The Ides of March = BAD. Thanks to Bill Shakespeare, the Ides of March have taken on a sinister connotation since he penned The Tragedy of Julius Caesar. In fact, the only person who had a really bad day on the Ides of March was Jules (as he was known to his friends).
The Ides of March = GOOD. That was the unanimous verdict of the 30+ souls who celebrated the Ides of March by going “Down the Rabbit Hole.” We were led on the journey to Wonderland by, in their order of appearance with shots in hand, Cherry “White Rabbit” Peddler, Bitch “Caterpillar” Ditcher, Straight in the “Cheshire Cat” Navy, Vagina “Madhatter” Repellent, 2 Good “Queen of Hearts” 2 Swallow, and Pounding my “Alice” Parts. All in costumes that would have had Edith Head in stitches (but that’s a story for another day).
‘Twas a blustery, cold morning, and parking places rare, as the throng in the Shaw Dog Park grew from a measly dozen to 30+ as the starting time approached.
The Hares were properly blessed by our very own Fister Roboto while the growing pack sought a friend who would buffer the wind while all sought an occasional ray of sunshine. Allowing extra time for the parking challenged to arrive, albeit at seemingly random time, the pack was released from the stockade. Alas, instead of the leisurely pace which tradition dictates, some b*****ds bolted like young colts from the starting gate, too fast for their numbers to be taken. And thus began a pattern to be repeated often during the day where miscreants conducted themselves in a manner that deserved a violation at the circle but were not identifiable so that they could be properly honored.
The trail took us, happily weaving down sidewalks, up alleys, across streets, repeat, repeat, repeat, etc., etc., etc. What started as a sprint evolved for many to a run, jog, saunter, shuffle, and finally stumble to the end. But kudos to the Hares for incorporating a real rabbit hole (the Metro) into the philosophical rabbit holes created by the confluence of the ambiance of their costumes, the twisty-turny run, and the happy imbibing of adult beverages at the shot checks.
Yes, there were happy reprieves at six shot checks to rehydrate, catch one’s breath, take off a layer or put one on as the change in temperature/sunlight dictated, get directions (happily wrong, or purposefully misleading, by the “White Rabbit” and “Caterpillar”), and proceed on.
The below representation, done by longhand because to be done otherwise would subject one to a claim of “technology!,” sayeth the Luddites, shows where the trail went, all 10.59 miles of it. For those who did not jog whilst on the 2.35 mi. Metro leg, the trail was only 8.24 miles.
But finally in, to a gathering of the throng in a non-descript parking lot (perfect), surrounded by coolers of cold beer, the back of a SUV opened to a plethora of aperitifs, digestives, nibbles and the masterpiece, homemade tarts by 2 Good 2 Swallow.
The RA pro tem, Saigon Sally, did a typically masterful job of celebrating the misdeeds of the Hares, and various other violators, too many for a temporary scribe to note without the use of technology, but they know who they were. Alas, some slipped through the grasp of the RA pro tem, for they were not even brought to his attention. Those errors will be corrected here.
Violations that should have been:
Grinding Nemo solved six checks, five in a row, thus tying his record for the number he solved while setting a trail;
Saigon Sally and two other misfits who became just a blur for sprinting up the second to the longest escalator in the Metro system. To their credit, they continued to talk about doing it from the bottom until they were half-way up and then started running, but still . . . . ;
The Hares, for thinking that seven shot checks, albeit delightful, would make up for 8.24 miles of sidewalks, streets and alleys;
Just Rob, a virgin, for leading the DFL pack in to safety;
Camo Sutra, for three near-death experiences; (1) challenged by a street person of unknown and unknowable gender to a spitting contest, (2) a near-takedown by a car, and (3) going home with Fister;
Saigon Sally, for being too adroit, sophisticated and urbane for us ne’er-do-wells as he prepares to leave our shores for the left coast; and
Gutter Balls, for banging his head of the table at the OnOnAfter and not noticing.
The day went from a cold morning jaunt, to a warmer afternoon of circling and rehydration, then a stroll over to the Wonderland Ballroom for brunch, and a few beers and stories, then a few more beers, and then there were four, who stumbled out into the dark of night. An absolutely wonderful way to waste a day.
Yours in the Hash,
Queen of the Jungle