NYCH # 1078, Nov 7, 2004
Marathon Sunday
Hares: Speedy Gary and Dr Steve
Start: 96th & Fifth
On-In: 96th & Fifth
On On In: The Back Page, 83rd & Third Ave
Scribe: Mean Jean
Fear and Loathing on the Upper East Side
We were somewhere around 96th street on the edge of the park when the Kaluha-laced coffee began to take hold. I remember saying something like, “I feel a bit lightheaded. Maybe you should stir the strip-and-go-naked.” And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the street was full of what looked like skinny people, all swooping and screeching and diving around the orange Gatorade cooler, which was going about 100 miles an hour with its top off to the 23rd Mile. And a voice was screaming: “Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn runners?”….
…. Hash Cash Peter had given me $200 in cash, most of which was already spent on extremely dangerous alcohol. The bench next to the park looked like a mobile police raid in support of the open container laws. We had 84 cans of beer, 2 large containers of Starbucks laced with Kaluha and Baileys, one giant orange cooler of Strip-and-Go-Naked, one flask of bourbon that John Haldi didn’t think I saw and one giant black foot…
… “Man this is the way to watch a marathon,” said my attorney.
Hunter S. Thompson. A classic. And what better way to describe the events of Marathon Sunday. After all, I was in an alcoholic stupor since Friday night’s pub crawl (and I only made it to the fifth bar). Couple that with a morning’s worth of work on Saturday, one On In, the tail end of a dinner party and a late evening of pool and more drinking, well, you end up with one tired gonzo-journalist on Sunday morning. And oh the ungodly hour of a 10 AM start!
Check that, 10:30 start for me. I was late and hares Dr Steve and Speedy Gary had already sent off the hearty pack of 25. The trail, I’m told, went north and east and was not unpleasant given the confines dictated by police and their barricades. I joined the pack at the “boozey coffee” check at 96th and First Avenue where we watched the elite women fly by under a blazing Indian summer sun. Mickey Mouth was perched atop the base of a lamp post and Magoo was jostling with a woman with a baby carriage for a better viewing position (I think the baby carriage won that one). Doug was playing with his new goatee whilst Vince admired the views (Denise to Mary to Karen to… you get the picture). Having enough of the Baileys coffee and ready for some real alcohol, Jon, Mickey and I decided to make the uphill trek back to the hash grandstand where strip-and-go-naked and beer waited. Back just in time to see the elite women go by again, we began gearing up for the arrivals of our fellow hashers. The first incident in our supply shortage trouble reared its ugly head as I discovered Patrick, mid-bite into his third bagel, standing aside the empty bag. Sign of things to come.
Hardy was naturally the first one through, easily batting away the challenge of brash Fast American Dave who was down for the same time. A few coarse fingers gestures later and Hardy was gone in the blink of eye. Dave was next and looked, well, frankly he looked like he’d just run 23 miles in the heat (go figure!). He took his down down happily and Devo got him going again kind of the way your dad used to push the back of your bike real hard when you were learning to ride. Marie Wickham, Rich Kammerer, Melanie Ashmore, and a few other fasties sped by and things became a bit of a blur as the strip-and-go-nakeds began to take hold right outside of Barstow. But I digress.
It was bout this time we noticed that the strip-and-go-naked had run out as Cockstar stood by with a suspiciously full 16-oz cup of the elixir. We also found ourselves spilling our guts to a Columbia journalism student doing at article on the hash. Amazing the things you’ll tell a reporter when you’re drunk; kind of like the things you’ll tell a JM when you’re drunk. It was all going fine until he asked me my age. Quick scan of those nearby…who had a I recently lied to…which boys was I trying to sleep with…which age do I say…until Stacey very kindly pointed out that I could tell him anything and I settled on the not-so-utterly unbelievable “30” (Kyle, stop laughing).
Back on the marathon trail, Offensive Discharge all the way from Denver ran about 100 yards towards us with hands outstretched ready for his beer. We saw a weary-looking Sideshow followed closely by the appearance of Head Up Ass whose actual head was sporting a red Mohawk answering the question of why the hell was he growing his hair the last couple of months. (We of course still don’t why he stopped drinking for the last couple of months). The Mohawk combined with his black Olympic swimmer sharkskin outfit made him look like a combination of Hedgehog and a heterosexual ice dancer. Muffalotta came by with tits a-blazing; I swear I’ve seen those breasts more often than I’ve seen my own.
It was about this time that we noticed the beer had run out. As I had been in charge of organizing all the morning’s supplies, I quickly decided to get the hell out of Dodge before mutiny ensued. Er, I also appreciated the fact that there was in fact beer at Back Page (momma didn’t raise no fool). Mickey Mouth and I made our traditional trek east and south carrying the big orange cooler. The Back Page filled up pretty quickly and we were in full swing by about 3:30 with the marathoners trickling in. Too Long got the circle going early and we started with the morning’s hares, Dr Steve and Speedy Gary. Marathoners were next: Hardy, Fast American Dave, HUA, blondie girl (Randilass?), Muffalotta, Offensive Discharge. Next up were HUA and Cockstar; HUA had copycatted Cockstar’s hair from last year’s marathon which had in fact earned her her hashname. V & Vs were next but I didn’t get every one’s name except for the newest Devo-tee, Caroline. Fast American Dave was up again (according to the pics on the website) but damned if I know what for. I do remember John Haldi’s naming though; for providing Cockstar with the Pocket Rocket mini vibrator at the Red Dress pub crawl and presuming he needed help with the ladies, we named him, Flacido Domingo. Seth was next up (once again according the website pics) but again, I’m stumped. Patrick appears in the next shot in the slideshow and while I can’t say for sure I’m going to suggest it had to do with the fact that for the first time ever, the beer and bagels ran out this year, the first year he was in attendance. Coincidence? I don’t think so. There’s also a pic of a visitor couple with the girl performing fully clothed fellatio in the circle. Nice.
Marathoners showed up throughout the night for their down downs, including last year’s star of the show, Swedish Big Brother who presented JM Too Long with another funky hash tshirt, and of course, Crazy Bob. The pocket rocket saw a lot of action as it bounced from beer cup to beer cup and I can only assume it found a good and loving home at the end of the evening. Food was plentiful for a change but, as was the theme for the day, hash cash was hanging on by a thread as I played a cat-and-mouse game with bartender Rich to milk out a few extra pitchers, but I think in the end we eked hash cash til a respectable 7PM though the room was still pretty full on. But my attorney advised me to take my leave and off I went with a big orange cooler in one hand and a giant black foot in the other (alas, not attached to anyone).
I was just outside of Barstow when the hangover took hold.
On out.
