You will find the Trash as disorienting as you did trail, but it’s not my fault!
How’s that for an opening disclaimer? As is my charge, I must accurately and truthfully recount trail as laid by the hare. This week, sadly, there was no semblance of order to trail. Instead of the Mad Hatter, this week we had a Mad Harrier. I will, however, endeavor to recapture the mystery, if not the frustration, that comprised Trail 594. Fill your glass, here we go.
As is standard fare for a TIMMY trail, the merry members of this madness convened at Santa Cruz Mountain Brewery on Ingalls Street. This has always been a pleasant beginning to a hash; the beer is good and the room is comfortable. I must admit some slight trepidation when TIMMY is our hare but ignorance is bliss so I tend to ignore this fact as long as possible. Assisting me in this endeavor is a substantial increase in alcoholic intake.
Even better is the fact TIMMY lives within stumbling distance and consequently he arrives quite early. Therefore he’s pretty liquored-up by on-out time. He delivered an abbreviated version of Instructions of Trail while still seated, possibly due to an inability to stand, and quickly outed himself. Back to drinking went the pack. As zero hour approached, Banana Basher called for a circleup and introductions for Hash 594 were completed. A leisurely on-out to the nearby railroad tracks and an on-left brought the bunch to the first check at Swift Street. Things went well here and on-on was sounded on-right on Swift to the next check at the intersection with Highway 1/Mission Street. Being the eve of a holiday weekend, no one was brave and/or foolish enough to dart out in front of traffic especially since it’s moving at a pretty good clip along here. Consequently we waited for the light to change in our favor. And then we waited a little friggin’ longer. Finally, as Dog Breath’s beard began to turn white, the light finally changed and the bevy bolted across safely, one and all.
Okay, beginning here is where you may think your Scribe has jumbled his notes, his memory or possibly both. The next section of trail follows no known logical method of rational trail-laying. This part of trail will make you feel as if there was a certain inconsistency in the quality of the gravity in this area.
We’re now on Grandview Street. This is one of TIMMY’s favorite areas so Dog Breath heads for the locals-only entrance to the Meder Street Park Greenbelt area. Finding flour he trots headlong along trail only to run headfirst into the accursed YBF marking. Dejectedly, he returns to Grandview to join the debate as to the meaning of a YBF. Eventually, the ‘traditional definition’ of a Surf City YBF was established to mean return to the last check. And so we did, all-the-hell-way-back and across Mission Street. Sniffing here netted nothing so a number of hounds decided to try the same game from the evening’s very first check. Upon arriving here these hounds noticed Banana, Vince, and Bony had walked past as if they didn’t even see the check. After considerable time was wasted here, Broke Bench whipped out his cell and texted TIMMY inquiring as if he’d be so friggin’ kind as to tell the pack where-the-frick trail went. We were instructed to take Swift to Delaware and execute an on-left. Exactly how TIMMY justifies this rejection of all Surf City tradition is beyond me.
Okay, back to real life now. The on-left onto Delaware was followed two blocks later by an on-right onto Getchell Street, two blocks later by an on-right onto Chace Street, one block later by an on-left onto Wanzer Street and one block later an on-left on John Street which dropped the mob onto West Cliff Drive.
At least the next section of trail has the spectacular scenery we love about the Cruz. An on-right on West Cliff eventually brought us to the entrance to Natural Bridges State Park. Once on State property, the gang began to break even more laws that we already had. Two-legged and four-legged hounds violated the sanctity of a State park, invading bathrooms, rummaging in trash cans for half-full beer cans and generally wreaking havoc upon unsuspecting tourists. The gang moved across the beach to the rocks that lead up to DeAnza Mobile Home Park but once we gained the top, we were directed right back down a sheer cliff of slippery rock overhung with flimsy tree limbs meant to assist us in the descent. (See Flash) Once back on the beach, we slithered along a path long-abandoned to briars, willow tree limbs and dark, dank water even mosquitoes would not breed in. This path spit us out onto Delaware and we crossed directly across, skirted the edge of Antonnelli’s Pond and then into the parking lot for one of UC’s numerous off-campus buildings. It was in the farthest and darkest corner we discovered our hare nonchalantly sipping away on Beer Check beer. Upon viewing the Beer Near mark, I saw Shallow Hole take off like a pit bull chasing a child. After the completion of our appointed task here, we undertook an on-in of almost equal length to that of trail and, worse yet, it was along the now-pitch-black railroad tracks.
We were so befuddled upon arriving back at Mountain Brewery that we foolishly appointed Dog Breath as Religious Adviser. Here is a synopsis of the errors perpetrated by him during Religion: My Little Bony became Beer Fairy, dBASED for following Ralph on trail,some of which consisted of DuuHHH’s trail of a few weeks back, Broke Bench for texting TIMMY to ask where the hell trail was, Banana, Vince, Bony and Hairy Fuck 2.5 for missing Beer Check and Bloodweiser and the Bony one for being backsliders. Then it was off too Parrish House for…oh, wait. The hare. What brilliant flash of forgetfulness could have prompted me to forget the hare? Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any worse, (assuming the Octomom doesn’t get a TV show) TIMMY lays this trail. I think TIMMY’s transition into senility is going to be quick but gentle. If in the future this man EVER tries to justify this trail I believe that will prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that TIMMY is nuttier than squirrel shit.
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 August in the year of our Hash two-thousand eleven.
On-out,
Puff the Magic Drag Queen