New York City H3 Writeup, September 1, 1999. Run No. 789

What could be better than a Friday night indoors with a bottle of plonk, the Yankees on the radio, and doing the hash writeup? Well, probably quite a lot actually, but shit happens as they say. Speaking of which, the other day I came across a woman in my neighbourhood selling toilet seats on the street ($10 with hole - $5 without). Evidently she's got a sense of humour, having set up shop right next door to the fruit stand. I find the idea of this a little puzzling; I mean, I can see someone walking past the fruit stand and thinking "mmm, those grapes/oranges/peaches look pretty good, think I'll get some", but who the hell is going to pass by the toilet seat stand and think "hmm, that plastic number there is a nice shade of pink, and it's high time I had a change of toilet seat"? Maybe there's been a millenium-panic run on toilet seats and you actually can't get them in stores any more? Or maybe the toilet seat lady is Mrs. De La Vega - I guess someone has to earn a crust while the old man is busy writing profound messages on street corners (I say he's just a frustrated hasher).

I should stress that all this rambling about matters lavatorial is by no means meant as a segue to the description of this week's hash. In fact, about the only shitty thing with this run was the start location of 125^th St. and Broadway. Harlem is not the most welcoming of neighbourhoods to run through, and presumably was designed to discourage a few people and keep the pack numbers manageable. If nothing else, it keeps the pack together, although the downside is that everyone tends to check in the same direction and run in virtual silence. Fortunately, you can rely on the locals for plenty of comment, both friendly and not, ranging from "Run Forrest Run!" and "Is this the marathon?" (0/10 for originality) to "Get yo skinny white ass outta here!" (my sentiments entirely).

Running past a local police station, I noticed a couple of armoured cars parked outside, obviously in preparation for a potential riot at the Rent-A-Mob March, due to take place the following Saturday not far away. A chance for a little sightseeing as we passed close to The Apollo, before heading back east and into the north end of Morningside Park. I was bringing up the rear at this point and so didn't see many checks, but evidently they were being solved fairly quickly as the running was virtually continuous. The trail climbed to Morningside Drive and continued through Columbia before heading west to Riverside Park. To paraphrase Yogi Berra, it's getting late early these days, which may or may not explain our inability to solve the next check in the fading light. Having wandered into the undergrowth though, I returned and saw a line of people who looked like they knew where they were going. A feature of this run were the long stretches of virtual straight-line running, as happened in the park, which served only to make my mind wander to the fact that I was parched, and also needed to take a leak pretty badly; thoughtfully, Mike and Ewa had laid the trail straight past a playground with late-night facilities and refreshments. I was followed in by a couple of new boots and had to explain that no, I was not actually on trail.

And so on-in to Cherokee Phoenix, used fairly recently by Jimmy and Chris the H.A.L.T. brothers, with great success. What with Jake's Dilemma dissing us lately, this could become our new west side "safe house". They had closed off The Shagging Room, as I guess we were cramping people's style the last time we were here, leaving us the main bar. No sooner had we arrived than some people started playing pool as if this was some kind of biathlon competition. What a treat, though, to have plenty of water pitchers and beer waiting for us for a change - just like the good old days! His Holiness Crofty called the crowd to order for down-down distribution. Firstly, Slow To Blow and Ewa, the hares - is there a Polish connection here? Mike has made quite an impact since his arrival from California, with his charming personality, loud shorts to rival Fluffy, nearly getting his arm ripped off while trying to climb over a fence and his eyes falling out on trail. He's also the only person I know who eats a three-course meal minutes before a running race. Ewa of course needs no introduction, as she is famous for being the world's slowest drinker. Watching her do a down-down reminds me of an old TV commercial from when I was a kid, for a sticky nougat/chocolate bar called "Texan" which was supposed to take ages to eat ("Texan - it sure is a mighty chew!"). In it, a cowboy is just about to be shot by a Mexican firing squad, but for his last request he asks for a Texan bar. Of course, while waiting for him to finish, the Mexicans all fall asleep and he casually strolls off into the sunset. I guess if Ewa was in a similar situation, she'd simply ask for a pint of beer, and then wait for everyone to fall asleep while she was drinking it.

Of course, hashers would never fall for that trick while there was still beer to be drunk. The hares were given an extra chug for giving false directions to the start, and completely unfairly the on-sex were similarly punished (however, apologies to anyone who surfaced from the 2,3 train at 125^th & Malcolm X Boulevard expecting to find the start). Several virgins were introduced and it was determined that none of them had silly names and better still, none of them were called Dave, since we already have a glut of those. Devo was then accused of flashing his ass on the trail, which was proven to be false since the white streak on his shorts was in fact paint and not a rip. Wishful thinking on Ewa's part I think. Speaking of real and apparent assholes, returning former AOTY of the year Murphy got one for something, probably just being there (and being an asshole). Plus, it gives everyone a chance to join in that enjoyable ASS-HOLE! chant so beloved of sports crowds and hashers too it seems. Expect to see Mike making a strong late bid to reclaim his crown during the rest of the year. Trotskyo turned up looking like the hash C.E.O., and was presumably spared a down-down in order to avoid getting beer on his suit. The man is a walking advert for Men's Warehouse.

A special hash Naïvenik award to Karen for parking her car at the start, expecting some kind of A-to-A run. In Harlem? - not! Anyway, this allowed me to do my knight-in-armour bit in helping her rescue said vehicle, which by now would undoubtedly have no wheels, windows or stereo. In fact, it was untouched, good thing as it meant I got a ride back to the on-in 85.where the party was still in full swing. Bob was busy once again auditioning to be the Cherokee Phoenix in-house cabaret act, no puppet shows this time, instead he showed his versatility by strutting his stuff by the jukebox. Don't call us, we'll call you. Meanwhile the H.A.L.T. brothers were to be found on the couch, planning their upcoming Toga run, and sniggering like Beavis and Butthead over the funny names they'd made up for the Centurions. Unfortunately, the money eventually ran out, and therefore so did most of the remaining hashers, like rats leaving the proverbial sinking ship. Let's see now - the trail was visible, everyone got water, beer and food, nobody suffocated from the heat, nobody got claustrophobia, nobody got in a fight with bar staff, everyone seemed to enjoy themselves. Nah, can't have been a Wednesday night.

On out.