IH3 Trail #448

Sunday January 29, 2005

Hares: Live

Starting location: Chanticleer bar, downtown Ithaca

Aw man, y’all missed a good one. And when I say y’all, I mean, truly, nearly all y’all, ’cause there were so few of us there that hares nearly outnumbered hashers. And when I say good one, aw man…

It started out inauspiciously enough. It was a beautiful sunny and fairly warm Ithaca winter’s day. I was the first one to make it to that den of iniquity, the Chanticleer. It was a bit strange not having to cut through the smoky haze to get to the bar and I have to say, nice as it was, I sort of missed it. I guess it was a bit early on a Sunday, but for a while it was just me and some other sad sap and the bartender, swapping stories, scratching our nuts, and belching. But the good times had scarcely begun.

While I was nursing my first beer and contemplating throwing money at the bar-top slots machine, along came Dances and PP to save me from temptation. They shared tales of Cyprian (Cypriotic?) debauchery and, soon, Hound Whore plowed through the double swinging doors. A pitcher was ordered, and we marveled at the recently returned duo’s adventures with old and young hashers alike, the old having the quaint tradition of handing out as an award an oversized diaper that the recipient had to wear on trail. Apparently, it was passed from a hasher to the GM, then to another hasher, then back to the GM, who would pass it on to another hasher who would in turn pass it back to the GM and so on. For some reason, the GM wasn’t very fond of this award. Got me thinking … wouldn’t it be fun to fuck with our GM in a similar way?

Just a thought. But wait, he’s the one who brought it up in the first place. Maybe he’s got a thing for diapers?

Tired of waiting for fellow wankers to come play with us, we started talking about possibly, maybe picking a hare and getting this show on the road. But then someone decided we should continue the discussion over a game of pool while we finished our pitcher. And then the busload of cheerleaders from Dallas showed up. They were lost, of course (in more ways than one). Somewhere during a few more beers, some goings-on on the pool table that I can’t talk about, and some murky moments shared by four or five of them and Hound Whore over by the pinball machine, we decided we really ought to set some trail and hash.

So, Dances did the gentlemanly thing and loaded PP up with a satchel full of colored flour and off she went. We got back to the cheerleaders and continued to try to help them find their way (in more ways than one). It was a bit of work but a few beers, some cue chalk, a bar dart, and a small figurine of a cock (i.e., a rooster) later, they were on their way.

The bar was feeling kind of empty, so we decided to go see what PP was up to. Fortunately, she’d left little dollops of colored flour as she went, so, after a few twists and turns through the streets of Ithaca, we were able to meet up with her again. Actually, it was an effing beautiful day and PP set a heck of a live trail. We were led over toward the library and up Greene St. for some mild confusion around the dumpsters under the parking garage. Then, through the alley to the Commons (I know, who would have thunk it?!) and to a check. False in front of Benchwarmers and, get this, she didn’t even bother to go over to Moonshadows! But, of course, we did. Should have stopped in for a beer, but Dances was calling On-On from further up the Commons so we picked up trail again and followed it past Simeon’s and right past Micawber’s. So, where the heck are we going, we asked ourselves. What other bar is down past this? Surely, we’re not going to the Creeker. Or up to the Chappy. Well, if that’d been what you were thinking, you’d be right, ’cause she led us through the garage, right on Tioga, up Buffalo, and back toward the Commons! Shocking but true. And then, get this, right in front of Micawber’s there’s a big arrow pointing across the street to, you guessed it, Micawber’s. Where PP’s standing in the doorway, all smiles. And nothing else.

It seems that while we were running around looking for her, PP was being chased through the streets of Ithaca by a couple of wild dogs. She was able to fend them off by periodically clubbing them with the satchel of colored flour but by the time she’d found shelter at Micawber’s they’d pretty much shredded her clothes. But she made it otherwise unscathed, so we drank to that and played some more pool while Hound Whore regaled us with tales of former glory as brewmeister (apparently, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Well, neither, I’m sure, is being pope, but some things you do out of civic duty and because so many people are relying on you! But it’s okay, ’cause he’s back at it part-time). And if you’d been there you’d know not only what IPA stands for but why it even exists in the first place. Oh yeah, we talked of bocks, double bocks, and triple bocks and beers made from nothing but hops and Dances and HW sparred over the exact history of New York barley beers.

And pretty soon a crowd began to gather. People from the bar came back to hear tales of small breweries in Colorado and Texas and ancient ones in Belgium, and then people began coming in off the streets. Drawn by such diverse stories as that of Yuengling porter in upstate New York and the best fruits, berries, and miscellaneous foods to mix into a second fermentation, they streamed into the bar. Some heated debates flared up and between that and the sizable crowd, the place really started heating up. And since PP was already pretty much naked, other people started tossing off clothes along with their beer stories. Oh, it was wild, but we had a hash to get to, so we handed the flour bag to Dances and gave him a 10-minute head start while we found some cast-off clothes for PP.

PP had covered half the town in purple flour already, so it wasn’t too easy to find Dances’ trail. We gave it our best shot but after about 20 feet we pretty much gave up and decided we’d head over to Moonshadows and call Dances and let him know we’d meet him there. But on our way, while calling, PP’s backpack started ringing. Yup, he’d left his phone in her bag. Or maybe it was his bag, but she was carrying it. What good are cell phones if their users just cast them off at such critical moments?! We probably should have just headed over to Moonshadows anyway but (maybe ’cause it was such a nice day or maybe ’cause he had all the money) we decided to give it another shot. One of us got really, really ambitious and crossed the street and, sure enough, there was a little dollop of purple flour. And then another. And another.

We followed them up past the taqueria and across the street down Greene to the steps leading up to 96B. Across the bridge (which is about 40 feet past where we’d recently been standing–doh!), up the hill, down Clinton, past the police station (glad it wasn’t me laying purple flour). Now, we could continue on to the recently renamed Ithaca Sports Bar or whatever brilliant name it was given, and indeed there was a check at the backside of the Holiday Inn, but instead we were led over to State St. and past the crowd, all five of them, attending that evening’s Light In Winter festivities and On In at the Chanticleer. Ah, home at last. It had been a long, grueling hash, but now we could rejoice in the knowledge that we were through with the athletic portion and could get on with the liver-destroying portion.

PP picked up some cheese doodles and other stomach-churning "foods" from the bar, Dances ordered a pitcher, and we settled in for a rousing circle. Hares drank. PP tried to get me to drink for Comes Lately but Dances pointed out that, actually, since they’d been hashing in faraway lands, they were the Comes Latelys. I don’t think we got as far as singing them a song. Instead, I think we all just drank and ate and chatted and that was pretty much it until it was time for another pitcher. And then we drank and ate and chatted some more.

Like I said, good times.

On Out