Hare: Peter the Brit and
Invisible Friend Allistar Start:
Bryant Park
On-In: The Back Fence/3rd
& 84th Scribe: Christine Hinz
(Please
note: The following introductory paragraph is a complete rip-off from a similar
write-up done by Keith Kanaga after my Virgin Haring escapade in Brooklyn. You know what they say about sincere forms
of flattery…so thanks Keith, good stuff.)
It always goes like this:
“Oh. We have a virgin hare tonight.”
“Oh,
yeah, virgin hare. Boy, we’re screwed.”
“Yeah. Royally.”
“Remember
the virgin hare hash from ’96?”
“Oh
yeah, what a disaster. And the other
one in the fall of ’82?”
“Don’t
remind me.”
It’s at that’s point when the virgin usually arrives
back at the start, all covered in white flour and as nervous as a -- virgin. He’s quiet, a bit red in face, afraid to
make loud noises (“Oyyyoyoyoyoyyy” and such), and just stands there,
helplessly hoping that he’s taken all the right precautions, wishing that he
could get it over with already, and that we all come together in the end. (Get
your mind out the gutter, people – I’m talking about hashing here for
Chrissake!)
Luckily, I knew this guy would be a pro (Okay,
again, mind out of gutter – right now!).
Coming over to the start, I had already seen our hare Peter the Brit’s
handiwork, and it wasn’t half bad.
There was tons of flour and HUGE arrows (You know what they say, big
arrows make for big…oh, forget it).
So when the run started, I was quick to take full advantage of
shortcutting over to Grand Central.
From there, chaos ensued, with Midtown Manhattan in a small uproar over
a bunch of World Leaders tying up traffic, complete with Falun Gong (kind of like
yoga, possibly a cult organization) practitioners handing out heaps of
literature in protest of the movement’s ban in China. (Hey, who said hashing isn’t an educational experience?) But as one passerby who noticed the
hashers tearing up Lexington Avenue amidst all the other antics, “This city is
totally out of control…” Perhaps. But
this run, surprisingly, was not.
Peter the Brit had us run through Central Park and
when we neared the bar, about the only thing that got disorderly were the FRB’s
who were in full gallop to the finish.
First it was Owen, looking like a sprinting messenger on a mission from
God, or maybe it was a mission for Charlton Heston. Then Bahamonde whizzed by, followed by the flash of Jeff and Sue,
while Sarah and I coasted in with hopes of not breaking too much of a sweat and
feeling that warped queasy feeling one gets when they realize that they run too
slow.
The FRB’s then had the nerve to invite Devo and Ed
into a small huddle for their quarterly FRB meeting and rightfully had to drink
for it later. In addition, Jeff had to
chug for turning down a tourist’s offer for dinner (and perhaps more) at the
Plaza and then Debbie (poor Debbie) nearly lost the election to a post
on the mismanagement committee to the Hash Plunger (Said Mike Bahmonde: Plunger? I just met her! And she’s got a boyfriend!!). Old-timers and visitors came
and drank from West London and Tokyo and Froggy got the rabbit ears for just
being her.
Chicken wings and nachos replaced pizza this evening and hash cash ran out early, making for a rather tame night, from what I could tell. But then, again, the late night regulars didn’t seem to be budging. On-out.