Fine day for a hash. Yes, indeed, a fine, fine day. Raining, first day back
from vacation, first day running after ten days of eating, sleeping, and sitting
in a jacuzzi like Jabba the Hutt, and did I mention 'raining'? My apartment
was a disaster, I hadn't unpacked, my laundry was a superfund prospect, the
cat's teeth needed brushing, my CDs need to be alphabetized, there were any
number of catalogs piled up that needed to be perused, I needed to catch up
on ten days worth of print media machinating the meaning of the lack of a president…
the list of enticing prospects went on and on. However, the hare for the day
was that wild, wacky, wabbit Christine, or my co-scribe, so I knew I would have
to make an appearance to document the ever-riveting goings-on.
With a deep and heartfelt sigh, I packed up some dry clothes, and headed down
to the start at Union Square. Upon arrival, I found no marks at any of the subway
exits, no start hex, nor any other hashers. After moseying around the square
a few times, I finally found Ed Lynch, who helpfully informed me that there
is usually a start check to tell us where to stand. We arbitrarily picked a
spot in the center of the plaza apron, and patiently waited for mobs of happy
hashers to arrive. Eventually, a crabby-looking group of around seven collected
around us, and a few prematurely changed into shorts, assuming that Christine
would appear at any second. More than a few seconds ticked by before Christine
actually showed up, and when she did, she didn't look any happier than the pack.
From what I understand, she sulked in a diner until after 1:30, spitting and
muttering something about spending the day in a nice, dry movie theater before
finally heading out to set trail. From the amount of sodden flour congealing
on her tights, we held out hope that most of the trail would be visible, though
perhaps sadistic, judging by the hare's mood.
Does anyone actually need to speculate about the accuracy of our assumptions
at this point?
Christine's bizarre predilection for colored chalk was the problem. Rather than
creating flour arrows and checks, she put them down in pastel green chalk, which
can actually be washed out by fog. Needless to say, it was no match for the
day's downpour, so each corner turned into a mini check, and the only way we
found the real checks was by eventually realizing we'd run out of marks. But,
as I wished I could have done on trail, I'm getting ahead of myself.
We set off south and west, meandering scenically through the west village, zigging
and zagging to the West Side Highway and back again, with the trail disappearing
two or three times along the way. In the very first section, we encountered
the only visible check at Sixth Avenue, in front of Balducci's. Andrew came
to a dead stop, and announced, "I don't check. I'm not a marathon runner like
you people, so I just refuse." And he was actually surprised that we tattled
on him, if you can imagine. After the trail disappeared twice just below the
meatpacking district, I stopped detouring to the highway and continued straight
up Washington, figuring that we'd just head back east on 14th to Flannery's,
getting out of the weather as quickly as possible. I even began to anticipate
some late lunch when we passed an outdoor barbecue being filmed by a Japanese
crew outside of Hogs and Heifers. On 14th, I paused for a moment to gaze longingly
into the window of Jeffrey, and broke away just in time to see the pack heading
in the wrong direction, back toward the highway, and up 10th. Damn that Christine,
making us take a detour! Hopes for Flannery's, and a short trail, started to
fade as we ran up, up, up 10th to 23rd, cut over to 9th, and up, up, up to Penn
Station. Not only was this trail getting long, it was bloody boring, too. Where
could we be going? Dewey's Flatiron? Too many bad memories. Mustang Sally's?
Ran by it. Coyote Kate's? Even further uptown. Station Tavern? When we sighted
a mark in front of the Post Office, I knew that had to be it. I zipped down
the few blocks without even looking, and found the remains of "On In" fading
from the damp sidewalk.
Inside the bar, we changed into whatever dry clothes we had in our bags, except
for Sara, who commandeered the bathroom for her portable shower, hairdryer,
makeup artist, and wardrobe trailer. She emerged later looking like she was
on her way to Studio 54, making our pizza-stained race t-shirts and sweatpants
look even shabbier by comparison. There was some sort of sporting event on television,
so things were pretty subdued, in stark contrast to the week prior. (Note to
Christine: the March Hare is a rabbit, the Mad Hatter is some vaguely humanoid
being.) JM Roy had no trouble gathering the troops for down-downs, first awarding
Christine for setting a trail in such miserable weather, then punishing her
for her unnatural obsession with colored chalk. Next, Andrew drank for his baldfaced
admission to Fludgate-esque laziness. Pat and Ed shared the limelight for running
the Philly marathon. Sara got the rabbit ears, which complimented her spray-on
leopard top nicely, even though Cree was first in. Roy alluded to other plans
for Cree, and moved on to giving Pat Flanagan a beer for giving up on the prior
week's trail the second she found out that the on-in was in Brooklyn. Next were
a group of three UFO abductees, missing from the hash for an extended time,
which included Spaceman Basil, and a woman who actually forgot to chug. Marie
"3:08" Wickham was next for actually returning to the start for the on-in location.
Then, just as Roy was preparing to award the final Bud of the night to Cree,
I took over, awarding Roy a beer for his impending 50th birthday to an off-tune
chorus of "fuck you." Just when he thought he'd slip away, I grabbed the plunger,
and made Roy AOTW for following globs of flour to bars at the advanced age of
50.
The unbelievably slippy, slidey, greasy pizza arrived shortly thereafter, as
did more pitchers of beer. A few civilians showed up, but in all, it was a suitably
mellow on-in at the end of a very long weekend. (Except for me, nervous and
keeping a sharp eye out for whoever the sweaty character was that showed up
on Wednesday, writeup clutched in his hand and looking for me.) On out.