The news can often be a source of entertainment, as well as information. No matter how ridiculously pathetic our own lives may seem, we can always count on a the news to amuse by reporting, in great and amazing detail, the misery and buffoonery of the large number of miscreants who inhabit the planet. What had been my all-time favorite story came during the three years I spent living in Nashville, where, being the South, much of the local news involved events concerning either the discharge of weapons, or carnal relations among family members. This particular story involved both--an armed backwoodsman who, one evening, had burst into the shack where his teenaged daughter and her "husband" lived. He proceeded to shoot his "son-in-law," leaving him for dead, and take his daughter back to his own abode where they continued the close relations they had apparently enjoyed before the young lady's "marriage." It seems that daddy wasn't quite ready to give up his little girl. In recent days, however, there is a new contender--one that has been picked up by the national media as well. A couple of weeks ago, a semi-braindead lowlife in Mississippi, distraught over a breakup with his girlfriend, decided to shoot up his high school, killing the girlfriend, one other girl, and wounding a number of others. In the South, nothing says "I love you" like firearms, (and the citizenry can be counted upon to justify such gunplay with a twisted defense based upon a misinterpretation of the Second Amendment). As if this weren't enough, he had also stabbed his mother to death earlier in the day. She must've burned the toast. Last week, the local constabulary arrested six of the young scamp's white trash playmates, accusing them of being part of a murder conspiracy ring. It turns out that this group is a bunch of self-proclaimed honor students, which in Mississippi means that they spell "cat" with a "c" instead of a "k."
The reason for this lengthy preamble is to demonstrate how close to the edge we all are, and that at any moment, any one of us can snap and become a headline--which brings us to last week's hash, and especially, the hare. Young Matt, it seems, has been dancing on the edge for most of his life, whether it be accepting a job, preparing to move and then turning it down, all in the span of a week, or haplessly supporting a football team whose glory days, such as they were, are now long past. At least it keeps him away on Sundays. He does not so much invite abuse as demand it. The crowd of 40 or so hashers gathered in front of the statue of William Seward in Madison Square Park, awaited Matt, hoping for a short run. Among the unfamilar faces was a visitor from Dubai. He and Basil spent time discussing life among the sand people. When Matt finally showed up, astride a bicycle, accompanied by Sue, it was clear that another death march was in the offing.
We headed north, to the first check at Herald Square. While many checked east, I followed Mike Hoffman to the west--it seems he had some inside information. We stumbled over the trail across the street from Penn Station. The trail continued around Penn Station, and then south and west on 23rd Street. Following a check we continued north, passing a large group milling about outside the back of the Post Office (always a good source of potential bizarre headlines), to the next check, above the rail yard. Here Mike and I parted company, and I found the trail going south on 10th Avenue. Approaching Chelsea Piers, I was joined by Dave Long, and we continued to a check near the 23rd Street Pier. By now, Andy had joined us--it's always good to have him nearby, blowing his horn to signal the trail, on dark nights. Dave found the trail, and Andy trumpeted on-on, and we continued south and east, to a check at 14th Street and 8th Avenue. By this time, 50 or so minutes into the run, I decided that we must be going to the Village Idiot, merely a block away. The only idiot, however, was your scribe for believing we might get a run done in less than an hour. The trail went back east, on the way passing a thoroughly ill-mannered pack of rollerbladers, to a completely gratuitous check at Union Square. True to form, Matt blamed Sue for this one. Thankfully, this check was a bit easier than most Union Square checks--it took less than half an hour to find the trail. From there, we enjoyed a quick sprint up Third Avenue, finally arriving at the Bull's Head.
We have used this bar before, and I'm less than crazy about the place. It's always pretty crowded, the music is far too loud, the food is mediocre, and the waitresses tend to be somewhat ambivalent about keeping the pitchers coming. On the other hand, the beer, when it came, was quite good. It's amazing how one develops a sense of when a good pitcher is about to be served, and is able to position oneself directly in its path. By the time most of the pack finally filtered in, the food was being laid out. JM's Croft and Unger quickly called the assemblage to order, and began the down-downs. First there was one for a virgin called Steve (funny that I'd remember that), and then several civilians. Lisa then announced a special down-down for Jerry, who was wearing shorts, rather than his normal tights. We do, sometimes, get overly concerned with Jerry's attire, but then anyone who answers to "Fluffy" deserves all the abuse we can give him. The last down-down was in celebration of Croft's birthday, as he begins his final year in confused immaturity, before joining the ranks of that honorable band of those 40 years of age and above. He marked the day in grand fashion by staying out well past 1:00AM. The down-downs were barely complete when there was a sudden, mad rush for the food, though I'll never understand the excitement for vegetarian pasta, unless most of those there hadn't eaten for days. At the same time, a few traditionalists hurried through a rendition of "The Monks of St. Bernard," thus making the gluttony official. As the evening went on, Matt was left to justify his trail, his primary statement of defense being that it was a good trail since it never strayed too far from the start. The truth of this statement could be debated, but it was, like Matt himself, totally irrelevant. After a while, the crowd thinned out, and the on-in became more like our regular gatherings. By around 11:00 the hash cash was gone, and it was time to begin the long trek home (another reason The Bull's Head is not one of my favorites). Another evening safely passed without becoming an embarrassing headline.