It was a pleasant end of the summer night as we met at dusk on the patio of Mactarnahans taproom in NW portland to partake in the 2X2 hash hared by our beloved Tard Core and Flaming Hetero. The pack, and perhaps even the hares, were already tipsy off the $2 pints as the last of us arrived on the scene. The soreness and lethargy that ensued after multiple days in a row of hashing, as well as the draw of outrageously cheap microbrews, stalled the hares departure to 7:13. Fifteen minutes later we were off at last, the pack adorned in a multitude of colored tutus and myself donning the hash shit once again.
We followed flour across some train tracks of the industrial area to the head of a shiggy trail that lead us into the great bosom of forest park, where we jumped cyclone fences and climbed steep slopes full of stinging nettles in our steadfast quest for beer. Marked with an old stumptown pirate flag, we unearthed a great treasure: bags of delicious microbrews! Though some of us who are too old to sport drink multiple nights in a row or are trying to downplay our alcoholism just stuck to ye olde dihydrogen oxide. Following some hash flash, imbibing, and hearing Angry Inch bitch repeatedly about his “poison oak” rash, it was time to proceed on into the pitch black. After being duped by false trail and waiting for half minds like myself who didn’t bring headlamps (whoops), we were on-on once again and found ourselves totally lost or accidentally short-cutting on Leif Erickson. Discovering true trail at last, we met a better late than never lampless Cock Jaw
on the Wild Cherry trail, and the FRBs foraged ahead down to the winding, seemingly endless wildwood trail sharing headlamps all the way (thanks Cock Model!). That hot new bimbo just Erica took a ridiculous spill, as did myself and at least two other people that I know of. After 2X2 hours, we were shat forth from the womb of the Aspen Trail to be lovingly welcomed into the world by a car full of beer, waters and homemade cookies.
This is when shit got really interesting. As we loitered about the mouth of the trail, drinking and talking amongst oursleves, an Acura pulled up bumpin’ some 90s cuts and stopped dead in the road. After what appeared to be a confrontation with a concerned citizen about our hashing debauchery, I see a bottle of expensive whiskey being handed off to a bimbo by the owner of said Acura! The unidentified visitor then pulled over and got out of his still running car to come stumbling over to the group, obviously intoxicated. Once it was apparent that this well dressed but slightly disheveled gentleman wasn’t the head of some neigborhood watch and rather just wanted to party, a few of us took advantage of the source of music and created a dance off in the street. Party in my Crack, Hareola, Burning Feeling, myself, and a few others shook our booties and grinded up on the Acura with joy and abandon while we waited for the DFLs. And waited. And waited…
When Stink Finger and Just Zac didn’t show up, it became an actual concern that something terrible may have happened in the bowels of the forest. Also of concern was this drunk trail virgin who was clearly well over the legal limit to drive. Considering it was already 9:20 and we were still balls deep in the trail waiting for the last hashers to emerge, we decided to exercise some precaution and tried to convince old Johnny boy to let me (the sober one) drive his car with some hashers and himself back to Mactarnahans. He made a futile attempt to refuse, but was quickly overcome by our charisma and charm and hence gave in to our admonishment that he not drive. So in squeezed Party, Burning, just Simon, and Barney Balls like clowns into the back of the sports car, with drunkey magee riding shotgun and PMD at the wheel.
After two blocks he yells “there’s my house!” and waved haphazardly towards a ballin’ hillside home. After confirming that it was indeed his house and that he had booze to share, we accompanied him back to his crib and found ourselves gazing in awe and wonder at the many framed pictures of himself playing bass guitar with the likes of BB King, John Lee Hooker, and other famous musicians. Who was this guy!? Someone named John Mazako (spell?). We tried to get him to play one of his bass guitars for us while I sang, but after hearing him slurr a slew of protests we depicted he was gun shy and only got one verse of Killing Me Softly (with his dong) out of him. Following our enlightenment that this may be the most famous trail virgin ever to be picked up (and albeit the most wildly innappropriate and obnoxiously innebriated), we decided he was too valuable to leave drunk and alone at his soon to be repossesed-by-the-bank home. As Burning and I pondered what
to do about meeting up with the rest of the pack, Party in My Crack thought that shots of Monopolowa vodka seemed in order, and thus continued this mans drunken tirade.
We all ended up piling back in his car and driving back to Mactarnahans, making it just in time for religion, where 7 delicious appetizers and more microbrews were being feasted upon by all. Party and John enjoyed finishing off almost the entire vodka bottle they had brought, as if they needed more. John was called up for an honorary down down beer, but the poor fool just couldn’t get it together and kept trying to drink before it was allowed. He also exclaimed that “there isn’t enough beer” in the sacred vessel, and donations were given to satisfy his insatiable thirst. As virgins and visitors were called up, he kept speaking out of turn saying, “I just can’t believe you fuckin people really exist!” We mourned the recent passing of a longtime hasher named Himalaya, wished Prickly Puss happy birthday, and were scolded by our hare Tard Core for whoever brought Mikes Hard Lemonade onto the premise. Really? Mikes hard lemonade? When there is $2 micros?
Disgraceful. Oh, and rude.
Oddly enough there weren’t many good crimes on trail, save for a few
minor husband and wife disputes between you know who, a couple of false accusations, and some other unmemorable hearsay. I turned what started out as a crime of stealing a car on trail into an honor down down for preventing a belligerent person from operating a vehicle. Thus, our RA said it was up to me who was to recieve the hash shit since I’d had the damn thing for 3 weeks. I thought it was a fine time to give Party in my Crack the hash shit since a) he was totally wasted and encouraged John to keep drinking dispite nearly reaching alcohol poisoning, b) for using technology on trail, c) he’s never had it before, and most importantly d) because I said so. He was pissed and complained for a good 30 minutes so I felt satisfied that I’d made the right choice.
Religion ended at 1030, and people were still hanging out and drinking- oblivious to the fact that the brewery was closed. Everyone seemed in good spirits asthe eve cam to an end. All in all it was a shitty trail with some exciting encounters, good weather, great costumes, and a kick ass deal on food and drink brought to you by Tard Core and Flaming Hetero. Honor to all!
Pump Me Dry