A giant seahorse from the turbulent waves of gas and dust in this stunning infrared light image. The result is a rather ethereal and fragile-looking structure, made of delicate folds of gas — very different to the nebula’s appearance in visible light.
The visitation of Jupiter Pluvius can not debar roughly 30 hashers from anchored Hash event at regular time of 3 PM and no walkers on account of having to be runners under the yoke of downpour. More rainy, more amusive, isn’t it? Seething raindrops heavily come upon the torso can sense the overt existence of gravity, a kind of massage from Heaven, just have to squint our eyes to hunt high and low the marks on the sloppy trail in way of flying by the seat of one’s pants, as a matter of fact, all marks have been washed away by the rainwater ealier, incarnate hare as the alive mark ushers to the sloughy trail all round, who’s Bearded Clam and the clouds gathered dark.
So to say, rattling pass the streets and streets with a tumult of hasher’s screams and spatters from the puddles, the folks under the shelters along the trail racily clap eyes on the hashers with their inquisitive remarks. Why not to be wet of all mucksweat and rainwater-soaked as the hashers are! bracing frame of mind is nothing short of beggar description, to call it cool is out of hashers’s subsolar depth, when gullywasher blears the eyes, co-hare Horny On Top tallyhoes with excitement by fits and starts, “Beijing! We’re coming!” “On On!”, which points the hashers to splash their way to get to the first beer stop, notwithstanding, where the hashers can take a breath and bat the breeze under the long cornice of a house on the curb-corner for 20 mins or so, raining cats and dogs turned into elephants and whales with roaring thunder and dendritic bolt nonstop, seems to penalize for somethings and betoken a holocene epoch, either cold beer or local liquor calms down the hashers, sauve Chewkacca fetches a sheaf of new black plastic trash bags as a cover for ladies quivering by the chilly wind. Just Alice takes the pictures on the hashers for an engram in the rain with hashers evermore. Abruptly, the rain stopped and the sky changed to be bright a bit. GM shouts decidedly, “Open Check!” in the melody of “Singing In The Rain”.
Just Assja as another hare first scuttles away to re-set the marks. Dry Hole, White Rubber, No Beer Required, visitors and novices tightly chase after the new sign till the hashers wade into an ecological garden redolent of agreeable petrichor from the plants and soil. The sodden puppy runs like split out of the rein to and fro vivaciously. At the time of seeking elusive mark, torrential rain comes to pass afresh makes the hashers sticking around thereabouts for a short time, verdant grass and luxuriant underwood and bloomy wild flowers as well as stray hashers altogether take in such the uncommon elemental ablution to one’s heart’s content, how psychedelic in getting lost pure and simple free of others disturbance for inner sun of the hashers! Caring hare retraces his steps to pick the hashers to crack out on the right track because the new marks all are gone again by the rainwater, across the traffic lights, through a bijou park, along the bare street, the roadside second beer stop entertains the hashers with beer and watermelon, just then the nimbus gives hashers the slip to bid fair to have a break, too. The tableau the puppy indispensably gobbles up sausages whets the appetite of hashers. Horny On Top darts away for making the novel marks, still sprinkles though.
Fording through the streets, perpendicular to long lane, being not in position to find clear-cut mark any more that mischievous rainwater rinsed them off anew. The hashers must have to toe the line of the call from other hares to hit the home. The stopwatch indicates a matter of 12K for entire journey. The circle rite takes place at the background close to the reserved restaurant, a plush one, GM Comes On Vacation does the honors of the orgiastic circle. Beyond suspicion, to carouse for the hares’s repetitive task agianst the capricious celestial body. Dry Hole’s organic sound system’s turned on melodic Hash featured songs towards the counterparts. Pickle Boy co-works with Chewkacaa as Beer B*tch to service the hashers. Two comelaters but without hash name come to join the circle. Ho! Up the hashers cheer! Out the laughters burst! Along the songs drift! Perchance Hughie needs to pant as well by holding up all rainfall to tranquilly blend in the joy of Hash circle. It lasts less than one hour. The net result is that GM Comes On Vacation like a trouper deduces two editions of 2/4th and 3/4th beats of Swing Low with echoing en masse hashers gesticulating the lyric choreographically.
Over the half of hashers linger for the muck-a-muck, and no mistake, yum-yum, above all, the interior is palatial and deluxe as if vaunting the skunk works of the luxury. The furnishings and tablewares are ritzy and arty. Wary Spermaid is prone to be voluble but still whispering. There’s a hasher’s bauble, a fancy-schmancy black cowhide ferule with concave carve of one ostentatious catchword, that is to say, “B**ch” on both sides. Wondering where it can be come in handy? Bibbing and wassailing convivially. Then Nut Pirate rings in and asks why he cannot spot the gathering point while he arrived at there in the afternoon. Hapless man, you missed this one. Ought to contrive to be earlier next week. Also unexpectedly, some young ladies remain with disparate thick emotion with tears, slumber, cry and horselaugh after boozing and mealing. It could be pertinent to motif of the day: Preference given to ladies’s tops being blown off. Is that so? Dona Nobis Pacem!