"Well, that was really just......awful." We've all had occasion to feel this way, usually in a situation when expectations are well above normal, and the actual experience doesn't quite measure up. Sometimes, like a teenage sexual escapade, the unpleasant reality check is in stark contrast to a lot of hype. Sometimes, like a blind date, the letdown is yet another rung lower on an already pretty depressing ladder. In the case of a bad hash trail, it is sometimes a combination of both. This was one of those unfortunate occasions.
After last week's total, epic disaster, people not only came back for more, they turned out in droves. Whether this was influenced by one last warm day, the charisma of Peter, or the arrival of the Sheepshaggers, we'll never know. In addition to a huge flock of Barkshirites, the Alfred J. Tolbin plaza was host to local hashers who haven't been seen since last winter, and virtually every person that showed up this summer. After sending out a lengthy missive last week berating Debbie, Laura, and anyone else who read their e-mail about the proper way to set a trail, most of us felt fairly confident that joint master Peter would take every possible precaution to ensure that the pack would have a well-marked and interesting trail to follow, lest we get a bad reputation on the other side of the pond. No one ever said that hashers were a particularly bright bunch.
Peter ambled into the plaza around 7:30, and gathered everyone around to show off a few inventive checks he'd created for this special trail. A 'boobie' check would be for the women to solve, and a sheep check for the visitors. Or so Peter claims to have planned. As we brought our bags to the curb, a light ran began to fall. No problem, I thought, since Peter has set dozens of trails in the rain, he no doubt checked the weather in the afternoon and used huge handfuls of self-rising flour. The trail was set almost entirely in chalk. Which was all good and well while running through the covered pedestrian bridge and the World Financial Center, and even on the first portion of the promenade. The first check was solved heading back east across the highway, then back west into Battery Park. By this time, it was raining a bit more earnestly, and we came close to blowing right by the next check. It could have been a sheep, or a set of boobs, or a plain old check, but it was way too washed out to tell. We found trail a block east on Liberty, thanks to some scaffolding, and then lost it just as quickly heading up Cedar. Blocks and blocks went by, running straight up, before it dawned on anyone that we were way off trail. I blame this on the visitors. At this point, the pack was bifurcated by the street itself, with half (mostly made up of Sheepshaggers) on the west side, and half on the east side. Marks had most recently been sighted on the west, so those of us on the east yelled "are you?" to the westerners, but no one responded. It turned out to be because, in one of those bizarre instances which visitors innocently get drawn into, they were actually following Pat. Sure, we all should have know that she was guaranteed to be going the wrong way, but hey, SOMEONE might have noticed that trail had disappeared. Finally, after our fifteenth "are you?", Pat got around to shouting, "I saw last mark back at the bull." Gee, that was only about ten blocks ago. Everyone split up, and tried to determine what might be flour, and what might be semi-dissolved newspaper. A few people are rumored to have found trail, but I personally don't believe them. At 8:10, it was raining with gusto, so Tiger's Woody, Michele and I made a beeline for the payphone.
Our route to the on-in veered right by the curb where we had placed our bags, and Peter was still hard at work ferrying the bags to the bar with some help from Dave Long and Owen. We slogged through the rain with the bags, and found the downstairs room at GB Shaws filled with steam-drying hashers. A few were overjoyed to see that their bags had finally arrived. An exceptional bartender was hard at work filling pitchers, even going so far as to walk around with said pitchers topping off glasses. I suggest that someone check the hash cash account to see how much Peter embezzled to tip her. Pizzas arrived in two shifts, and in honor of our guests, everyone queued up politely to wait for their slice, and made sure everyone had gotten one before heading back for seconds. And I include Seth in that statement.
Mike B got up on a chair to award Peter a down-down for his "trail", and then Peter took over to start a very lengthy round of down downs. No one, including me, bothered to take notes, but take my word for it, there were a lot of them. After the 601st person was called up, a hasher, nameless to protect privacy, seemed to tire of hearing Peter single people out for ritual embarrassment. This person turned to me and said, "I want to de-pants Peter." Before I knew it, Peter's yellow shorts were down around his ankles. While he stood on a chair. In front of fifty people. Peter pulled up his shorts, jumped off the chair, and turned the remainder of the ceremonies over to the Barkshire grand master without another word. The Barkshire GM gave out some down downs, but I couldn't decipher his accent well enough to have any clue what they were all about.
Once it was all over, beer flowed copiously late into the night, a good time was had by all, and everyone seemed to be looking forward to some trails with marks over the weekend.
On out.