I guess on the day of an eclipse anything was possible, mere anarchy and saturnalia loosed upon the land, trails crossing trails… However, this maneouvre was successfully negotiated without an ectoplasmic rupture. Pick a stereotype, I'll tell you if it's true or not, and probably give you a funny or sad or WTF story to go along with it. Maybe we were all relieved and celebratory to see that the dragon that had eaten the sun earlier in the day had regurgitated it, or maybe we thought we could hunker down for safety in the concrete box of the Firkin at Danforth and Woodbine. As luck would have it, the pack was beaten by those front-walking bastards Shadow, Humpday and Buzz. It was another five minutes to Chine Drive, with plenty of beer plus lots of tasty samosas. Throughout this Rose Eh sat at a table by herself, obsessively unravelling the pile of costume gewgaws from Value Village Moonman dumped on her.
So, we are now attracting homeless people, harbouring possible illegal immigrants travelling in what could be a mobile meth lab, for all we know. And my dad wasn't a multi-platinum recording artist, either. You would think the opportunity to work the docks would be appealing to a lot of hashers, but we had a small turnout on August 12, even for a fine late summer Saturday. For some reason Sex Tourist wore a flamingo outfit. I'll anonymize it as necessary. Then he was confused. You know something is seriously askew with the world when Shampoo is the one to have the brainwave. Would have gotten my name in the paper, and all this sympathy and outrage. Thank Gisbert we had a couple of visitors: First of all a special occasion like this attracted some special people, like Plunger and Sleepy, two of our amazingly well-preserved Founders. Not only did it have dual front-and-back beer-capacity panniers, it also had a light powered by a dynamo on the back wheel. Since Golden Showers took a nap after the run and slept through the whole evening, he missed seeing Rose Eh nearly fly across the room, propelled by vigourous jitterbugging with Ra. We nearly killed Shmegg a couple of months ago, but all the same he came in from DC to give it another go. KY Dick registered twice, but came neither. The fog was by now truly impenetrable, like entering a wall of soft grey flannel. On a serious note, in light of the numerous recent accusations of people well, men carrying on in a horrible manner — groping, lewd accusations, exposing themselves and worse — Ra decided the hash needed to conduct its own investigation. He felt miserable and sorry for himself until he saw the front-running part of the pack cross right in front of him just as Lakeshore meets Coxwell. Though I know Buzz is the equivalent of three or four, what with his outsized personality. Perhaps they were trying to be clever, but the special on tap was Belgian Moon. Anyway, it was pretty delish. Quickly crossing Kingston Road, our path took us through the scenic Glen Stewart ravine. Even better, it had a luggage compartment where we could store our precious cargo, numerous flats of Amsterdam Brewery beer. And as the sun began to set something — some thing — emerged from the soupy stagnant water. But it was true. The trail took us through parkland at the Cathedral Bluffs, but an all-encompassing fog had set in, making the view check from the heights — water, presumably — a moot point. And with a flock of gangly adolescent geese steadily nibbling their way over to us and our chips. The Catholic seminary directly beyond surely offered an opportunity for atonement and penance, but the trail wisely gave it a wide berth and led up to Kingston Road instead.
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