Why, a thinking person might ask, did I even go to the hash? My ass is sore as hell from trying to learn to squat with a barbell on my back. It’s pouring rain. The kids are having school drama. It’s 7:15pm and I’ve missed the goddamn start again. All good reasons why a sane and reasonable person would say fuck it, and stay home. Am I a sane and reasonable person? Evidently, I am not.

So I get to the Boardwalk Bowl, park, look for chalk (none found) look for hashers (ditto.) I check inside. No. I look again outside. There it is! The faintest tracing of chalk! The rain, I can see, is going to be a problem. On on! To the boardwalk. And look! A turkey eagle split! Maybe I have a chance to catch up with some turkeys if I hustle. Hope springs eternal.
I follow the turkey trail inside. Nothing. Through and outside. Nothing. Nothing on the boardwalk, nothing on the beach. I am puzzled. I go back outside to look a the split. It’s gone. Did I hallucinate? Possibly. I call Cum Fart Zone in an attempt to gather intel. No joy there, she is playing mini golf and has no idea where trail goes. Well, huh.

I figure the turkeys must have gone a different way than the eagles so I head towards the wharf. I get to the wharf. No trail. Did I miss it? Did the rain wash it away? I give up and come back. By now I’m both wet and warm. So that much is just as promised.
I figure what the hell, and start looking for eagle. Success! There is flour! Wow. Flour works WAY better than chalk in the rain. Ok, so at last I’m on trail, which makes me happy. I follow trail along the railroad tracks to the bridge. Huh. I must have missed a mark, because there’s no way trail went over the train bridge, right?! I take the pedestrian bridge across, and find an arrow indicating trail should depart from the tracks and come to me. DungFu, you are a crazy bastard. You laid trail across the railroad bridge in the rain. Why you try to kill us, friend?

Onward and upward I go, huzzah! Thank goodness for flour. Did I mention that it is raining? And that the chalk is pretty much washed away? I run around a bit, completely losing trail once, find it a few blocks away, and end up on the river path. At the end of the river path there are not just one but two arrows indicating I should go down into the river?! What’s with the murder trail tonight, DungFu? Is there something you wanna say? Spit it out, man!
I decline to go wading into the river. There is no more trail. I cast around and finally find a faint trace of arrow on the other side of Soquel. Yay! I’m on trail again! I encounter many wet and sad homeless people near San Lorenzo park. I cross the river on the pedestrian bridge to downtown. Downtown has some excellent gypsy fiddle busking. I stop to listen and give the fiddler some money because what the hell, there’s no way I’ll catch up with the pack at this point.

I’m able to follow trail pretty well until somewhere around Walnut and Center, where the rain suddenly increases from the previous steady downpour to a thunderous dumping of water that completely erases all traces of chalk and flour. Either that or I missed something.
At this point I decide to fuck off to religion, figuring everyone else is there already anyhow. I trot along past the cop shop, past depot park, and along the path to the underside of the railroad trestle where I find, instead of happy beer-laden degenerates, a convention of more sad, wet homeless people. We wish each other good evening and I continue on, downcast.
But look! On the path! It’s chalk! Yay, I’m back on trail! Maybe I will find religion somewhere? But no, it is not to be. Eventually I find myself back at the boardwalk bowl, with no more trail to follow. I’m about to give up and go home when I encounter a large number of warm, dry hashers boasting about their mini golf and laser tag exploits. Wow. Just wow. Losers.
I leave them to karaoke the night away and head home for some dry clothes and the exciting opportunity to harass teenage boys about their homework and bedtime.
On on,
Genital Tongs

I’ve purposely not signed up to be a scribe and probably never will, and here’s why. I know I’ll pick up the slop. On the way home from this weeks Hash Occasional Rapist and I discussed whether there was a scribe or not, and that I’d be willing to do it if no one else signed up. So, there you go.

In my last write-up, 2 weeks ago, I was discussing people who were not there and missed discussing two. They were there this week, but that doesn’t change any thing. First, is Dog Breath – international man of mystery. Rumor has it that whenever he is not at the Hash he is starting a war somewhere. All must have been quiet on the Western Front this week, so he made a guest appearance. The last thing I want to say about Dog Breath is that I have heard reports that more than 1 Harriet has discovered some of the Dog Breath’s mystery, including a virgin he appeared to have deflower at my house a few years ago.

Second is Banana Basher. My thoughts on Banana Basher is he flips a two headed coin with Bailas Con Burros each week as to weather can come to the hash and she gets to call the coin. This week Bailas Con Burros must have thought the promise of a FACU style trail was safe for his bulkyness and he was allowed to attend. However, I’ll note she has a very short leash as he left before down-downs.

The next Hasher of honorable mention is Thmp-Thmp. The hares had promised we might see a groundhog, and Thmp-Thmp provided the groundhog as himself in what other weeks would be considered a squirrel costume.

The last Hasher to have honorable mention is Puff The Magic Drag Queen. My last write-up was his last hash to attend. He started a new streak at 1 this week. However, as of this writing, travel outside of Santa Cruz county is perilous. So, if he makes it out on Thursday, who knows if he’ll make it back. For those that want to read about last time Puff missed a hash click here.

This weeks Hash featured one the founders of the FACU hash, Accuprick, as one of our hares. His co-hare was his (very) close friend Butt Balls. We were promised food on trail in a dry location and more food at the end. While the hares provided lies about trail, other Hashers tried to maim each other with giant Jenga blocks.

Trail started into the neighborhood on Seacliff drive.  Now, if you are going to do a short trail, there are two alternatives. The first is go down Beachgate way and take the trail to the beach. However, there is a giant sink hole on that trail right now and the trail is closed. There was a giant false right in front of that trail that somehow Dog Breath missed. He was awarded a down-down at religion for missing it. The second alternative is to double back to State Park Drive somehow, which is exactly what we did. From there it was over Highway 1, and could we be headed any place other than Butt Ball’s garage?  The FRB’s did a little clockwise loop through the cemetery and nearby neighborhood. The rest the pack made a beeline for Butt Balls house.

There we were rewarded with a supposedly vegan Curry soup courtesy of Fap Jack and chicken wings from Lil Anal Annie. The soup was quite spicy, but quite tasty. Occasional Rapist tells me she asked for the recipe, so I am hoping to sample it again soon.

After the food was gone, the hare’s asked if we wanted a trail back, or just a straight on in to religion behind Point A. A straight On-In was universally expressed.

At religion we had one significant back slider. That would be Puff. When you don’t miss a trail for nearly 15 years, 1 is a big deal.

There were also numerous anniversary celebrated. Courtesy Flush and Genital Tongs for 50 and Just Foot Pussy and Bacon Queef for 75.

There was also the lost dog/lost Hasher debacle with Just Alisha and Just Kem. First the dog was missing, but quickly discovered. Finding Just Kem was another matter.

After religion it was back to the Med for more food! This time our chef was Jizziki who provided some sort of Tofu dish and something else I cannot remember. And, the Med also featured more attempts by Hashers to maim each other with falling bricks (Jenga).

My last order of business to discuss this week’s upcoming trail. One of our hares is Dung Fu Grip, or perhaps he should be better know as the bearer of rain. We’ve had two exceptional rainy Hashes this season and Dung Grip was a hare for both. It appears he will be doing it this week. Perhaps all California needed in the past was for Dung Fu Grip to hare more often! Dung Fu’s consort for the evening is Ho To Housewife. We’ve not seen much of her of late and the last was within hoofing distance of her abode. Will she be able escape Scotts Valley on this rainy evening? The last two times these jokesters set trail  from the Boardwalk bowl it was the same trail and no one followed all of it either time. This week they are going for the three-peat.

“Highway 17 is shutdown, northbound and southbound, near Redwood Estates and the Santa Cruz mountain summit.

The incident began when a thief robbed a Scott Valley bank at gunpoint around 10:30 a.m. Thursday.” -SF Chronicle, 26 January 2017

    The Glow Hash is a sacred, long-held tradition of the Surf City Hash that dates back to the halcyon days of last year.  

Back at the very first glow hash, President Obama was a moral guiding light in the White House, the Cubs had the longest losing streak in professional sports, and Alan Thicke and Carrie Fisher were America’s Dad and Adopted Half-Sister Princess respectively. Our own kennel ran  drought-stricken trails, Beermeisters Rat Pussy and Deadliest Snatch kept us wet, and Puff the Magic Drag Queen had collected the money at every hash for as long as anyone could remember.  I guess it seemed like nothing would ever change.

    The pack met up at the far west side of Santa Cruz at Santa Cruz Mountain Brewing Company.  A box of glow sticks awaited hashers who donned them in various configurations: necklace, bracelet, helmet, and of course, glowing phallus.  (Photo not available)  I spent a few minutes walking around the bar holding out $7 hash cash, but I didn’t recognize anyone as Puff.  Normally Puff shows up well before me, so I just assumed I had one of those strokes that affects the part of your brain where you can’t recognize faces.  That seemed like the most plausible explanation.  Taking my new stroke into account, I just looked to hand my $7 to someone in short shorts and long socks.  I will not soon forget the look of disgust I got from that college student who was both insulted by my offer of $7 and didn’t realize being called a drag queen is term of endearment.

    Hares PCL, FapJack, and Baker’s Doesn’t  collected bags for the A-B trail, gave some trail instructions, and took off.  Arriving late was Ska Skank Redemption who said something about the horrendous three hours of traffic on 17.  At circle up, Pussywood asked if anyone wanted to scribe.  I volunteered without any kind of notepad because, hey, Puff is gonna take notes and have photos for me to review.  Circle up provided us with a Just Someone and Virgin Someone Else.  Someone yelled a reminder to mark the trail well for Puff.

  Trail largely headed to the west.  The railroad tracks were muddy.  There was a photo check.  I don’t know if anyone posted the photos to Facebook because I avoid the anxiety- provoking news in my feed.  Dung Fu got some day-old decaf coffee at the new hotel which sadly lacks a bar.  (But has a restroom in the lobby.  Cha-ching.)  Going over an old rickety railroad bridge, somebody yelled out that good thing Puff isn’t here: he’s afraid of heights.  Yeah, but he’ll be alone when he does come by, I thought. Beer check at Antonelli Pond had a little dance-party-in-the field vibe, like those commercials for Smirnoff Ice or Zima or whatever is the hip new malt beverage.  There was music, dancing, flashing colored lights, and  beverages.  I felt cool.  Briefly.  It was another 10 minute walk to Religion.

    I just saw March of the Penguins.  When the female penguins return from weeks at sea, they approach the big crowd, and run around the enormous, crowded mass of males squawking and checking each seemingly identical one for their mate.  I did that to the crowd at Religion looking for Puff, except the penguins were hashers, and only a few of them had a baby seabird under their pannuses.  I did not see Puff’s pannus.

   Accuprick was RA.  We had no beer fairy on account of “cold and flu season”.  I don’t remember much about religion.  Wicked Retahded got called up for running trail.  He did a dance.  Then he did the dance again.  The pack was delighted.  Moose Turd Pie was called up ostensibly for backsliding, but really because we wanted to see how drunk he was. Virgin Whatsherface tried singing the Gilligan’s Island theme song and totally failed.  (I’d say Bob Denver would be rolling in his grave, but I’m not sure if he’s still alive….okay, I just googled it, and the two surviving cast members are Mary Ann and Ginger.  I guess that question will be settled soon.  But I digress.)

Standing in the circle, I was considering wistfully that I never really got to know my biological dad (having been abducted by aliens when I was a small child) when Dung Fu called out that Analversaries to be celebrated were Wicked’s 150th hash and my 50th hash.  Besides being the two best looking hashers in the kennel, both of us have a strikingly similar Jesus-esque style.  And when Wicked flashed me that winning smiling of his, the pieces all started falling together.  Those warm times he placed a hand on my shoulder, the time he asked about my mom with a twinkle in his eye, the time he invited me to bring your son to work day.  I dunno what it all means, so I did my down-downs and went back to the circle.  Hares PCL, Fap Jack, and Bakers did their dance.

I looked around for Puff.  Nothing.

    We went to the Parish for on-on-on.  I ordered a burger expecting Puff to walk in at any minute, mud-covered from trail with his camera at the ready.  I finished my burger.  Wicked asked me if I was still hungry, and we shared his fries.   Still no Puff.  He’s got until midnight to run trail?  We can’t leave on-on-on yet.

    I know Puff made it through the previous week’s landslides on Highway 17.  I imagined him on the side of the road with a shovel singing Fleetwood Mac as he extracted his car.  He showed up to every hash when President Obama was in the White House.  He showed up at every hash through the Great Recession.  He showed up to every hash during George W. Bush’s second term as president.  He showed up to every Hash since before they invented the iPhone.  He had showed up to every hash since before they decoded the human genome.  He showed up to every hash since before George W. Bush invaded Iraq.  Many times Puff had fought Highway 17, and if not a win, there was always at least a draw.  It was streak, it was a record, it was seemingly going to stretch on into the endless future beyond any time horizon.

But all things are impermanent.

    Next week’s Hares are Accuprick and Buttballs.  Meeting place is The Mediterranean, 265 Center St in Aptos at 6:22pm.  The have happy hour 4-7 and a full bar.  Come have a drink while you still can because shit happens.

Love and burritos,

Courtesy Flush

Still no real 886 Hash Trash, but here is another type of trash while we wait: