Rors-hash's Journal

Post date: Jul 15, 2013 12:42:41 AM

13 July, 2013. Shit-stain on the Haring Wall. Indeterminate species of origin, possibly human, if anyone in this filthy cesspool of a city could be called human. The city is a whore. And not the good kind. Kind of saggy, missing a couple teeth, charging way too little, and you just *know* that's not a cold sore. Someday - someday soon - a rain will come. A hard rain, a rain that will sweep all the garbage and scum off the streets and towards the gutter, but they're always clogged with crap from the last storm so you just get huge puddles of grimy shitwater at every corner that you've got to either jump over or walk out into the street to get around it. But at least it'll wash some of that turd off the Crack is Whack Mural.Infiltrated a meeting of The Columbia New Traditional Hash House Harriers. The usual gang of deviants, subversives and degenerates were on the scene but no virgins or visitors - the cancer is in remission, but for how long? Trail was led by Conelingus and Bollywoodless. Soft, flabby, decadent, pair. Four drink checks on trail. What will they do when the drinks dry up, and there's no Tequila to be had for any price? Writing is on the wall, no doubt whats coming. They'll be left wailing and moaning, mourning all the booze they poured like water.Trail went up into Harlem from 116th. Stop at 125th, at Crack is Whack Playground. If only it were as simple as painting a mural, to keep the rot out. But the people need their distractions, their drugs, their TVs, flashy cars, rum spiked mango nectar, mojitos and margaritas. Anything to keep the real darkness at bay. Anything to forget we live in a world where grown men poop up a wall.

From there across the RFK to Randall's Island. A rusty concrete cenotaph to a slain idealist, leading to the madhouse. Metaphor for our times. Lunatics and madmen, tucked away behind walls and fences, surrounded by plants and flowers. Are we locking them in or are they locking us out? Where's the real madhouse, where are the walls? Dark and Stormy times, and a Dark and Stormy drink check.

Headed out from there to Marcus Garvey Park. Top of the hill, you can almost see forever. But it's the same view everywhere you look, same corruption, same lies, same vice, same drinks. That mango nectar coats your throat, but it doesn't keep out the acrid, burning stink of fear in the air. This city needs us, but does it deserve us? Long conversation about religion at the top. What does it all mean, is it worth it, which flavor of Christian is the worst, is it possible to not laugh at a pedophile priest joke?

Down off the hilltop, through the cruisers looking for a quick thrill on the park benches and down to Bollywoodless's flat. Caiprinhas and tacos on the balcony, sitting on a fire escape that provides no escape at all. From there down to the Duck, a wretched hive of scum and villainy. Nothing about this place adds up. Bartender doesn't know how to change kegs. Two barrooms, one bar. Other room never has anyone in it, perfect for our uses. So we thought. Pack circles up, gets drunk.

Drops guard.

Too busy making fun of F'orgy's fat fucking gut and Lunch's midtraffic Alzheimer's to see a purse disappear. Not Baboon Ass. Sees absence of purse, presence of outsider. Conclusion easy to draw. Instant mob. Across streets, over fences, through the projects. Baying for blood like hounds on the hunt.

Prey not up to the task. Running from runners, in basketball shoes. Not even tied. Knife to a gunfight. Tries to save self, drops cash. Holds onto cards and cell phone. Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, or NYC public school? Perp brought to bay, turned over to police before I could arrive. Two hours and a trip to the police station accomplish what I could do with 5 minutes and his left pinky finger. Whatever works, I suppose.

Back to bar, but regulars are riled. Why should the local son spend night in Stoney Lonesome just for getting caught red-handed stealing from women? Pack elects to leave for Bolly's. Cowards. Rors-hash would have just bought a round of 151 for everyone. Then lit it on fire and thrown it in their eyes. Suppose diplomacy has its uses, though. Pack is up on balcony and rooftop until craziness gets too crazy and Bolly throws us all out on the streets. Status quo maintained for another evening.