One would describe this run with one word: SHIGGY! Swampy, long, hard shiggy; just like the harriets like it. In fact, the pack was exposed to so much bacteria and aquatic diseases, that the reports of flesh eating bacteria have been increasing all over the city of Houston, coincidentally. I won’t go into excruciating detail of the run, since Half Moon took the liberty of exposing himself (photos of) and his run at Suffice it to say, the run had a nice balance of soggy field running, pipeline ROW running, scenic lake vistas, cajun swamp sloshing and bayou trotting. Contact with civilization was limited from start to end, although I use that term loosely with regard to the On-On-On. Speaking of which, the run ended at a cosmopolitan café called E.C.’s Juke Box Lounge. Here, runners were treated to copious quantities of malted refreshments, traditional down-downs and inebriation-induced accusations. Of special note was the baptizing of High Maintenance (Her Virgin Hare) and E.C’s historical rendition of “The Last Ride of Paul Revere”. Unfortunately for the walkers, all was lost. They got lost on Trail; were egged by some local aborigines; and hobbled home without partaking in any libations. What a shame. The party continued on with some of the best barbecue I’ve had in a long time and was chased with more libations. A number of “Minnesota Fats” materialized spontaneously around the pool tables, while others discussed the possibility of commencing a game of “Chicken Drop Bingo”. Oh well, save something for our next journey to the Land of the Lost. Yours in Sport “Licks His Own” **************************************************** The Other Side of Shiggy Disclaimer: The following account bears some resemblance to the actual events. Any similarities to the truth is co-incidental and should be disregarded. I anticipated the moment for weeks. A variety of circumstances kept me from joining the Houston Hashers. This is my story. It was Sunday. A day of magic for me. I looked at my watch, 7:30 AM. Plenty of time to do all my errands and chores left over from the past week of toiling for the man. I should have more respect, but after getting my gold watch and giving my car away to start a new Biker life, there isn't much room for insincere sentiment. But I regress. Sunday, a day of freedom and difficult choices. Do laundry, wash motorcycle, call friends, think erotic thoughts. Discipline, work to be done. I look at my watch it's 11 am. What happened, was I taken aboard the mother ship. I check all the usual places for X-File evidence. Finding none I set about my mission to Hash. Have I prepared properly since leaving Orlando. Yes, copious quanties of beer preceded by Jack's Jumbos', paving the way for Budda Boys Hashing debut. A horrible thought flashes by, will my motorcycle have enough power to get me there. Yes!! I settle back to study the map and the cryptic hash directions. To my amazement my map doesn't go far enough. I decide to memorize the instructions and hit the road. Being a reglious advisor at large, I mumble a prayer as I warm the engine. "If it is your will Gash please make it so." I exit at Alameda/Genoa and begin looking for sign. I find them gathered exactly according to the directions, in a distant corner milling about. The thought of a hash mill flashes by. This group of 30-40 people shivering surprises me. The hash must be universal. I even sense that I know them somehow even though it's not possible. I take a few steps to introduce myself as a newcomer. Since Budda and I have arrived together, I ask if anybody will be walking to assure me some company. We go through the usual litany of marking and with the words of the hash masters ringing in our ears, "stay together", off we go into Houston Hash House History. I look back one last time at my motorcycle, will I ever see it again? I take my place at the back of the pack and remained there throughout the run. After running 45 minutes I begin to walk thru a wooded area which is submerged under 12" of water and for the first time speak to Dickless Tracy. My first question, "Is Tracy your first name?" After another 45 minutes of walking, arriving depressed and depleted, we are hosed, hugged and fed. Oh, I forgot the most important thing beer, both dark and light. I can't wait to tell the Orlando Hash about Houston’s drinking diversity. After getting properly "Lickered Up", we formed a large circle and began an endless series of tributes. I secretly suspect that the rituals only intent is to push everyone "One Tote Over the Line." This was clearly evident by the behavior expressed in the "Jukebox Bar". "Four Bucks", the bar owners wife yells, "for the Best Damn Barbecue you've ever sunk a tooth." I bellied up, and I do mean Bellied. Once sated, I begin working my art magic on the unsuspecting, eventually leaving 10 pieces in a backwater bar with 45's glued to the ceiling. I'm so fascinated with this seeming "Art-Decco" effect, that I include them into the paintings. Finally, I discover the party is going on outside again and I hear Sultan's explanation of how 17 is a magic number. We all stand in awe. Bald Eagle returns us to our conveyances and we slip away into the darkness with the promise to return. Merry Mardi Gras to all and to all a good night. SCRIBED BY: “CURSOR” (Orlando H3) |
MIGHTY HIGH MOON HASH SUNDAY,
FEBRUARY 22, 1998 RUN NUMBER 996 VENUE: CLOTH WORLD – HWY 45 SO. @ ALMEDA GENOA HARES: “HALF MOON” “HIGH MAINTENANCE” &
“MIGHTY MOUSE”