PHHH #868.4

Date: 2/17/02

Weather: Dry and sunny in a late wintry way
Venue: Fields between 571 and the Hightstown Bypass
Set by: Marcia Mar--no, that was Natural Born Lesbian
Time: 45 minutes

Hashers: Ouipee, Hand Solo, Steve the PU student (Tyler?), Natural Bor--no, damn it all, 
that was Marcia Marcia Marcia!, Hey YO! Paully, Sweet Tea, and Weatherman. 

Seen cruising on the Princeton-Hightstown Road and eating Grace and Heather's Valentine's 
Day cupcakes at the On-In: Juicy 

Not seen at the start, on-in, or parking lot by NLB's aparment: the future Mrs. Lesbian 
or that's Mr. Lesbian to you, Jim.




A la Recherche du Hash Perdu; or, Have You Seen These Men?
[Image]   [Image]

    What pull--for certainly the wind was not strong enough to push--brought Weatherman 
back, he who is written up in the spotty archives of 1990 as "Rahul," perhaps an old 
friend of Jorge's, back of r. 87 Prospect where he was found by Wepee, Swee tee, and 
Steve Nonorgostudent; perhaps the wind carried the siren call Rrrr Uuuuuuu? to the drawing 
room of his comfortable university-owned abode on Murray Place, a sound that echoed deep, 
ineffable, indefinable, and wondrously irritating into a mind otherwise obsessed with a 
year seeking the song of Hodge Road integrals and degenerate contributions to the Llloda 
equation and the Gromit-Witless theory of the quahogomology of blow-ups of the P3 and 
vituperative geometry--or perhaps not: but there he was, back after 12 years in virtual 
Euclidean space exile with the moronic wankers of the Boston Hash and the blissed-out 
hashers of the canyon (who recognizes the reference?) in El Ay, a bit uncertain with the 
new faces; neither Genghis Kahne, Dogshrinker, Hashorne, Geezer nor that Fancy Reptile 
professor were to be seen, but Weatherman seemed reassured once the pack struck north over 
craftily marked fields absent of shiggy that, yes, he could come back, find peace shouting 
On ON! while gambolling across the fields of the Plainsboro Junkers and Shiseido Junishi 
and perhaps, were he good and devoted and lacking a life that he might enjoy a bit of 
Piels with Geezer who was old twelve hundred years ago and spot the LRF basking 'neath the 
shiggy of some thorn-encrusted rock; and, were he to mind his tongue and stand straight, 
participate on a set by the Cuban Assassin--a name unknown to the Weatherman, but one that 
for some unfathomable reason, ran a chill down his spine despite the sunlight; for the 
moment however, he took in a linearly shitty hash set by Natural Born Lesbian, who promised
"no loops this time" and sent the pack due north, notwithstanding some checkmarks that 
avoided both shiggy per request of Deviant Honked who didn't come back anyway and right 
angles while crisscrossing the Princeton-Hightstown Road, only to conclude in the cyclopean
tracks of the Hound from Hell, the Hound of the Baskin-Robbins, the dawg with the paws of 
an overfed wolverine, until the pack found the cooler nestled in a secluded glen of piney 
woods behind a strip mall; and there, among the malodorous leftovers of Lorraine's 
festering quiche and the devil's moldy eggs from Paully's International Night party 3 weeks 
ago, Weatherman knew that this was where he belonged, dribbling the lumpy remains of the 
Lesbian's forgettably cheap beer on his Yale sweatshirt to conclude the down-down of his 
return.