Official Organ of the Greater
Gotham Full Moon
Hash House Harriers
G2FMH3 Hash # 166 – Friday, June 24, 2005
Start: 33rd and 8th, Penn Station
On-In: TG Whitney’s, 53rd between 2nd and 3rd
Punk Ass Bitch (Scribe): BoySlave
Benches, like tall buildings with names celebrating vague ideals suspiciously conflated with patriotism—are susceptible to terrorist attack. So, if you’re early for the GGFM and don’t pine spending an evening with 50 Midtown suits at the local pub, sit in a dried coffee puddle and admire the bu-fu-gly architecture. Wait for the hare to arrive.
Sung-Hee showed up close enough to on time, rosy cheeked, and laid down some rules: First, ‘cause we need variety, the trail was set “London Style,” with Falses that don’t have Checks preceding them (a.k.a. “Haldi Style”). Second, two arrows mark the trail; one arrow means you’re on your way to a movie premiere. Finally, our hare’s trail was long—longer than anticipated, longer than desired…even longer than FAD#6.
The Friday night gang was warming up, and karaoke, promised by lovely
But this is the hash, and no hash goes off without a hitch. Sung-Hee’s successful karaoke planning negated any chance at a Circle. The grumblings started slowly, then built—surprise, surprise, harriers found a way to bitch about a decent trail and fun On-In just ‘cause we couldn’t have our 5 minutes of off-key masturbation. I left early to rest up for a weekend at the beach, but I hear the vibes improved with each successive beer and tune.
The next morning, I downed a pile of buttermilk pancakes and caught the train to the Shore—a two-hour ride with a transfer at
…Hashers drank at a bar that looked like the old Jeremy’s Ale House…except it was a booze cruise. Every r*nner but one had reached the pier in time. Only the DFL stood on land, cursing. I could see him across the water, complaining about the trail and stretching, with the red sunset shining off his sweaty forehead. Civilian Booty Call had doggypaddled through the
I couldn’t tell if the leader of the down-downs was C*ckstar or Scot. S/he had Scot’s hair and glasses, Alison’s voice and smile, and the body of Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now. S/he doled out the down-downs between cigarette drags:
—First up was
—Virgins and visitors were all the women in the video “Addicted to Love.” The lights are on…but you’re not home…
—Devo was tapped for acting like Devo—r*nning without chalk, calling “On-On” when he wasn’t, and competing to reach the boat first. Naturally, girls found his inconsiderate behavior sexy, and he disappeared into the back room with two of the Addicted-to-Love girls and a chalkboard to explain structural repairs to the GWB.
—My aunt Gina, neither a runner nor a drinker, briefly interrupted the festivities to remind everyone to tip the valet.
—Karen was next for busting her ankle at Kim’s Wednesday hash. And man was she pissed! She grabbed the beer and cursed us all, especially the bull market on Wall Street.
—Shana and Daniel refused the beer. For their crime of acting too much like a married couple on trail, they re-enacted their wedding cake-cutting, complete with smeared vanilla icing and severed fingers, substituting a Carvel ice-cream cake shaped like a whale.
—Finally, Maria brought up her new size-2 sneaker and drank a thimbleful of beer from it. Sideshow began a golf-announcer-type commentary on the picture-in-picture, explaining how concubines used to bind their feet to seduce men…
…“Sir, sir,” the conductor said. I felt her arm tap my shoulder. “Sir, this is the last stop. Transfer across the platform for points south.” I squinted and looked around—the sun had climbed higher in the hazy sky, and the car was empty. I smiled, grabbed my bag, and hurried off the train. “On out,” I said as I brushed past her.