I am too lazy to update the web side but back end is up to date.
| Hash Details | |
|---|---|
| Hash Number: | 587 |
| What: | Hockessin Hash #587 - another Pirate Hash? |
| When: | Dec. 3, 2005 |
| Where: | Midvale Train station, Philadelphia, PA |
| Hares: | Nut Cruncher River Rat Village Idiot | Message |
| What: Hockessin Hash #587, another Pirate Hash? Where: Midvale train station in Fooladelphia When: Saturday, December 3, 2005 at 3pm Who: RiverRat, Nut Cruncher & Village Idiot (who?)* Why: *The aptly named Village Idiot, one of those original (I think) H4 hashers, has a message to the throbbing masses: it has been since 9/15/01, just after 911 that we all laid our last trail. we might be a wee rusty or heck we may not even remember what is hashing is, but we'll give a go mates and fly our pirate colors. D'erections: Get your self to Kelly/East River drive which begins behind the Art Museum in the City of Brotherly Love Philadelphia. Take Kelly/East River drive to Midvale Avenue (about 4 miles from the art museum). Midvale is just before the Falls Bridge. Take Midvale Avenue up the hill past the first light Ridge Avenue, when you see our patron saint, Saint Bridget's on your left make a right into the Midvale train station for ample parking. Be there or B2. | Hashers |
| Hash Trash | |
| Of Pit Bulls, Dope Dealers, and the Art of Hashing. December 3, 2005 Hash #587 Hockessin Hash House Harriers HARES Village Idiot , Nut Cruncher , River Rat By his own admission, the Village Idiot has not been On Trail with the Hockessin Hash House Harriers in over four years. As a Founding F☺cknut of this group, his long absence is even more of a mystery. So when word spread that this friggin’ Idiot had ganged up with Nut Cruncher and River Rat to set an H4 trail, a high level of anticipation swept through the Hockessin Kennel like a virulent strain of kennel cough. Unfortunately, the goddamn Hosting Hare River Rat lives in the burgeoning gentrified East Falls section of Philly PA, which as far as most Hockessin Hounds and their willingness to travel are concerned, might as well be East Niagara Falls, Ontario, Canada. For the turnout was small in number, but feirce in conviction and sincerity. We gathered at the mythical and mystical Midvale Septa Station, which according to Hasher lore, appears Brigadoon-like only once every four years. At all other times and to all other people this rail junction is known as the East Falls Station. This bit of Hash magic may explain both the difficulties of out-of-town suburban Hashers in finding the station and the delay in getting the Slobbering Pack On Trail. Delayed we were, but On Trail we went. We hashed through the crumbling industrial wastelands just to the east of the Schuylkill River. Spent condoms littered the roadside gutters and a chemical fire gently simmered and smoked. We crossed high over the Roosevelt Boulevard in a caged pedestrian walkway where weepy-eyed pit bulls half heartedly snapped at hasher heels. The Pack huddled together against both the cold and the fearsome dope peddlers. Eventually we made our way out of the mean streets, skirted the perimeter of a tired Laurel Hill Cemetery and spilled out onto the well worn but genteel curves of Kelly Drive. Somewhere between the drug corners and the river, Horndog (aka Killian) pooped out and sat down in protest. His actions effectively ended the Hash for Hornblower and Subpoenas, who slunk back to an early On-In and began their extended Aprés. A Dog Named Chloe frolicked in the Schuylkill, while some Hashers named Groper and Wishboner skipped and pranced riverside. Yeswank retrieved the pooch as Himalaya wandered downriver in search of the Lost Trail. Mary Fuckin’ Poppins thought he found the trail and led a small contingent up frozen, slippery granite steps to the Strawberry Mansion. The trail proved False and we re-grouped again riverside at the Straw Manse Bridge. Cribsnatcher and Bunion Butt suspected that the trail moved westward over the Schuylkill via the Straw Manse Bridge. Crib took the lead while Bunion took a leak about 80’ above the water. Repeated cries of “RU?” and “Looking!” echoed off the river banks. Just as Bunion was shaking it off and zipping it up, a jubilant shout of “On On!” came from Crib, and the small pod of Hashers sprinted over the bridge and into Fairmount Park. Our first hour on the trail was now behind us and with a growing sense of dread we realized we continued to move further still from our point of beginning. Over the course of the next hour we clambered over soggy woodlands and up steep hillsides. Groper was attacked by a tree snake and Doggie Erectus had to be restrained from sucking out the venom. Wet Lay and Smells Like Hash Spirit were each seen carrying a summer bouquet of silky flowers rumored to have been pilfered from the roadside death memorial of a rape/murder victim. That’s romantic. It was during this final hour on the trail that the mood grew ugly and the Hounds turned on the nearest Hare – Nut Cruncher. Nut Cruncher deflected the mounting criticism by pleading his innocence of setting this portion of the trail as well as ignorance of where the hell the trail went from here. As the moon rose over the cityscape to the east, the Pack grew morbidly silent but continued their darkened march through Fairmount Park. Foot weary, we at last crossed beneath the Schuylkill Expressway and over the Schuylkill River at the Falls Bridge. A block or five further and we were On-In at River Rat’s digs. Though the Aprés suffered a veritable infestation of past Religious Advisors (Himalaya, Gomez, Delinkwent, Cribsnatcher and the Village Idiot his own self), it looked for a long while that no special Holy Hash Circle would spontaneously erupt. The chow was so tasty – spicy meatballs, red hot Chinese pickles and multi-flavored Jello shots most memorably, and the Grand Master was so clueless, that the evening’s Aprés was neigh complete before the Quirky Kiwi Delinkwent stepped forward to administer the Holy Rites. In the end, the baker’s dozen of Hounds and the Trinity of Hares were left satisfied, sprawled as they were with legs akimbo upon kitchen chairs, sofas and the floor itself. Softly murmured conversations floated easily above the congregation. Some slit-eyed Hasher opined that all the bitching and moaning she heard tonight only served to strengthen her belief that the Art of the Hash lay not in some strict adherence to the rules. No traditional formula need be observed when setting a trail. Sure, today’s trail was much longer than most Hares might choose to lay. Sure, the idea of being out On Trail for over two hours in sub-freezing conditions might be abhorrent to the solid majority of Hashers. And with the exception of those few whose parents are brother and sister, no self respecting Hare would ever consider setting such a long trail without the respite of a Beer Stop. But the great Art of the Hash is that the Hare holds the fate of the Hounds in his hands. The implicit agreement between Hare and Hound is that no significant permanent harm will befall the Hasher. There is, however, no promise of a comfortable trail, an easy trail, or a painless trail. The great Art of the Hash lay in part with the Noble Hare volunteering their time to step forward, at considerable expense, to create from a bag of flour a trail which can both celebrate the differences in Hasher’s running abilities and open Hasher eyes to a landscape which they might otherwise never notice. The Hare can slop globs of flour like paint upon his asphalt canvas but all that leaves him with is a static trail. It takes the healthy participation of the innocent Hasher, willing to be taken on this brief trip and bend to the will of the Hare to transform the immobile and soulless path into a work of Art. Bunion Butt December 2005 | |
| Files: | |
| Hash_Trash___Schuylkill.doc | |