NYCH3 # 1095

NYCH3 #1095

Date: March 6, 2005

Start:  City Hall

Hares:  Flaccido Domingo and Anger Management Steve (AMS)

On-in:  Kabin

Scribe:  Cockstar



Mardi Gras, Saint Patrick’s Day, Ides of March Toga Hash.  ENOUGH ALREADY!  I’m r*nning out of costume space in my two Halloween boxes and Fast Am. Dave #6/Tripod/Ralph thinks I’m nuts.  OK, so you all think I’m nuts, but I digress.


I like no-theme winter Sunday hashes.  You know the ones I mean.  The kind where you wake up in bed way past noon, kinda hung over from the night before, and smile when you realize you are going sweat out that hangover during a four-mile r*n and, in 45 minutes or so when you get to the start, it’s only another 50 minutes from then ‘till it’s Beer O’clock.  But then you panic, because you know if you don’t haul ass, you’re going to be late to the start and you’re going to have to have to r*n with a bag, you’re going to be ridiculed and then you’ll have to chug a beer.   We should all be so lucky!


I don’t know what the optical illusion was, but it didn’t look like a lot of people at the start: Sarah and Andrew, Wet Connection, Heather Got Wood(?) Malloy, Declan, Dauphin (someone give me a definitive spelling here please – WHEN I’M SOBER), Peter & Lesley, Chad, Drew, Ed Lunch, Dave the Body, Fast Am. Dave #6, Loretta, Sarah, Dave Too Long, Jumpin’ Jack’s Gash, Hash Doug, Fire-in-the-Pie Hole, Mary, StEwa, Mean Jean, Marie Wickam, Karen, Seth, Steamer Baldwin and Alice.  Apparently, there were a more people at the start, because Flaccido told me he counted 60 bags and that was before the eight-or-so civilians showed up at the on-in.


As the pack mulled around and I told “Fat Angry Guy” stories, the rumor started to fly: we were going to Brooklyn.  A little Flaccido told me we weren’t, but I wasn’t going to spill the beans.  Nope!  Wet Connection announced at the start that she wasn’t even going to bother with the first bit of the trail (if there was one).  She was going straight to the bridge damn it.  So, when the bells and whistles went off, that’s exactly what she did.  More about that later.


The rest of us, however, r*n west along Duane or Reade (get it?  Duane Reade – like in the drug store) Street over towards the Hudson and the West Side Highway.  There was some zig north, some zag south and general confusion.  I saw some people jump steps into some kind of school thing, but opted to hang with ‘Ole Wiley Pete’ and defer to his hash wisdom.  When the pack crossed the WSH and headed down around Battery Park City, a few of us remained on the highway, knowing it would have to go back west.  Peter and I saw Lesley and Mean Jean ahead (???).  They must have short-cut.  At the Path Station at the WTC, it looked like we might be headed to Hoboken.  But no — just through the station and then back east.  On the way there was another subway decoy thing, but yours truly wasn’t falling for it.  Stayed on Nassau and eventually found myself in our favorite little rat-infested alley.  Trail went east and north to where we started around Foley Square.


The check at Foley Square was a disaster.  The FRBs scattered about and no one could find trail.  Knowing we were headed north and east to the LES, I opted to fly solo and went north.  I remember some bits of China Town and found some people in SoHo.  At this point, some guy shouted at me:  “R U guys hashers?”  To which I responded: “Yes.”  He then asked me how many shots I’d had.  OK, so my r*nning form must have been totally off if I looked drunk r*nning.  I mean, I know we put the r*n in drunk, but give me a break!  It also kinda reminded me of the bartender’s comment to Fluffy (“I hope you r*n better than you sit!”).  For me it should have been: “I hope you drink better than you r*n.”  Asshole!  I do.


This was a totally bizarre trail because it seemed that at every turn, there were a group of hashers on the same trail, but coming from a totally different direction.  Hmmmm, heard later that Dave Long had something to do with that.  We’ll get to that.


Past SoHo we did the usual Rivington thing and then I got smart and tried to short cut.  I had heard we were going to the bar from the Idiotarod.[1]  So, I thought it was the second beer stop on Rivington and Stanton.  Wrong!  It was the final bar – so I was totally lost and had to call in.  When I figured out we were headed to 6th and  2nd Ave., I made my own trail north.  At Houston, I bumped into a group r*nning west from the East River and who were totally lost.  We bonded together and unwittingly stumbled onto the beer check.  Appropriately, at a bar.  Name?  Anyone?


Stacia was manning the beer check and was ably assisted by Sideshow Bob and Yello Smello.  The beer was cold, but for some reason it didn’t sit well with me, Pam or Karen.  Onwards and upwards we r*n to the on-in; Kabin. 


Now, for those of us who actually participated in Idiotarod, this was an interesting spot for the on-in.  During the Idiotarod, I must admit – shocking as it is — there was a fair amount of drinking going on.  So, I guess that it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when a number of us confessed not to have realized/remembered how big the bar was or that it contained multiple rooms. 


As for the down-downs, they went on for a while.  Hares Flaccido and AMS.  Multiple virgins:  two brought by Pam, one by Sarah and one by AMS.  Visitor: Just Ryan.  He’s here from the Beijing Hash for a few months before he buggers off somewhere else.  Ladies: Get in there quick!  You know who you are!


One of the virgins Alyssa stayed up for a second down-down.  Her offense went something like this:


Normally virgin hashers like to fly under the radar screen, check things out, stand bewildered at the checks, wonder at the on-on calls and never see a mark until their third or fourth hash.  Not this virgin.  Noooosirreeee.  Every time she saw a mark she screamed:  “I see one! I see an arrow! An arrow! Look! Look!” 


No Shit Sherlock.


JM Dave Long turned himself in for the next down-down.  He set his own half of the trail, including putting down his own pack marks for the 15-or-so morons who followed him after the cluster-f*ck of a check at Foley Square.  Apparently, he wasn’t even on trail.  He just made up his own.


Haolewood (pronounced Howleewood) got a drink and a “Good Night Ladies” for abandoning his hotel career to join the Marines.  WTF??????


 The man-with-the-most-hash-names (Fast Am. Dave #6), who may be an FRB, but can’t solve a check to save his life, drank for having solved the boob check without a minute’s thought.


AOW went to Wet Connection, who admitted upon arriving at the on-in Manhattan (NOT Brooklyn):  “Dude!  I totally locked in AOW by announcing I was going straight to the Bridge.”   Damn straight missy.



[1] For those of you who did not participate, this was the finish of the Idiotarod.  The Idiotarod is a take-off on the Alaskan Iditarod, a race during which one person (the Musher) is pulled by four dogs on a sled.  Like I said – I take-off.  In the New York version, one idiot pushes a shopping cart to which four other idiots are tied and r*n through the streets of Manhattan.

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