NYCH3 #1328

 

July 15, 2009

NYCH3 # 1328

Start: Chambers St. and W. Broadway

Hares: Trader Blows and Ow! My balls!

On-in: Boss Tweeds; Essex St between Rivington and Delancy

Scribe: Mickey Mouth

 

Shattered. Shattered.
Love and hope and sex and dreams are still surviving on the street.

          

  It was the winding down of a beautiful spring day in mid-July. A light breeze swept off the water, cooling the start location. Shiny racists and unhurried hashers accumulated on West Broadway and Chambers. Tally was we need to stop advertising because it’s bringing out the riffraff. These people come in racing shirts and tech wear…oh wait, those are old time hashers too…oh well. Even racing socks!!! You know who you are, flipflop boy!            

 Virgins and Visitors were given the rundown at around 7:05…what? We actually might leave on time? Say it ain’t so Trader Blows, say it ain‘t so! But it was to be. Trader Blows and Ow! My Balls! sent us off with a grandmotherly “be careful out there!”

 

Life’s just a cocktail party on the street. Big apple. People dressed in plastic bags. Directing traffic. Some kind of fashion. 

 

             We jaunted toward City Hall Park and then under the bridge. A nasty check at Bowery and I skipped over to Canal where I caught up with the pack again. I was smugly pleased as usual but Peter T. wasn’t impressed. I try and I try, Peter. When I went off to mouth cut again, Peter did show some concern and tried to call me back, silly boy, hash marks are for kids!

 

Pride and joy and greed and sex. That’s what makes our town the best. Pride and joy and dirty dreams and still surviving on the street. And look at me. I’m in tatters. Yeah I’ve been battered. 


             This is where it got tricky. I saw yonder the group hop over Houston but when I went to cut them off in the Village, no arrows where to be found.
 Up and over, up and over.

Shmatta, shmatta, shmatta, I can’t give it away on 7th Avenue.


           Actually, I couldn’t give it away on Greenwich. I made it up to 10th and Greenwich when I thought, maybe I am lost and headed back. 
 

Rats on the Westside. Bedbugs uptown. 

                Alas, Boss Tweeds? What the hell, where did I cross the true trail and miss the mark? The hare said the trail crossed Houston three times. To me, and I don’t often throw myself in with the mathematic type folks, but if you are coming from downtown and cross Houston 3 times you end up meeting the train at 10:35 in New Haven, Ct. But what do I know, math might have changed in this new century.

All this chitterchatter chitterchatter chitterchatter…


               Boss Tweed’s turned out to be the epicenter of a 8.9 sporting activity. I won’t mince words here, it was disgustingly stinky and sweaty and nettling. We managed to squeeze into the back “garden”, I suppose it was the best spot to be if you discounted the smoking…of all kinds.  Beer was there…it was flat but it was there. 
               

 Trips and Balls called circle. Now let’s see. She handed me a sheet with the downdowns. Very considerate.  Trader Blows and Ow! My Balls were downdowned. Virgins too. Flaccido (out of the woodwork!) and Captain Hollywood managed a beer check. “it said ‘bar’ right there on the wall.” JunkyMonky for something to do with weed. Steve B. said that NYC hashers are vultures compared to gentle (?!) jersey hashers. Now T&B has arrows and circles and it’s confusing. I might actually have to look to my memory. Cici for headphones. T&B forgot about the Hash House Terrors sign. And the AHOTW went to Hillary for chatting up her man and Trader Blows…and then her man drank (beaten by a woman).  T&B remained true to her word about not awarding Mickey Mouth (or is it Mickey Mouse, bitch!) a downdown.  I think I like this Moratorium of MickeyMouth Malfeasance…and now, because I can, I will include Just Rich and say that he did not receive a downdown today.


What a mess this town’s in. Tattered. I’ve been shattered. My brain’s been battered, splattered all over Manhattan.


            I left early*, too many sophomoric idiots with medals for flip cup. And the garden was no eden.  And not to mix metaphors, but let me walk before they make me run.

*by early I mean 10:30. Early-ish.

 


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