NYCH3 #1219

NYCH3 #1219

June 27, 2007

HARE: FMIG + Innocent Victim Co-Hare: Kinky Boots

Start: NY Public Library (42nd/Fifth)

On In: Boss Tweeds (a bar located over 8 miles of trail away)

Scribe: Wet Connection & Mean Jean


As former JM of the Brooklyn Hash, I remember distinctly the day that one very special individual came out for a trail (and made a gigantic blip on my radar), then came out for another (and another blip)…and another (and another blip)…and another (and another blip). 


“Bugger,” I thought, experience telling me what I already knew. “We’re stuck with him.” Him?  Who him?  C’mon, you all know “the him” who I’m talking about…


HIM. Yes, HIM.  That guy, that…scoundrel… you know the one, the one with the impish grin, and a mouth so loud we actually had to give in and let him lead down-downs…yes, that one! That guy!  The one with a seemingly high level of intellect, so high in fact that it still bewilders me to comprehend how bad his trails truly are….yes!!  HIM.


Yes, over the years, That Guy, Steve,” turned a self-named, self-proclaimed “Anger Management Steve” only to be officially named “F*ck Me I’m Gay,” or as I now prefer to call him, “Fuh-Mig,” has astonished me with his horrible, horrendous trails.


In my nearly 10 years of hashing, FMIG has flummoxed me with such things as arrows in the middle of a busy intersection on 14th Street (with no other mark to be found for five blocks around) and a complete disdain for and non-use of  trail marks that round corners.  Forget about some of the trails that Cree, Devo and Fast American Dave might have had us endure, FMIG was the guy (yes, that guy) who made us r*n over the Manhattan Bridge only to r*n back over Brooklyn Bridge for an otherwise uninspired, seven mile trail. Oh, and it was February. And it was cold. And windy. And we were all so damn pooped at the on-in that it was perhaps the first and only time I recall the NYCH3 crowd sprawled out on chairs and bar booths, draped and wilting like lost hash gear, uncaring about whether or not we could even reach the damn beer pitcher or not.


FMIG is also the guy who several took pity on and tried to “teach” him about how to lay trail.  Scooter was one. I forget who the others might have been, my guess is we must have given up. But there was also that divine intervention thing that tried to help us all out. You remember all those washed out FMIG trails (like a dozen, I think)? I know it may seem like a coincidence that it rains (actually pours, deluges in fact) every time FMIG sets a trail.  But those are actually the hash gods having pity and trying to save FMIG’s ass.  Or maybe it was the hash gods having pity and trying to save the pack’s ass.  Whosever ass, the hash gods were late this evening (they arrived when FMIG was about to get his down-downs and get iced with his co-hare…).  But I’ve gotten ahead of myself.


To back up a bit and start again now that you have some further background, I’d like to just say that the old adage is true: With age, comes wisdom — and an inner knowledge of whose trails to hash, and who’s to perhaps, um, “Give a miss.” And given my history of FMIG trails, I decided to um, “Give this one a miss (wink wink),” opting to lounge about this sweltering Wednesday evening, get the latest Paris in Jail update on ET, and make my way to the on-in.


Walking up to Boss Tweeds at 8:45 p.m., I was trying to figure out whether it was worth coughing up $15 for hash cash if, given usual pack r*nning time and drinking ability, my estimate was that we’d be out of cash within the next 30 minutes. But when I walked in, there was no pack to speak of.  Instead, I was faced with just two other Veteran hashers, Bahamonde and former JM Trunfio trying to calm a very anxious Kinky Boots, who had come to the conclusion that the entire pack had been left for dead (she was probably right, I thought).  Handing over my hash cash, I pulled up a bar stool to join the Vets in watching as survivors crawled through the door, dragging other bodies with them.  



But, rather than bore you with reports on the state of the pack, not to mention the snide comments, back talk and trash talk between various hounds and the hare, I’m handing it over to Mean Jean the Down Down Machine, to regale you with her survivor’s tale from the field:


In April 1942, Lt. General Masaharu Homma moved a captured Allied garrison of 75,000 men 90 miles in 9 days through the Philippine jungle in humid 95 degrees conditions. In June 2007, F*ck Me I’m Gay moved an unsuspecting pack of 60 hashers 8 miles in 80 minutes through nine Manhattan neighborhoods in humid 95 degree conditions. This is the story of the modern day Bataan Death March.


The pack was sent east from the steps of the library on 41st Street with Grand Central looming. We went around Grand Central (though FMIG later told me we were meant to go through it at this point) and found out first check past Third Avenue. I managed to catch up to the FRBs as they solved this tough check and off we made for the shadow of the UN on First Avenue, then it was up (then down) the famed Tudor City stairs. On our way back west, this time we did follow trail through Grand Central Terminal where we scattered at the info desk once no marks were apparent. I guessed straight on and up the stairs to Vanderbilt and lucky for me, Red-headed Steve had just found trail when I got out there. Having already put in about 2 miles at this point, I assumed that my inside intel on the on in (Boss Tweeds on LES), which I shared with Tit Totler, must be off base. That was another 3 or 4 miles from where we were. It was west to Seventh Avenue then back to Sixth Avenue and south. Trail was lost in Herald Square. Can’t really blame the 7 million people that congregate around there for stepping all over our arrows I suppose.  But trail was eventually found on the [NOT] easy-to-r*n-on cross street, 34th, right by Macys. It was then a very straight shot down Eighth Avenue (where I agitated Fast America Dave yet again by being in front of him without shortcutting!) to the projects in the mid twenties. Trail cut through the high rise apartment blocks and emptied out on Ninth Avenue where I felt relaxed and happy that we must be heading to Flannery’s on 14th Street. A drink check at FMIG’s apartment on Horatio seemed to confirm that it was a lovely 4 mile trail; beer soon to be consumed. I was a happy girl. That is until a check kept sending us south and east through the windy Greenwich Village streets. Why am I suddenly on West Fourth and Sixth Avenue? Why am I heading further south still? Flannery’s was becoming a distant dream and a quick call to the HOTLINE confirmed our worst fears.  Boss Tweeds it was–Delancey and Essex, another mile and a half away! Lesley, Hot Rod and I hightailed it on the straightest direct route there (that turned out to be about the same route as the trail anyway). How hot and horrible was this trail? I found this passage from the Wiki entry on Bataan particularly apt. [Bracketed comments added for clarity.]


Prisoners [hashers] were beaten [r*n ragged] randomly, and were often denied the food [pizza] and water [beer] they were promised. Those who fell behind [DFLs] were usually executed or left to die [on Houston Street]; the sides of the roads became littered with dead bodies [FRBs] and those begging for help [“does anyone have a cell phone?”]. A number of prisoners [hashers] were further diminished by malaria [lack of beer], heat [“those f*cking Brooks hash shirts are hot”], dehydration [lack of beer], and dysentery [“shouldn’t have had that bean burrito for lunch”]. It should be noted, however, that many of the soldiers [hares] who accompanied the prisoners of war [hashers] were not only Japanese [FMIG], but Korean [Kinky Boots]. Since they were not trusted by the Japanese [FMIG] to fight on the battlefield, most Koreans [Kinky Boots] in the Japanese army were forbidden to participate in combat roles [setting trail] and delegated to such service duties as guarding prisoners [ordering pizza]. As one prisoner [Bahamonde] recalled, "The Korean guards [Kinky Boots] were the most abusive… the Koreans were anxious to get blood [red wine] on their bayonets [down her throat]; and then they thought they were veterans [old farts]."


Um, thanks Jean.  ‘Nuff said.  On out.


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