It was a beautiful Thursday afternoon, and everyone was enjoying the first long evening of the year after the daylight saving time switch. At the swanky Jack O’Neill Lounge in the Dream Inn there was some live music, many couples enjoying a romantic dinner while taking in a panoramic view of the scenic Monterrey Bay, and then in comes a bunch of jackasses in tennis shoes. We must have looked like some sort of drunken softball team in our Betty Ford jerseys. Now you’d think they’d be together enough to know how to run a bar in such a nice place, but do you know what I was charged for my drink? $6.57. I understand there is tax, but if every other bar in the universe can figure out how to charge for drinks in increments of 25 or 50 cents, why can’t they? Now I’m stuck with fucking pennies. Or I can tip 43 cents, but that’s a shitty tip and it’s not the bar tender’s fault that whoever sets the prices doesn’t understand that $6.57 is not an acceptable price for a drink. I might be stretching this point a bit for the sake of my word count as I totally forget I was supposed to write this and I didn’t take any notes. It’s several days late at this point so I shall just write whatever I remember as quickly as I can. Most of this is probably lies because I spent a lot of the night griping about the 57 cents, and didn’t take in much else of what was going on.
From the Dream Inn we took off toward the big round about by Depot Park. There was some mix ups with trail marks from that fantastic trail the week before. Trail materialized up into Neary Lagoon. Neary Lagoon is not actually a lagoon, rather a small lake that is 70% duck shit. We headed out the other side of the park into the Westside, right into the circle streets. D’BASED and Occasional Rapist were either blissfully ignorant of local happenings or wished to see us all shot because they ran us right through the area that had only hours before been the sight of a neighborhood lockdown while the police searched for an unstable gunman. And we didn’t just pass through. We passed by the epicenter of all of this excitement, not once, not twice, but three times as the trail wound back around on itself over and over again.
In the midst of this circle jerking in the Circle Streets, there was a “gurilla” beer check at the Circle Market. I don’t know if this was just too confusing or everyone is just broke, but no one went in. Apparently spelling counts because OR had to drink for this grave error. I hope we don’t apply the same standard to run-ons or starting sentences with contractions, or else I’m in trouble after the hasty ramble.
The trail was thankfully short and we found beer check in Lighthouse Field, just as the sun was setting. After that, we wandered back down Westcliff toward the start. We had religion under the train trestle near the Marine Discovery Center. They were having some sort of party over there and they turned the music up as soon as we started singing.
Religion was filled with lots of stories from Betty Ford. It turned out to be easier to have everyone who didn’t go get up there for a down down. We debuted a few new songs we’d learned down south, but I’ve forgotten then all. Moose Turd Pie brought Virgin Kevin. He told a long, terrible golf joke and then tried to redeem himself by singing a camp song (which he totally fucked up the lyrics to, if you were wondering). Both Deep Stroke and Dog Breath were back after long absences. The air was thick with sexual tension between them. I wonder why those crazy kids can’t work it out and get together. And of course the hares drank for their shitty trail.
I’m sure some other stuff happened too, but I don’t remember and I’m working frantically to get this posted before the next one goes up.

See you Thursday,
PCL