NYCH3 #1401

NYCH3 1401 — 11/28/10
Start:  Roosevelt Island
On-In:  LIC Bar
Hares:  Just Karen & Splat
Scribe:  Speedo Gonzalez
Roosevelt Island is situated immediately under the Queensboro Bridge.  Formerly, it was known as Welfare Island, and before that it was called Blackwell’s Island.  Before that, it was known by its Metoac name, which translates roughly to "Where the fuck am I?"  There is a matter of some debate as to whether the island is part of the borough of Manhattan or Queens.  In fact, it belongs to neither, and is rather its own independent principality, governed only by the laws of the jungle and of Thunderdome.  Only madmen live on Roosevelt Island, and it is accessible by three ways:  via the only commuter aerial tramway in North America, which hadn’t even re-opened yet; via a subway station located several miles beneath the surface of the Earth, built from reclaimed Morlock tunnels; or via the one damn bridge connecting Roosevelt to civilization and inspiring the question:  "How long is the Hash going to dick around this island before we cross that bridge and get to the on-in in either Astoria or Long Island City?"
The answer:  Not all that long.  The trail had a chicken/eagle split, and the chicken trail went pretty much on a beeline to the bridge, while the eagle looped around the north side of the island first before going right back to that bridge.  And then it was just a quick run pretty much due south, and then, the beer.  Oh, the beer.  Everything that happens is always its fault.
So, who got down-downs?
— The hares, obviously.
— Then the visitor, Peter Jackoff, from … somewhere.  After running a loop of Roosevelt Island, place names just don’t mean anything anymore.  We’re all dust in the wind, anyway.  You.  Me.  Dust.  
— Two virgins, Trish & Erin!  Erin made Trish come, but had to take care of herself, apparently.  Reciprocity doesn’t exist on Roosevelt.  But we hope to see them both again!
— Just Sean, for running with his headphones on.  Unbelievable.  Not couth at all.  
— Just Sean again, in honor of his Bar Mitzvah.  Or rather, for making his first chalk pack mark.  Today, he is a man.
— Fast American Dave, for complaining that the trail was too short, when in fact he had only run maybe half of it, at best.
— Fire In The Piehole, for his demonstration of agility in leaping over a very not-tall railing and landing flat on his face.  And then trying to play it off like, "Oh, the ground was lower on the other side and I just didn’t see."  Yes, Roosevelt Island is indeed riddled with tiger pits.  No, that wasn’t one of them.
— Copa Cum Bloody, for an act of biological warfare in violation of the Geneva Conventions, which do, in fact, apply, even in a No-Man’s Land like Roosevelt.  Don’t fart on trail, kids.  You don’t want to end up like this guy.
And so the night continued, with drinking and merriment for all, until eventually the Hash Cash ran out, and we all had to come to grips with the fact that, though we may have escaped the abyss that is Roosevelt, we were still in Queens.
Queens!
Where people like me live!
The horror.  The horror.
On-on!

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