Happy New Year!
As we ended 2021 on a sour note, it’s a blessing to be ensconced within 2022. I will not review the entirety of 2021, it would be too depressing. Our retrospective of Hash Eleven-69 will be a sad enough excursion into one of the numerous haring failures of the past twelve months. So, let’s get started, the quicker we jump into this thing the sooner we will be able to return to real life.
Things began as would a real Hash with hounds engaging in intercourse with each other. Admittedly, most of the pack were far more finely attired as would normally be acceptable for hashers. There were a few notable exceptions of course. (there’s always that 4% of nonconformists and contrarians) Banana Basher crashes into our thoughts immediately, he was as slovenly attired as ever, Fucked-Over Fest was so brightly attired he resembled a banana slug, dBASED inside so many clothes he could have qualified as a quail, (or should that be a turkey?). Ska-Skank Redemption’s lengthy regal robes swept and cleaned many a block in Santa Cruz this night. Cum You Will Not appeared as would have a war widow during the War of the Roses in fifteenth century England. Let’s not forget Virgin Eric smartly attired in a flower print dress and accompanied by his sponsor, Just Holly, who donned enough layers of black to easily pass for a Hasidic Rabbi. Hallowe’en is long gone, guys.
I trust no one wishes to mock the attire of our kennel mates who made an effort, feeble though it was, to adhere to this week’s Hash theme of Dress to the (eleven) 69’s. So, bearing that in mind, let’s move forward. Dung-Fu Grip delivered his usual cryptic Instructions of Trail standing on a bench and clinging to a tree enabling him to remain erect.
After allowing the mandated lead time, Broke Bench Mountain signaled for Circleup for Introductions for Surf City’s final Hash for the year two thousand and twenty-one.
From Seabright Social, the pack plodded on-right onto Seabright. Sadly, we were not invited in at Brady’s Yacht Club but instead made an on-left and paraded Marine Parade and then on-right onto 4th Avenue.
Not far along 4th Avenue, we encroached onto the private property of Santa Cruz Yacht Club. Now while the vast majority of us have never set foot in this fine club since it moved here in 1964, I guarantee none of you would ever mistake it for Brady’s Yacht Club. We gingerly traipsed on-down stairs the club has kindly installed and emptied ourselves into the boat yard beside the harbor. On-left was indicated here and at the base of the Murray Street bridge, the promised Turkey/ Eagle split was encountered. The Turkeys are most likely bound for Arana Gulch Greenbelt via the most direct route, let’s fly with the Eagles and see what obscenities they will be subjected to.
The Eagles headed on-up the steps on-left and then on-right onto the Murray Street bridge and once across the harbor, on-right on the first street, Lake Avenue. You may wonder why a road beside a harbor is named Lake Avenue. Well, once upon a time, in a previous life, the harbor was a lagoon before the Army Corps of Engineers transformed it into the current Santa Cruz Small Craft Harbor. This should also help you understand why this area is called Twin Lakes when you can only find one lake. As you can see, originally there WERE two lakes here.
Soon an on-left onto Carmel Street was dictated and this was utilized across dangerous 7th Avenue followed by an on-left onto 9th Avenue followed by an on-left on Eaton Street. This was an unnecessary circle jerk that brought us back to 7th where we were turned on-right. This eventually deposited the Eagles at Brommer to make an on-left and head on-down into the Upper Harbor and on-right into Arana Gulch where we rejoined the Turkeys. The mob circled on-left through Arana Gulch to exit into the rear of Santa Cruz Bible Church. We desecrated these holy grounds by parading right through the middle of the property. I shouldn’t fail to mention I encountered Ska-Skank Redemption sitting on a bench facing the church deep in thought. Though she would neither confirm nor deny it, I feel certain she was praying for a swift and painless end to this trail. I left her lost in her own thoughts.
In keeping with this theme, we crossed Fredrick Street and ventured into the space occupied by Star of the Sea Catholic Church and were ejected out it’s rear. This expelled us onto Effey Street and then on-right onto Sumner Street. Bacon Queef and Just Foot Pussy, if they were home, refused to acknowledge the pack’s presence as we passed. Here we were turned on-left to Seabright, on-right to Soquel and on-left until just past Cayuga where we ventured onto private property in order to shortcut our weary way to Pennsylvania and on-left there to the abode of Dung-Fu Grip.
Once we gained the safety of Dung-Fu Grip’s carport, the bar was open. There was a short but potent menu: vodka, gin or beer. Slip the bartender and extra few bucks and you could suck up all there I heard.
Upon the conclusion of our business here, on-out was down Pennsylvania to Broadway, on-right to Ocean View Avenue, on-left there(past quiet Seabright Railroad) to Ocean View Park for Religion. Here, amongst the towering trees and the increasing wind velocity, RA Pink Cherry Licker convened Religion. Here is a sample of the down-downs, both justified and unjustified, she dispensed wielding her wand: dBASED for a lousy selection of ales in the beer trough, the crime of auto-hashing for Broke Bench Mountain, Wicked Retahted, Princess Di(arrhea) and Thmp-Thmp, Dicky Wacker for walking around asking, Who can touch who and where can they be touched?, Rubik’s Pube for celebrating her 125th Hash with us. The highlight of the evening was of course the naming of Just Jennie. As do many half-minds, Jennie inadvertently named herself. She mentioned COVID has been unkind to her love life and she ‘dreams of weenie’. There already is an I Dream of Weenie so that was tossed out. There was an episode ending with Don’t Sweat On Me. Sounded good but then Jennie mentioned walking to the start and wanting people to know she was Clearly Not A Hooker. Done deal! Just Jennie has forever morphed into Clearly Not A Hooker.
The Naming Ceremony was followed by the downer of having to deal with the hare-trio. They were universally condemned by being such cheap bastards as to combine Liquor Check and Beer Check.
Once the RA dispensed with our hideous hares, Pink Cherry Licker declared an end to Hash Eleven-69 and I also hereby declare an end to this Hash Trash.
The preceding was a factual accounting of actual events though possibly not as they actually occurred. One should never allow the facts to stand in the way of a good story.
By Special Permission of His Royal Majesty ‘G’, this Hash Trash has been compiled and printed by permission of no one other than the author at Santa Cruz, Ca., or elsewhere if need be, on this, the fourth day of January in the year of our Hash two-thousand twenty-two.
Submitted with all respect due,
Magic Drag Queen
Surf City H3 Scribe