NAWW #214

Start:  West 72nd St & Broadway

On-In:  Pat O’Brien’s, 2nd Avenue & East 88th St

Hare:  Copa Cum Bloody

Scribe:  Speedo Gonzalez, from notes by FMIG

It was the middle ofDecember, and winter was at last upon us. The time when idle chatter about the weather turned to bitching aboutthe cold.  "Oh, it’s so fuckingcold!" someone would say to someone else. "Sure is!" someone else would say.  Then they’d turn to a third person to gettheir opinion, and this third person would usually agree that it was, indeed,cold.  So, with nigh-unanimous agreementthat on a mid-December night in New York, the temperatures would be lower thanmost people found comfortable, the Hashers set off.

Many who showed up thisnight were lured by the promise of that rare bird, the cupcake check.  How grand it would be, we thought, to stop atsome point mid-run and feast on frosted, sugary treats.  I mean, I’ll be honest, it’s the only reasonI was there.  Did you see that firstparagraph?  It was fucking cold outthere.  But this turned out to be anexample of the old bait-and-switch! There would be no cupcakes on trail, oh no.  We’d have cupcakes at the on-in, or so ourillustrious Hare claimed.  But, havingbeen lied to once already, who could believe him?

The trail went southalong Amsterdam, before clamboring up and around Lincoln Center, then cuttingeast through Central Park.  After leavingthe Park, it zig-zagged up through the East Side to the park around Gracie Mansion,where presumably the cupcake check would have been held, if only MayorBloomberg hadn’t had "better things to do" (also: "actuallylived there").  We then shot upalong the East River for a stretch, then crossed the highway and turned rightback around down 1st Ave, until finally we arrived at the on-in, Pat O’Brien’s,where the beer flowed like beer and the cupcakes existed!  (And were delicious.)

Who drank extra?

— The hare, Copa CumBloody.

— The virgins, of whichthere were many.  Like six of ’em!  And one guy made all of them come!  Hard! Unfortunately, no one wrote down their names.   So we’re just going to have to play the gamewhere we keep talking to each other, because we know we’ve met before, butdon’t want to admit that we have no idea what the other person’s name is, so wehope someone new will enter the conversation and hopefully just introducethemselves.

— There was a visitor,but not really a visitor, as he wasn’t going anywhere.  A transplant! I hope someone new enters the conversation so I can get his name, too.  It starts with a consonant, I know thatmuch.  Pretty sure, anyway.

— Pimpy Longstocking,for flagrant racism in talking up his pace at the end of trail.  Sorry Dan, this doesn’t count for your 9+1,either.

— Chris Steinkrauss& Just Nicole, who were either committing crimes against fashion or justhad more style than riff-raff like the rest of us can appreciate.  Chris was sporting the brightest, reddesttights you’ll ever see on a man.  Nicolehad the cutest knit cap than FMIG just HAD to wear himself for the rest of thecircle.

— The Hasher formerlyknown as Sivram, who coughed and snotted and phlegmmed all over some poorlittle dog.  And if traumatizing ananimal isn’t worthy of a naming, who knows what is.  So from this day forth, Sivram shall now andforever be known as LUNG BUTTER.

— Just Matt kept tryingto seize control of the circle, and for his insolence was punished with his owndown-down.

— Speedo Gonzalez (hey,I know that guy!) and Just Amy for spending way too much time together outsideof the Hash, and then bragging about it all over Facebook.  I suppose it is winter, and people will tryto stay warm in whatever ways they can. We only hope Amy never realizes that she can do much, much better.

— Amy got another onefor keeping her hat on in the circle.

And so it goes.  We ate cupcakes and pizza andchocolate-covered pretzels and drank until the money ran out, then got the fuckout of there.