Missed a hash? Catch up on all the trash here...
|Butler Fall Trail Series Presents: "Winter's Not Here, Yeeeeet"
(19 days ago)
What: Buttler Fall Series presents “Winter’s Not Here, Yet”
Bag car: Angry Crotch
Pack: Shits and Ladders, Dribbles, Testicular Mechanics, Sex: The Final Frontier, Full Frontal Fireball, Quarter Mile Queer, Chips ‘N Clitz, A Vagina Name Martinique, Virgin Maria, I Come from a Clam Down Under, Sketchy Ho, DeflateDate, Just Olive, Turd in the Beaver (RI)
Trail began conventionally enough, no risks taken, a few of us milling about at Regina in Station Landing. Hare told all to bring ID on trail and a “couple bucks” in case they wanted to upgrade their drink. Hare also told Hash Cash to bring the Cash on trail, but this only about 69% registered with Hash Cash and HC promptly forgot.
And even though the forecast had been for no snow and weather apps continued to show that it was not snowing, wet cold moist things were alighting upon us that might have been called "snow". Full Frontal Fireball and Quarter Mile Queer co-RA-ed through the former’s FIRST TIME. It was awkward, no one knew where their hands should go, we all fumbled for the wrong motion at the wrong time, and we DEFINITELY finished before she did. And with that, we ran off.
Trail was found on Station Landing before encountering a parking garage. Fireball confidently stayed behind, figuring the trail would go up the garage and back down and out. Imagine our surprise when it led back to the Wellington Station and through the infinite skyway with a View Check at its center. Trail was straightforward, leading around the parking lot, though your humble Scribe went for not 1, but 2 falses under bridge crossings. A check was humorously marked in front of an impassable fence gate. I told Testi-Mechs that Buttler wouldn’t dare and we debated whether we should climb this fence before finding our hare just around one more bend of the brush, not 30 feet away.
Leg 2: Ante Upp-ed
As we drank our leftover hash beer, which included a nice spread of Bud Light, Yuengling, and Natural Light, Butter left, after giving instructions for how to read any maps that he might leave on trail, and we speculated where we might go, given that we were within sight of Encore. Sketchy revealed that she had READ the final trail announcement (well the one that went to BH3 planning), which has used the verb “gamble” three times in 3 sentences.
Trail could only follow the lovely perambulating path and the promised maps were found just before we entered Encore private property, which the hare was evidently unwilling to deface with chalk. We looked at the maps for about 10 seconds before condemning them as worthless, before actually orienting ourselves and using them, finding our way into the lush opulence that can only be funded by exploiting the dopamine fiends incapable of statistical analysis. Smug in our accepted knowledge that OUR addictions were completely unprofitable, we warmed our hands by the gas heaters. The doorman, seeing a pack of scrappy disheveled people in stained sweaty running clothes covered in dog, gave us a hearty welcome, inviting us in. Buttler was found at the center bar with a cocktail and told us to order, while we drank in the bright lights, radiant colors, and people who managed to dress even more casual than us.
Leg 3: Always Run on the Wrong Side of 99
Getting out of Encore proved as challenging a task as it was intended to be. Twice, we somehow wound up on the wrong floor before finding our way out and emerging on route 99, back to Boston. Emerging from a check, about 80% of pack didn’t know when to Hold ‘Em and when to Fold ‘Em and wound up on the wrong side of the highway, with options to traverse said highway only becoming higher and higher stakes gambles, as we traversed the Mystic River. Your Humble Scribe finally saw a break in traffic, ran across the highway, and jumped the median, leaving the other 69% of pack trapped. Buttler waited for us with Bag Car at Ryan Playground, informing us we had found Beer Check 3.
We headed out from the Bag Car, hare in sight for the 50ft Fat Boy he laid to the shelter of the ON-IN, Testi Mechs snaring him on the way. Mallort was spotted. Homebaked mac ‘n cheese was presented.
Social drinks for anyone who couldn’t escape the casino, for anyone who made out with Just Olive (we all did, even while being accused of it), backsliders were called in, and Sketchy vaguely recalled the proper procedure for abuse upon our Virgin Mary, who somehow was not a stranger to Mallort. It was revealed that the virgin le gustaria ver pornografia con tus padres and could not identify an aptly placed dollar bill. We didn’t find the virgin acceptable, but we took her anyway. Given that the Virgin actually lived in Munich, AVNM flirted with whether we should introduce her to Krusty.
ON - future hotel hash? - ON
|No Nuts November
(27 days ago)
Date: November 10, 2019
Theme: No Nuts November
Hares: Testicular Mechanics, Cum Back Queen (formerly Just Elia)
Bag Car: Just Haig (in the ONONRU mobile)
Pack: Bottom Wrangler, Do Me Decimal, Dribbles, For the Love of God Finish, Friar Fuck, Full Frontal Fireball, Holy Dumpster Fire, Orgasm Famine, Pop Cum Ear I’m Infected, Quarter Mile Queer, Shart of Darkness, Shits and Ladders, Sketchy Ho, Spunk in the Trunk, The Buttler Hit It, Topless Barbie, Twat My Mom, Virgin Elizabeth
Prelube: Paddy’s Lunch
SC: Behind the Center for Astrophysics
BC1: Riverbend Park
BC2: Fresh Pond Reservation (near Kingsley Park)
On-in: Danehy Park
Trail: Pack convened at Paddy’s Lunch, which had more than one hasher wondering if this was an A-A’ trail ending at Danehy Park. The hounds departed, came across 3 CB5s, one of which was by the residence of a Presidential candidate, had a shot check of nuts and no nuts beverages, continued on before finding 2 more CB5s, then a beer check by the Charles River. Trail craniumed north where it overlapped with Friday’s Moon Trail, stopped a beer check where the BMH3 had its on-in, then emerged from the Fresh Pond Reservation. There was a BVC across a four-lane road which pointed at a false, except nobody saw it, so a few of us just trusted our instincts and meandered toward Danehy Park where we picked up trail near a car dealership. Shortly thereafter we found the hares staking out a spot for us at the top of the hill in Danehy Park.
Circle: Do Me led her first circle in 2.5 years and quickly got to business. Our FRB was Shits, while Spunk was the FBI. Buttler was the DFL as he went straight back to Paddy’s. Shart demented Virgin Elizabeth, where she revealed that she was from Reno, was sponsored by FFF, is a backwoods skier, doesn’t know the square root of -69 (I Ate Something), and likes her Oreos double stuffed.
Naming: Next in circle was the naming of Just Elia. Do Me tried to abdicate her RA responsibilities to “Ass Cowboy” who turned down the opportunity to lead a naming, so QMQ jumped in to help. We learned that Just Elia wanted to yeet nuts from the Harvard Bridge, talked about a Kat and a (Damn It) Janet, has cat ears and a cat tail, and left the hash for a little bit, but came back. Naming suggestions included Yeets Nuts, Damn It Janet, Cum Back Queen, and Cat Loves Pussy. Of the four nominations, Cum Back Queen grabbed the most votes, therefore Just Elia will always be known at this hash and at all others as Cum Back Queen.
Accusations: Continuing the accusations, Shart accused the hares of their BVC trickery, For the Love of God Finish falsely accused Daylights Savings Time of it being dark at 6 p.m. (we’re back in Standard Time), Just Haig was accused of getting a $100 bill from his “gay gun,” Sketchy and Buttler for latecomers, Buttler for watching porn of his parents with his parents, and the hares for overlaying trail on the Moon trail. I don’t recall the accusation, but For the Love of God Finish told us some story about dry ice under a bridge on Boston Common. Then Do Me was given an honor down-down for 500 days of sobriety.
Announcements: As for announcements, the Northboro H3 Red Dress Run is next Saturday, as is the Ballbuster Goes West trail. The Buttler Trail Series continues next Sunday with virgin Boston territory. QMQ is having Chinese food (sushi actually) for Christmas, and For the Love of God Finish is moving to Vermont. Oh and around this time, Spank Me May I Have My Mother showed up.
That’s it for this hash trash. Thanks to our Veterans on this holiday. Now to go back to counting down the minutes until I can start streaming The Mandalorian.
Twat My Mom
|AGM Fatboy Trash
(about 1 month ago)
What: Fatboy Hash Trash
Where: State Street Provisions
Who: Shart of Darnkess and Chunderilli Chunderilli
Bag car: The Butler Hit It
Wiki, Gimp, Quarter Mile, Shits, Oboner, Sweagal, Falmon, Cuntcussion
Getting to the bar right after it opened – after almost being run over by two yahoos in a GTI – the nice hostest didn’t sit me as far away from everyone else as possible, but I think the brunch date sharing the booth with me didn’t enjoy my unicorn hat gernal hashy vibe. I ordered a cocktail and waited for others to arrive.
About a half hour later Butler and Gimp showed up after having run from his car because it was parked so far away. This become relivant later. We ate more food, drank more booze and waited for others to join us. Oboner and Chunerilli strolled in and took the seats which had been recently vacated by the brunch date. They informed us that they just came from dim sum and were too full to eat any more, but ordered bacon and bisciuts anyway. Well, they tried to order bacon and biscuits but the bar was out of bacon. The waitresses was very apologectic.
Shart and Falmon joined us after having polished off a bottle of procesco – it’s always a good idea to have a few lying around – after Falmon had awoken Shart with an “I have a bad idea which you’re probably going to like” offer at the Krusty and Goatless Krusty Goat. They had pancakes and beer. The breakfast of champions.
Later on – well after the 1pm HST start – Quarter Mile and Do Me joined us after supporting and participating in, respectfully, racist events earlier in the morning.
Full of seafood, pancakes, and alcohol we began to grumble about maybe getting on with this trail. Butler informed us that he, um, wasn’t parked anywhere close. He was parked in front of the TD Gradern – about a mile and a half away and in the opposite direction of the “heavily scouted trail.” Resisting – or not taking our plantive calls to move the bag car to us. The hares, showing their ability as GMs to addapt to unplanned situations and drama in pack – decided that trail would just be a walk to Butlers car.
Trail – Part 1:
Continuing in the vein of addaptability, the hares did request that we go to the aquirium and sarende the seals with one of YHSs favourite songs. In order to accomidate that simple request, and to overcome the obsterance of the bag car, the RA – Quarter Mile – decided to try a novel technique of a “roving chalk talk” in which he drew chalk talk interspersed with the haring marks leading to the seals. Good luck to anyone who tried to join us late. We got to the seals, sang to them, then observed one who seemed to love swimming upside down, one who was sleeping on the floor, one who was sleeping with it’s head above water and one who swimming in place in front of the water jet.
Trail looped back from the Aquiraium ground the bar – which incidentally shared a block with a parking garage – and crossed the green way. We meandered around Quincy Market – with a false going to the Hong Kong – but stopped for an impromptu cookie check, which might have been the best idea of the GMs young reign. Trail wound through some alleys where Shits found a hat which he wore until we told him it was probably covered in vomit, bed bugs, and the dregs of human society. We walked past Haymarket and had a lively discussion that the establishment which branded itsef “the greatest bar” was actually “the douchiest” bar complete with three levels of Choise Your Own Douche. Our ability to consevrse with each other was being streched as thin as owe brunch-boze was wearing out and we were coming dangerously close to being sober when, at long last, we spied bag/beer car.
BC 1 – On a sidewalk outside a bar showing football.
There was a nice family – it looked like mother and daughters – who were simultalinously watching the Bills game, but also laughing at the band of neirdowells who had inexpeciblably started singing and drinking on the sidewalk outside their bar. One beer later, the hares huddled with bag car then told everyone to grab a road soda or two – as there would be no bag car at the next beer check.
Trail Part – 2: Sometimes closed doors are actually open.
After we loaded up on beers and chips for the road we strode off towards what was definetly not an-everyone-knew-where-we-were-going-check in the north end by the skating rink. To get there, though, first was had to cross Causeway St. Pack was mostly seperated by a light with the hares and I on one side, and pack on the other. To pass the time, I thought I’d sing myself a song. I started in with “In the hills of West Virginia lived a girl named Nacy Brown, you’ve never seen her equal in the country on in town…” I paused for dramatic affect and to see if anyone would join me. Instead, a woman who was enjoying a causal Sunday nap on the sidewalk yelled, in the very gravely voice one someone who has spent more than a few fall days napping on sidewalks, “Oh, shut the fuck up!” Which caused pack to explode in laughter and exclaim that they wish they had recorded the entire episode.
Trail then went through the garden, but as we were exiting another man – who I assumed also shared a the experience of spending more than his fare share of days napping under the early November sun, but every easily could have been a T or Garden employee tried to tell Shits, the hares and I that the doors which we were about to exit through were closed. We are hashers so we ignored him. The rest of pack – being order muppets – dudifuly followed his advice.
We all rejoined in the park over the big dig tunnel and all stood agast at the vision which was before us, on the other side of the street; a man, wearing a Patriots jersey under a flying squirrel onsie was strolling carelessly down the street. We quickly confirmed that this was butler, and that a. he wasn’t walking to, or from, or anywhere near bag car, and that he wasn’t walking in any way towards, or in the direction of the food, which he was tasked with picking up as we strolled the the beer check. Knowing better than to question, or corner, a buttler in the wild, we decided to ignore the strange apparition and continue with out merry juant.
Not much worth of retelling happened between the buttler sighting and the beer check.
Beer Check 2 – The great marathon hooides with beer coosies in them don’t prevent spilling.
Deciding not to follow the tradition of “just one beer check” which the outgoing GMs tried to start Saturday, this trail had two beer checks. When we got to the second one – ugh, that’s a horrible transition after a post-edit, but I’m leaving it because I want the dig - I removed my beer from the marathon hoodie pocket – those were such great give-aways weren’t they? Who ever was marathon chair that year really had their shit together. I wonder what’s in store this year… - anyway; I think I’ve broken all rules of punctuation on that rant – and noticed it was rather empty and I had to go to the bathroom.
I went to the corner of the park and Gimp yelled at me for “Pissing on/in the direction of the Conssitution.” When I returned I delivered the sick nasty burn “It’s funny you still think the Consitition matters!” No one laughed. Instead they were staring at me. It would appear as though the kangaroo pouch on the hoodie, while great at hiding and keeping beer cold, is not so good as keeping it from making it look like you peed yourself, but like in a very weird way in which the pee sprays up? Luckily it was cold and windy and we decided we should head to on in. Before we left, Shart decided to moon the youth hockey game and change out of her totally-going-to-run-today-running shorts into some jeans she probably stole from Disco.
Trail Part 3 – We Walk Across A Bridge
We walked across the bridge to Charlestown. I workshopped a way in which I could tell the “spilling beer on myself story” in the context of a job interview, complete with interview questions, keyword phrases, light humor and formal laguage construction. I’d hire me. You should too. Also hire Shart. She wants new job. She’s good a shitty herself and running. She can solidify your bottom line.
We tried to move it to a sunny part of the park, but the birdge, the trajectory of the moon and tides made us circle on a path. At least we didn’t get in the way of the nice family taking wedding/engagement photots. I’m not entirely sure why, but very quickly circled turned on the RAs says “Does anyone else have any aquisations for wiki?” Somehow, that’s not how I invisioned my RA-emiratius career starting. It got cold, we swang low.
On – #IfYouDidntAlmostPeeYourselfItWasntAGoodTrail – On
FRIDAY 11/8: MOOM AGM – New Visisages! New Places! Same Rage! Take the 70 or the 71 out to watertown! Start is 6:30HST, bring cranium covers, and a love of “shiggly falling from the sky!”
SUNDAY 11/10: NO NUTS NOVEMBER – Join Just Elia as she hares a trail in celebration, condemnation, memorial, or whatever of NUTS! Start is “Camberville”. She needs a co-hare and a no-nut car!
(reply to this email/post if you want to volunteer and I’ll forward it to her)
Ball Buster 11/16 – Start is in the Davis area, hared by Shits.
Sadie Hawkins 11/23 - LADIES! LADIES! LADIES – GET YOUR PINS FROM UDDER AND PIN YOUR BURRITO!!
Black out Friday 11/29 – Will Wiki get his sh*t together for a day which might actually be dangerous? Stay tuned!
…you’ve read 4 pages. Go back to work.
I’ve been at work 3 hours and this is all I’ve done.
Don’t be like me.
|Birthday Trash: Cuntcussion edition
(about 2 months ago)
Prelube - Naco Taco:
We ate tacos, tortas, chips & dip, and drank beer and margaritas in ritual preparation for the first Sunday trail of the year, and to celebrate Cuntcussion's birthday.
Hares: Cuntcussion, Swedish Eagle
Bagcar: Blondie McFucksalot
Pack: Bottom Wrangler, Shart of Darkness, Orgasm Famine, Rainbow Fuckin Bright, No Man on the Moon, Friar Fuck, Just Katie, 50 Shades of Glaze, Mudlsut, a virgin (Mudslut's cousin), Mange my Vagina, Testicular Mechanics, Clit Notes, Shits & Ladders
Bottom Wrangler administered chalk talk in mostly standard English, for the benefit of the virgin. A notable point was Mange informing Wrangler that "there are no dick checks on Taco trail". We corrected Mange that she was, in fact, at a BH3 trail.
We meandered east and north. Twice the treacherous hares marked possible trail onto live train tracks, and twice I cautiously examined the potential route while remaining vigilant for loose trains out looking for hasher blood, only to hear trail called in another direction. This leg featured a shot check at Donnelly Field. A big red jug that looked like coolant for use in a car. I'm told it tasted slightly less like that. Pack would work on this for the rest of trail.
BC1: Gold Star Mothers Park:
We sat around a picnic table during beer check, while a man did yoga close by.
Again possible trail was encountered at live train tracks. This time I saw a blob of flower, and stopped for five to ten minutes to investigate, as an attentive hasher does. This, of course, caused most of pack to get ahead of me as they proceeded on the actual trail. I may have waylaid several members of pack here in my search for trail - sorry guys. The rear echelon of pack finally got moving. We didn't find the actual trail for a little, instead zenning parallel to it, then catching it again a few hundred meters later. Eventually we found ourselves back amongst the rest of pack, as we headed North into Somerville and then past Somerville Ave. It was correctly surmised that trail would go uphill to one of our favorite parks.
BC2: Prospect Hill Park:
Great views on a beautiful day during our beer check atop the tower. From our high vantage point, we observed the hares heading north as they went gay.
We tracked the hares in hot pursuit, though for Famine and I the trail soon turned cold, as we proceeded to zen in a wrong, and then even wronger direction, before finally circling back to the last check. We followed pack marks across a very busy four lanes of road (route 28) without a crosswalk, later learning that the hares had been spotted from across the highway, and then snared by some of pack. Others, who were not lucky enough to get in on the action, apparently ran a long YBF, which Cuntcussion and Sweagle had needed to lay hapahazardly. The hares had been unaware of the 'closed' status of Washington Street in Somerville as it passes under the train tracks, until they marked trail up to it.
On in - (adjacent to) New Washington Dog Park, East Somerville:
There were people and dogs in the dog park, so we ate pizza and circled across the street in a nice grassy area. A tall hedge provided a visual barrier from an apartment building whose residents might disapprove of our shenanigans. In addition to the pizza, Cuntcussion supplied us with home-made cookies (espresso chocolate chip!). Not to be outdone, Blondie countered the hare's offering with one of her own; a shot that contained clear liquor, a raw egg, and hot sauce. Circle watched Cuntcussion's face as she went through shock, denial, anger, depression, and finally, acceptance, all during the birthday shot's creation, before downing it. The Virgin was called in, and Mange, now almost a full hundred percent certain what kennel she was hashing with, demented him, in true Mange fashion. We had several additions to circle, including Goat & assorted company, and the virgin's girlfriend, whose phone number he had written on the back of his hand before trail, for safety reasons. Accusations were eventually called (same haircuts, people who didn't know what day of the week it was, etc.), announcements made, we swung low, and headed out.
|All Along the Hashtower Hash Trash
(2 months ago)
What: The All Along the Watchtower Hash
Where: Brendan Behan Pub
Who: Do Me Decimal, (not) Massage A Trio
Wikipedophilia, Bring Out the Gimp, For the Love of God Finish, the virgin from last week, the just who brought the virgin from last week, Dribbles, Dry Hose, Sex TFF, Twat My Mom, Topless Barbie, Chunderelli, definetly other people I’m forgetting.
Arriving at the start early - running because trusting the orange line is like waiting for when I paint my masterpiece - the bartender very nicely informed me that the hare had called ahead to warn the bar of our arrival, so they had set up some orange food and pretzels on a few tables away from the bar as to not distract the denzins at the bar. Rage. As I was walking in, All Along the Watchtower was playing, on theme. Chunderelli walked right past the bar. Pack slowly trickled in, with tales of woe coming in from all those who braved the T. The hares and bag car arrived slightly be 7, and changed into an all-red outfit (this is relivant later) and was gay, or straight, or whatever, they left us alone at the bar with promises of beer lingering in the air.
Qatar Mile Queer led us in chalk talk, but decided to draw the marks in white chalk, unlike the hare, who decided to paint the side walks black with their chalk. The hare had given a whole set of “special marks” to our earstwhile RA, but he had forgotten all but one of them - CN/CC which stood for “Champange Near” and “Champange Check.” We were promised that it wouldn’t be “divorce juice”
Everyone was scouting left, and some were scouting right. I scouted the wrong way around a super-market, and eventually I hadn’t seen nothing like a trial mark, so I headed back to chalk-talk. I found some grey-chalk-on-black-side-walk and followed until I saw cranium lamps bobbing in the distance and ran towards them. Pack ran helter-skleter going check-to-check; the hare living up to their origins as a cajun-hasher. Once we found marks it was easy to follow, but pack hadn’t seen nothing like an easily visible mark. Looping our way through JP - the lack of ability to see marks made us run in circles without knowing it - we eventually couldn’t figure out what any of it was worth and found marks leading into the woods with “CN” writen in chalk on a rock. The hare then used the tried and true practice of “an entire bag of flour over 100 yards” leading us through the woods to the champange. Luckily they ran out right at the champange, laying only one “wiki-mark” (as apparently laying down sticks in the formation of arrows is called - who would ever DO THAT?). Next to the champange were the cards that read “have mercy on their souls” as it was discovered this was, in fact, divorce-juice. [For those who don’t know divorce juice is a term of art for almond flavoured champange from trader joes] There was also hatorade mixed with something for the feinter of hart. After trying hard to finish the bottles, we looked around and saw that pack had shrunk to about six, so I went back to look for the rest of them. Apparently they were confused by the definition of “near” and didn’t see, or follow, the marks going up the spanish stairs, looking around instead for champange near the champange near mark.
Trail “well, lets just assume it goes up hill”:
We all know the adage that “the hash runs up hill” and never has pack seen this montra more faithfully executed. We hashed around the heath street hill, through some parks and up some stairs. We got to an intersection and ran up some more hills, then to another intersection and up more hills. We were running a long a street at there was a check at the base of a flight of stairs, there was one easily visible and a second mark not too far up them, so I bounded my way up the stairs. Twat my mom kindly intercepted a local muggle who asked him why I had just bounded up the stairs to his house. Twat replied, in effect, that I was (am) an idiot, and that it was the wrong way. The man invited Twat to run a 5k on Saturday as I ran back down the stairs to catch up with pack. There was a check at the next flight of stairs, and trail did go up those, to a second shot check.
Trial “this has to be where the beer check is, oh, no, wait.”
Starting from the mad dash up the stairs to the second shot check all of our - or at least YHNs - beer-dars were going off, only to be investigated as false alarms. After the shot check we finished running up all the hills to the park which overlooks the city - really narrowing down which one - and trial ran, unexpectedily down-hill, so we kept thinking that the beer check would be “right at the next park.” It never was. Eventually we kept running down, and down and down until we got to the Orange line tracks, which we ran over, to a hash-sit-a-peed by whatever-road-the-orange-line-follows. Continuelly getting my barings again, I suggested that we “scout up hill” to that weird tower thing we went to once one a red dress after being kicked out of Sam Adams. Pack blinked and ran down the “big road” while Chunderelli and i scouted - and found - trail crossing 4 lanes of traffic and going up hill. Trail came to an intersection and kept going up hill. It did this three, or maybe four, more times, until finally, blessedily, we saw “BN” pointing into the park with the aforementioned weird tower.
Beer Check Sex Cult?
The hare maintains that the tower was built in the 60s as part of a sex cult? They were very adoment about it, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I was paying attention to the fact that my legs were no longer climbing hills. The only conversation of note at the beer check was about how opiodes make you constipated, then people shared stories about suffering from the inverse of constipation as an adult. We thought the hare had been away for a while when we started talking about hashers who signed up to get colera, but were informed that they had only been away for a few minutes. Not wanting to talk about shit anymore, i wandered around the park, scouting in all the wrong directions.
Trial “We have to go downhill to get to where we’re going”
If our beer-dars had been biased after the second shot check, they were totally out of whack following the beer check, except that we totally go lost at least twice looking around at “View Checks” whose views featured tripple deckers with maybe a sight of a sky scrapper peaking over them in the distance. I’m pretty sure we ran down more hills than we ran up, but according to science that’s not possible. Fake news. They were perfect hills. We crossed back over the-main-road-heading-south-west-from-the-city and Twat led us in “Oh, sir jasper” to let pack catch up and reform. Sex scouted straight and had a knack for not following the falses down all the sides streets which went up hill,unlike YHS. However, that scouting led YHS to be slightly behind Sex at a group hug in front of a cool chruch on a hill, which we had circle for moon behind many moons ago. Sex and a few others went off scouting and calling “OnOn” in, lets be honest, whatever direction doesn’t matter, because I saw, running back towards us crouching and trying to stay behind trash cans, a runner dressed all in red. They sprinted across the road mid block and i turned and chased down the hare!
We sang the days of the week before running around the chruch and on-ining at the park next to the parking lot where moon ended years ago.
Precircle food! Not only was it pizza, but it was, like, good pizza. We stuffed our visages with it. After pack had enough time to eat the delicous pizza buffet, QMQ started singing about the mayors daughter and we carried the beer-cooler over to a basketball hoop in the middle of a round court for circle.
Quarter mile took a long pull from his beer and called the hare into circle, then went around asking for comments on trail. Disco showed up looking dabber AF. We sang the hare the “Shitty Hare” song, and they sang us ... something? Mobile? Sure lets go with that. It’s not true, but it doesn’t matter. When we finished their song and QMQ almost dismissed them from cricle, but then called them back in because he had forgotten to get comments on trail sign them a song. We, the pack, were slightly confused, so we all yelled our comments out again, and QMQ sang “Shitty Hare” and second time, no knowing that we had just done all this! The RA had lost control so the hare and YHS ran around circle yelling that while pack stood looking dumb. The RA then asked “what else he had forgotten” not wanting to retrace the entirety of his life accused the RA of “forgetting circle” and sang to him that ... “he should’ve used more flour and chalk.” Circle was quickly decending into madness but it was the amazing level of madness which is as indescribable as it is fun and intoxicating. There weren’t any virgins - not that I remember at least - but we did call sweat test failures in. When pressed for a song, we sang that the backsliders “should’ve use more flour and chalk....” The RA tried invain to assert some kind of control over circle, and kept on calling in people for accusations which should’ve had specific songs. The backsliders, for example, were asked “where o where were you last week? We should’ve used more flour and chalk...” There was a celebration of the end of summer by doing the same swedish-frog-jumping-thing which we celebrated it’s start with, but that didn’t take hold either. QMQ was accused of running into a tree, and sang to that he should’ve used more flour, or chalk. The hare was called in for being snared, and also told, for a third time, that they should’ve used more flour and chalk. Eventually, with the time progressing towards 10 and the beer flowing quickly, it was time to swing low and end this farce of a circle, which could’ve used more flour and chalk.
On - you should’ve used more flour or chalk - On
The hare provided the following document about their research and references for the trail:
All Along the Watchtower Trail: An Explanation, with references
Summary of inspiration for the trail:
The Lyman Family, also known as the Fort Hill Community, is a Boston-bred cult founded by musician Mel Lyman of Kwenski’s Jug Band. Lyman had a bit of a musical spat with Bob Dylan at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival, when Dylan played an electric set to an audience who expected a different style of show. After Dylan performed, the displeased crowd began to empty from the venue, and Lyman retook the stage to play for 20 minutes on a harmonica. Sometime between then and 1967, Dylan wrote “All Along the Watchtower.”
Two years after the festival, in 1966, Lyman, who’d moved to Boston in 1963, started a cult near the “Watchtower” of this trail, Fort Hill Tower. Like other charismatic cult leaders such as his more murderous contemporary Charles Manson, Lyman was able to draw people to him and manipulate them using sex, isolation, and music, topped off with healthy doses of LSD. When not being actually-not-hippies in the Fort Hill neighborhood, the Family was out selling a newspaper called Avatar, which got them into legal issues while supposedly expanded the cult message. As the 70s approached, bank robberies and assaults tied to the Lyman Family followed. Lyman supposedly died in 1978, though no death certificate was ever produced. Family members eventually founded a construction company, which may or may not exist today in Boston. Coverage of the Lyman Family as a cult began in the 1970s and has continued into 2019.
As a person studying information science, ol’ Do Me (Re) Decimal has an interest in communities of practice, and occasionally argues on trail that the hash, which is not-not-not-a-cult, as well groups like the Lyman Family that are actually-freaking-cults, are also communities of practice. Do Me heard of Lyman in a book ostensibly about Van Morrison’s album, Astral Weeks. After reading the work last year while spending a month convalescing at Buttler’s house, then discovering upon moving to Jamaica Plain that the site of the Lyman Family’s intrigues near the Fort Hill
“Watchtower” were within hashing distance from Nira Rock, Do Me began r*nning stairs and plotting a route. Thus a trail was conceived, haphazardly, but with references, for this not-a-cult-but-perhaps-a-community-of-practice.
Brennan, J. (2018). Van Morrison: Astral Weeks, Movement and Murder. Disgraceland (podcast).
Felton, D. (1971). The Lyman family's holy siege of America. Rolling Stone.
Turner, G. (2019). My childhood in a cult. The New Yorker.
Walsh, R. H. (2018). Astral Weeks: A Secret History of 1968. Penguin.