I tend to despise Grand Central On-Secs. The terminus is uncomfortably close to my place of employment, and I squirm even thinking about crossing paths with one of my (many) superiors at 7 p.m., an hour at which I should still be confined to a small, poorly-lit box, performing questionable tasks. I suppose the true beauty of becoming a superior is that no such moral queasiness exists. In any case, the changeover to Wednesday night Hashes yielded a couple of surprises. First, Mary the Greek appeared in running apparel, a transformation so stunning that it demanded a prominent Down-Down later in the evening. Also, the usual gaggle of young Adonises and nymphets, who tend to show for warm-weather evening Hashes, was nowhere to be found, leaving us with the usual set of misshapen, amoral participants. And the weather was in line with the season; that is, a grey, ominous skyscape that all the world's great cities (Paris, London, and Monrovia, Liberia) seem to share, and which is an indictment of human logic -- no cerebral being would ever dream of building a great city in these sad places. Oh well, I guess that 'Hash 90210' doesn't start up until summertime truly begins.
While listening to Hare/Chugfraulein Unger explain the mysteries of the Hash to a couple of virgins I remembered that she had recently run the Big Sur Marathon, one characterized by fearsome mountains, without training. But there was little use in worrying, and soon we were off and heading west.
The trail was more or less fair and of a normal length, with two chief flaws, both having to do with the checks. The symbols themselves were so faint that future FRBs would be advised to come armed with electron microscopes. And the placement of the most egregious check, smack-dab in the middle of Times Square, gave us all the yearned-for opportunity to experience the friendly, rancor-free atmosphere of post-Tony Broadway at 7:30 p.m. I somewhat expected to see Julie Andrews setting a false trail or two. Actually, the whole place was alive with a bizarre electricity that was given human form by a screeching peasant woman, who must have just arrived from the Russian voting booths. From this place we ran north to the Upper East Side (I can't remember much more than that), where we endured occasional cruelties that ended at a reasonable hour. Surprisingly, residents of this eclectic, non-conformist part of town continue to be alarmed by our presence. Hashers in the future ought to be more considerate of those feasting on arugula and blue corn chips and should therefore refrain from hearty shouts in and around sidewalk cafes. Yeah...
I do remember coming across some old trails from the weekend, when there were only three Hashes in three days. At some point in the future, according to the law of large numbers, the Hash will be the cause of an enormous construction or traffic tragedy arising from the similar use of hand-drawn arrows and other hieroglyphics on the streets of New York. I was given the opportunity for careful contemplation of this circumstance due to my tendency to run far back in the pack, a tradition firmly established by the previous scribe. The rear view allowed for complete observation of young Matt's infamous 'head-bobble,' in which his head, lolling around as if anchored to a broken neck, seems to describe a nearly perfect ellipse. I also found that my isolated, uninhibited position gave me a chance to practice sidewalk skiing. I strongly urge any of you who ski to spend part of each Hash running entirely on the sidewalk curb-stones; the need to repeatedly swivel hips and arms to avoid car mirrors and parking meters is far better skiing instruction than that offered at any resort.
The On-In was Crossroads, a bar/music house that in most imaginable dimensions would have closed immediately after the death of Jerry Garcia. As it was, Crossroads was a fairly pleasant place, with actual wood components and a set of couches in the back, dubbed the 'Hash Library,' that were quickly occupied by a number of (supposedly) exhausted Hashers. No indictments will be handed down at this time. New JM DB2, perhaps imagining himself a laundered Citizen Kane, held the floor and administered Down-Downs with a stentorian, practiced style. And, more importantly, Hare Lisa kept the beer flowing at an admirable pace, dosing those Hashers with anything less than an o'erflowing cup. Such proceedings made it quite easy for me to hold a conversation about the fabled cities of Samarkand and Almaty in Central Asia, a region which I have never visited. Ah, the Hash!
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