NYCH3 #1482


It was a historic night May 23rd, in Manhattan, for the hash. An evening of ‘lasts.’ Change was in the air. The recent cold-spell had given way to pure Spring weather that demanded shorts of everyone. The city’s hockey club hosted the NJ Devils for a playoff contest at MSG. Our story begins ten blocks to the south, at the Trailer Park Lounge on the Northeast corner of 8th avenue and 23rd street.

 Some idiot posted on the website that the start was between 7th and 8th, which is technically true but generated hard-feelings in those who regard middle to approximate ‘dead center.’  TPL is a fantastic place for Southerners to wear khakis and their baseball caps in that certain way, and be complete assholes. There’s a bunch of kitsch on the walls and ceilings and the seating  is like 70s retro Holiday Inn.  Hashers marveled at this monument to duplicity and depravity and took mental notes. Then they hit the bricks for the ‘Visitors and Virgins.’ This was a sight to behold, as nearly half in the group of 40+ were first-timers. A few of them were hot, which led to inevitable extra instructions offered by kind Samaritans. 

 The trail was splendid. The hare declared that marks would be rare, and this proved true. But it was a simple course so that its few checks were quickly solved by the committed frontpackers and the remaining hashers benefited from the resulting pack marks. 

The highlight was the running on The High Line. Not once but twice–first, at the northern boundary for just a couple blocks. Then again, at 16th street until the southern boundary. It was before this second assault on the city’s tranquil, raised park that a great crime wath committed by NY Cock Exchange and Pussy in Boots. These two lovebirds deemed it a sham to ascend stairs only to descend, and so, they loafed down south to meet the unelevated trail. It seemed like a wise idea at the time, but they would pay a heavy price later on–in down-downs! 

As noted, the trail was terrific, in that it took place in a terrific night in a terrific city that has views of the river, and winding village streets populated with a diverse mix of workers and tourists.  If, as has been suggested, it was the first trail made via Bing Maps, then it would be wrong to say the trail was entirely lacking innovation. It wound downtown a bit, then veered eastwards. There were two drink checks, and that was a special treat indeed. These were powerful Jello Shots that in their debilitating effects made the trail somewhat challenging. The second drink check was in one of those tiny triangle parks that allow for tiny paper cups to be distributed and consumed. Oh gosh, it was lip-smacking good! WAC herself personally blessed each cup and said a brief prayer to those partaking. Most of the hashers had ignored this second stop, in fear of repeating the mind blow of the first. They ran ran ran away, further and further East until the East Village. Beer was near! When the coast was clear, WAC removed her civilian clothes, revealing trademark rainbow-striped knee-high socks and she bounced high up into the air, and was at the On-In before any hasher. 

On-In was on Avenue A and 5th Street, at Sophie’s, where we were given a choice of dark (Black & Tan) and light beer (regular Yuenling). The hare was in fine spirits, and dressed in some Korean / martial-arts robe that lent him an air of mystery and intrigue that his trail lacked. 

All went quite smoothly, except for the dozen times in the first hour that it was declared "hash cash is done" when actually, the bartender grew disinterested in bartending and had joined our ranks. 


Matt Jones presided, and did very well because he is tall and seemly. 

The first hour of down-downs allowed for the two dozen virgins to drink. 

Visitors included Ah Shit, Cum as Kosher, and Tickets (who told tales of hooking up with many, many train riders, some of whom were conscious)

Others of note:  Jersey Asshole for having a redudant name; Cum as Kosher for preying on younger men; Penis of Disinterest for lacking dignity; Just Eli for moving to Tennesse and having a birthday; NYCE and P in B, as noted earlier, for fraud / cowardice / bad haircuts. 

It was the last night that one could run and not necessarily REQUIRE a shower before socializing. Although most hashers retained a shiny hue from the earlier jog, all smelled good; all looked fine in the uncooled, small quarters of Sophie’s. It was a delight to squeeze together, and to and ask ‘how did you like it?’ to the virgins. That – and a trip to the bathroom –  took another hour. 

Just before midnight, boxes of pizza — the good kind, the kind that goes for nearly a dollar per slice – arrived. Hashers grabbed a piece or two on their way out the door, singing into the breezy, night, those words by another New Yorker from long ago: 

"Oh it’s such a perfect day,

I’m glad I spent it with you.

Oh such a perfect day,

You just keep me hanging on,

You just keep me hanging on."