It’s an interesting cultural anthropologic study how our advances in technology cause us to become more and more individual isolationists. Discuss amongst yourselves.

 

As I rode to the Raven Lounge, in a yellow oven on wheels, bracing myself by locking my feet around the center hump in the backseat, trying not to get tossed around, I momentarily noticed how my cab driver never looked at me and I, him. While he talked and laughed with the person on the other end of his cell, speaking in a language unknown to me, I talked and laughed with Holy Fuck on the other end of my cell, even though I was going to see her in 10 minutes. I thought how unfortunate it is, as a society, that we’re losing our sense of community. There I was in a car with another human, our two worlds moving together down Walnut Street, separated only by dirty, scratched plexi-glass and we never even exchanged salutations.

 

With my brief study in human culture complete, it was time to hash- a whole other study in evolving human culture.

 

Who came:

 

Free from my mobile oven, “…Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter…” I bounded up the iron steps and into The Raven, where a bustling mob of hashers drinking cans of PBR and bottles of Miller light, mingled in the darkness.

Having just returned from the debauchery in San Francisco and the Bay to Breakers, I was happy to see friends. I stood at the window, feeling what little breeze was making it through, with Cunting Season, Heave Ho and Tastes Like Chicken. We chatted for a bit and then Plastic Pud came over and joined us. Having been away and seeing so many new faces, I walked around and introduced myself. Just Curt and Just Brian were our virgins this night. I welcomed them and ensured them a good time (I left out the caveat “depending on what one’s definition of a good time is”). I also met Just Ulla and Just Lauren who, were virgins the previous week and actually came back!  Although, after the stories I heard about the 169 run, who wouldn’t cum again?

 

After some mingling, I ponyed up to the bar to get myself one of those Miller Lights that I saw others eagerly wrapping their lips around.  As I turned around, golden nectar of the barley gods in hand, Soft-core Analyst approached.  We chatted briefly about our weekend and seeing him drool over my beer, I excused myself so he could get a beer, before he stole mine.

 

Beer gone, our RA, Sloppy Ho, called us to circle up. I looked around me; the mob is growing. The Stan family stood inside at the window, watching us like Emperor Vespasian’s court might have watched a gladiator fight at the Colosseum…or was it that they were keeping Stan safe from All-turd Boy since he stole her and never did take Stan to Mexico. What did he do with her for those two weeks then? Maybe he has a doll fetish? I digress. Up Her Ali was looking over my shoulder saying, “you want a piece of me?” I turned around and apparently she was challenging a car because no one was behind me except a taxi. Cunting Season questioned Tastes Like Chicken over Chickens r*nning shoes which looked rather white. Sloppy called up our virgins, we sang them a little song and off we went into the humid evening.

 

We ran up Samson and over onto Walnut Street. As we were running past the little sushi joint I ate at after Philly’s Halloween hash (#1504), I see a flash of yellow in my right peripheral vision. Just Alice, like the little bolt of lightning, appeared out of no-where.

 

We continue on and over to 15^th and Spruce Streets. There was much commotion on this corner. Peco trucks, fencing erected, the police…the one police officer was waving us on, across the street, yelling, “go, go, go!” With that I invited him to r*n with us. He r*n around his car as if he was going to join our mob but then started laughing and simply waved.  Safely on the other side of 15^th, we saw our first BN! Down the street we r*n and then turned down a tiny walkway between buildings to the “courtyard” behind Nappy’s apartment building.  We quenched our thirst with cans of PBR amidst a discarded futon and misc boxes.  Nappy informed me that he’s the neighbor who peers out his window at night trying to catch neighbors leaving items behind in the yard.

 

Apparently hearing all the commotion, one of Nappy’s neighbors comes outside.  I yelled up to him that if he jumped, we’d catch him, to which the mobsters around me said, “I’m not catching him.”  I then thought of a circus and a clown who jumps from a high-wire platform and when he reaches the bottom, instead of the red “net” with a big yellow star in the middle, being held by his clown posse, instead he lands on the ground…and bounces. Doh!

 

We head out and take a left onto 15^th street and continue onward. My notes state we ran to 25^th and Lombard at some point and then I have a big self-portrait that CYHMN?  Somehow I’m thinking that’s not what our route, from overhead, looked like.  Anyway, we reach 20^th and Locust Streets and as we head down 20^th, we came upon, not a “BN” but an “SN”.  We headed down the tree-lined street to Popeye’s Bitch’s place where he served us sangria.  When my wine was gone I began to munch on the apples left at the bottom of my cup. Others and myself remarked that the apples tasted as if they had been soaked in vodka. They certainly were tasty.  First “The Mist” and now sangria?  Is our hash evolving?

 

As we handed our cups over to Popeye, he informed us that there was no trail and we should head directly back to The Raven. Once there, a big fucking mess ensued. The bartender seemed more intent on spinning discs rather than serving us up beer.  Was he crazy?

 

Finally a beer in hand, Sloppy Ho opened the circle.

 

Hare(s):

First In:  Stan

Last In:  Virgin Pimp

Virgins:

Auto-hashers:

Cums Lately:

Accusations:

My notes got a bit interesting here…I wrote:

“some incident with Reese (Barry Maniblow) and Sloppy had to drink”  and

apparently someone “…tried to feel up Nice Nuggets (…Fat Ass)”

if anyone can provide details…

• Cause for Blindness for graduating college
• Nappy’s neighbor, Just Wasu, for being Osama Bin Laden, (despite the fact he clearly looks Indian) (all the virgins under the “when one virgin drinks” rule) 

• Starting next week, everyone will be required to pay hash cash up front
• Bruceapolooza – July 28 – details to follow on Stan’s Bitches yahoogroup
• Blue Moon Hash – May 31
• Tex Mex 5k – June 27
• Phillies tailgate and ballgame – August 11 – details to follow
• Full Moon Hash – June 1
• 2^nd Anal Hashteille Day and Full Moon’s 100^th Run – July 14 

So much for the balmy spring weather from the previous week. As we walked through Queen Village and Society Hill, I wish I had worn my gloves. This night we were headed over to Old City and back to Sugar Mom’s – home of the $1, pounder PBR’s that is quickly becoming a favorite of mine. I’m rather fond of the eclectic atmosphere and patrons that frequent this homey subterranean oasis…and the beer selection is pretty decent too!

        

Who came:

 

As I stood drinking my Sierra, between jotting names and taking photos, our Grand Mistress, Hold the Sausage, walked around with straws. Since I wasn’t paying attention, Attila the Hung pulled for me, and handed me the straw. I looked…phew; I would not be hare this night.

Remember those days in college when you were so exhausted from staying up studying or partying the night before that your notes, the next day, were illegible and made no sense?  Welcome to my world.  My first on-sec assignment has taught me to either learn how to run and write or stop drinking while conducting official on-sec business.  Yea, like I’m gonna stop drinking.  Hopefully, my memory will serve me when my notes fail.  The night went kinda like this…

 

Fade out to black.

 

Fade in:

Black Sheep Pub – the crowded basement bar

 

Attila The Hung and I walked downstairs…we were first to arrive.  We made our way over to the bar, through the throngs of well-dressed, mid-20-somethings out for Thursday Happy Hour.  We were almost an hour early so we caught the bartender’s attention and started a happy hour of our own.