This sixty-fourth hunt has become a real doozy,
With mind-bending clues that’re making me woozy.
So here I’ve decided to take a short break,
And recap exactly what we have at stake.

“More reprise“—hey look, a musical term!
Perhaps that could be this year’s little germ.
Might the red herrings be musically-based?
Or could that idea itself be misplaced?

This “famous ‘Happy Holidays’ pair”—
Is it Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire?
Or perhaps Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé?
Or maybe Ryan Suter and Zach Parisé?

I haven’t the foggiest clue on all that,
So home I remain—here on my butt sat.

“Honey,” could be inside what it’s hidden,
But ‘winter-allowed’ and ‘summer-forbidden’?
What could that mean? I’m not really sure.
Skate, ski, sled, shovel, or cast a two-lure?
Or maybe just simply walk out on the ice?
This hunt’s definitely got me thinking twice.

And these “ups and downs,” are they geographic?
Or maybe just purely related to traffic:
The Upper and Lower editions of Afton!
Again? Really? Do you think it’ll happen?

It was at Battle Creek only two years ago;
But look back to ’01 and ’03 in Como!
The pattern is right: it’s now ten years later.
I know it’s a stretch, but please don’t be a hater.

The “yellow mashed rice” thing’s been noodled to death.
‘Red Bull Crashed Ice?’—now, don’t hold your breath.
Go down to the site; you’ll get the heave-ho.
‘Below Crashed Ice’ rhymes much better, y’know.
South of the spot where they’re running the race?
Downhill somewhere, in a lower place?

Some folks might say it’s too early, not yet,
But one thing’s for certain: the puck ain’t on the ‘net.
The turkeys are out in full force on the board,
And important clues are remaining ignored.
They’re gobbling up the red herrings like gulls,
And trolling, and trolling, and trolling for lulz.

Again the hunt has got us all thinking ‘outside the box’:
So venture far, and venture wide, and wear your warmest socks.

Clue the sixth is thickly veiled, obscured in mystery,
But seems to me it’s telling us dig back through history:
Is the medallion really hidden at good ol’ Crosby Park?
Buried under some old piece of rotten, dead tree bark?

Or could it be that yet another spot’s home to the puck?
Keep steady, safe and warm, and may Boreas bring you luck.

felix venatio

Heydinger sums up his feelings on my escaping Ballcap Bet ignominy for a third straight year:

He is like an insane and modern Tantalus—but we are left in bonds, affixed at once by fits of anticipation and stolid confusion.

He slips out through the back door: the jewels are missing. We are bamboozled. Release the hounds. Stop the trains. Mothers lock up your daughters. There is a phantom on the loose. Check everywhere, even the fleecy wool of the sheep. We are bewildered. He was just here. Cornered. Trapped. Up against the cliff: the defensive position of a badger.

Then? Gone. Disappeared like smoke; absorbed into the very air itself. And he skips along down the road. A modern day spirit runner. Melting into the bends of the trail. Taking his ease in the sun. The seeming freedom of economy and movement, the same grace and passage of Hermes.

…and it gets better.