ReHash #382

“Beer and Loafing on Connecticut Hill”

Who would have thought as we gathered at Connecticut Hill for the start of the On-Blonde-Birthday Hash on this sunny summer’s day that before the end of the trail, one of us would be reborn, two would be punished for being born, and one amongst us would be chosen to make sense of it all. Not an easy task for what occurred that day by any means.

It all started like this:

LOA and I were somewhere around Mecklenberg, on the edge of the Hill, when the beer began to take hold. I remember saying something like:

Floss: I feel a bit lightheaded. Maybe you should drive.
LOA: Did you say something? Are we lost?
Floss: Hm? Nevermind. No point in mentioning it now, I thought. Poor Blonde Bimbo will see soon enough. We had two bags of cheese doodles, one bag of pretzels, two packages of chocolate chip cookies, three bags of ice, and a whole galaxy of cheap-ass beers… Also, a quart! ! of tequila and a quart of rum. Not that we needed all that for this hash trip, but once you get into serious hashing, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.

After dropping LOA off to set trail with Toothy, I proceeded back to Trumansburg where I ran into a hitchhiker named Just Jeff at the corner store-

Just Jeff: Hot damn! I never rode in a Rodeo before! Are you going to the Blonde Bimbo hash and can I get a lift? I’ve hashed before, but I don’t have a name yet.
Floss: Is that right? Well… I guess you’re about ready, then, aren’t you? Get in!

We arrived at Connecticut Hill just in time for a chalk talk by the blonde haired hares LOA and Toothy. Here we were joined by Dances With Head, 1/2 Monty, Lil’ Miss, Spike, Hot Lips, and Flour City visitors Mud Man and Sweeps Around. Before we knew it, we were off. The trail went left and through the woods- lots of shiggy and some trail running- until we came on a Piel’s ! ! can on the top of a stick- Maybe it meant something. A Beer stop? Maybe not. There was madness in every direction. If it wasn’t here, then it had to be shortly up ahead. At the next check, there was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were headed in the right direction.

Finally we reached a beer stop- and before long everyone had drunk their fill. Shortly afterwards the pack was off againÖ..and there I was. Alone in the woods, completely twisted on beer, no cash, no story for the rehash, and on top of everything else, a gigantic god damned sprained calf muscle to deal with. How would Ball Wrinkle, our fearless GM handle this situation? If only he was here so I could ask. Then I saw her- the blonde-bimbo LOA sweeping trail behind me and I knew everything was going to be okay, I would make it the rest of the trail.

The two of us struggled on until we reached a second beer stop, and here is ! ! where things really started to get weird, or my eyes were still playing tricks on me. BW was coming down the road with Puker! A hasher can learn to handle such things as seeing their lost GM crawling up the hill wearing red nail polish, but no one should be asked to deal with this trip. There was no going back for anyone now- we would have to ride it out. ON-ON we went again and mirroring how we were all feeling, Puker continued to puke all the way through the rest of the shiggy and up the hill until, much to everyone’s relief, we reached the ON-IN. Somewhere along the way we lost Spike for good.

Dances called the circle together and awards were given to Hot Lips and Mud Man for Hash Crashes, Hot Lips drank for never drinking, and Sweeps had to drink for just about everything else. LOA and Toothy were given memorable birthday down-downs- the hash also decided at this point to give anyone with a double digit birthday an UP-UP from now ! ! on.

As beer sprouted from the hares’ noses, Ball Wrinkle donned a curly blonde wig and multiple bimbo accessories. There he goes, I thought. One of the Hash’s own prototypes. Some kind of high-powered mutant never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die.

As Lil’ Miss looked on in horror he realized, with a bit of luck, his life was ruined forever. Always thinking that at the end of trail there might be men in curly blonde wigs who are getting incredible kicks from things he’ll never know.

Reality was briefly restored for this group of misfits when Dances suggested we name Just Jeff who was seen catching fish on trail with his bare hands- after a brief discussion, Just Jeff was baptized by the hash as "Fishy Fingers". Everyone then asked to sniff them.

Dances closed the circle by nominating me to summarize this creepy string of events that I could barely remember…. Talk resumed as Ball Wrinkle made on! ! e more costume change while playing the harmonica with Lil’ Miss.

It was then that I turned to LOA.

Floss: We’ve gotta get out of here. I think I’m getting the fear.
LOA: Hang in there, we can loose them on the back roads to the bar.

With that we were off trying to escape these freaks. We quickly lost them on route and went home to hide, only to have Ball Wrinkle and 1/2 Monty show up two hours later at our doorstop. You should never turn your back on hashers, they’ll chase you down.

Which brought me to this rehash. History like this is hard to know. Even without being sure of "history" it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole hash comes to a ‘head’ in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time—and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened.

It all happened only one week ago? Almost two?   It seems like a lifetime, or at least a main era—the kind of peak that never comes again. The On-Blonde Birthday hash was a very special time and place to be a part of. No explanation, no mix of words or hash songs, or even a rehash can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. See you Sunday.

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Great and confusing rehash Floss. Did you forget about the two awards that little miss muffit received and the one he forgot? You did mention that everyone stiffed our GM and myself at the bar, we were forced to drink a pitcher of beer without supervision, as a matter of fact we didn’t have any vision we were blind sticken drunk. Or at least that our story, or my recollection of the after the on-in.