only to have to be woken up on occasion (to take another swig, we might add) by Crofty and Ariane.
Looking for more entertainment, impromptu dancing and a limbo contest ensued. Things were picking up, especially for Michele, who was spotted smooching with her beau on the dance floor (Ahhww…isn’t that cute!?!) At some point near the end of the kegs, the evening began to reach its peak with Lesley pirouetting around the dance floor. At that point Kerry grabbed Christine’s camera and took a bunch of photos, then summarily misplaced it. (Don’t worry Kerry, Ewa found it and gave it back the next day.)
Things get a blurry from here on in folks. We ran out of beer and lost a large contingent as we walked across the hall to the Russian bar (I’ll pass on the Vodka). Ewa won and lots of people ended up buying another damn t-shirt, Lesley danced around the jukebox, Michele de-pantsed Dave Long, and we all resorted to drinking Rheingold beer. (Oh, the horror!) With that, it seemed that nothing good could happen from this point on, so we pointed Steve (Who?) out the door and in the direction of home and called it a night.