These are the collected memories of my spent and misspent youth. Names have been changed to both protect the innocent and to subvert any statutes of limitations that may still apply. I will also take liberties with the truth as in who did what, or maybe combine a couple of stories together that really didn’t happen together. Such is the nature of a memoir. I am seeking to entertain, not write a documentary. Hope you enjoy.
Hot Buns and Cold Gravel
I don’t know how far back mooning goes, but I can assure you that it reached an artistic peak in the spring of 1983. I know because me and my pale pudgy cheeks were there.
We grew up with a huge advantage in the mooning arts compared to today’s youth. We had 70’s family cars and farm trucks. Big bench seats, wide windows, loud horns, tailgates and truck beds. We also did not have cell phones with cameras or seat belt laws. Both of which have led to a sad decline in mobile mooning. With a little bit of practice, one could hoist your ass to the window and sit on the edge while travelling in less than 5 seconds, then get your pants back on and be in the seat in another 5. Deed done, evidence covered up. All the risk was tied up in the time of exposure. Gas was cheap, the weather was good and we had a lot of time to kill. So, finding targets and shooting the moon became one of our regular activities. It was fun, but in order to really achieve, we had to do something new.
The “gang” at this time was at its peak. We were known as the Alphonse gang, or the Alphonse racing team. Yes, we did have a race car and it was raced. That is another story. There were the three of us from the Beer Throne story, Hymie, Cisco and I as well as a cast of characters. Boss, Buef, Frito, Beave, rounded out the guilty. There were maybe 4 others that were implicated, but we were the basic gang. 7, much like the deadly sins. In retrospect that analogy probably makes me “gluttony”, though we all could qualify for “lust”. We were seniors, we had two months of school and were getting the most out of it.
The gang found out about a “party” that one of the church youth groups was having at a house in the country. Oddly enough, none of us were members of this (or any) church youth group, but we knew most of the kids that would be there. In fact, a couple of the girls had been foolish enough to date some of us. I only hope that the youth group helped them to wash that bit of sin from their souls. That night we resolved to go out there and do something. When you are 18 that constitutes a meticulous plan.
I got to use my mom’s full size Blazer that night. All in all, they are not as useful as they seem, but still we could fit a lot of people in it. We met out at Buef’s and piled into the Blazer. We had all 7 of us, it was a tight fit. A couple of miles out on Wolf’s Crossing, then right on the road that had been just freshly graveled. As we drove past the house a couple of times, we saw that the party was outside in the large front yard. Good sign. We stopped and honked. A couple of girls came out to talk to us, but they were quickly called back in by the parents. The parents also yelled at us to leave. We rolled down the road and around the corner. I opened up the tailgate to the Blazer and we managed to fit 5 of us on it, each holding onto the flimsy roof rack. One driving and one on shotgun. I was on the tailgate. We turned back around and headed down to the party, with the horn blaring as loud as possible. The crowd moved towards the street just in time to get a 12 bun salute – two sticking out of the passenger window and 10 on the tailgate. We were laughing, the crowd was laughing, possibly the greatest mooning event of the year. I’m not sure what I would think if I saw 5 guys on the tailgate of a Blazer with their pants around their ankles today, but that day it was magic. Funny thing though, there are not that many places to get a good handhold on the back of a Blazer. Another funny thing, is that gravel roads out in the country can be deceptively bumpy. Boss was the first to slip. I felt his hand brush my shoulder just as he let out an “Oh shiiiiiit!”. Then we hit the bump and two more Mooners hit the gravel. I held on, but fell to the floor and yelled to stop the truck. I looked back and Boss was waddling towards the truck, bruised, bloodied, and desperately trying to get his pants back up. Beave and Frito were pulling themselves out of the ditch, wary of ticks or chiggers. We ran out to grab Boss and headed home.
No broken bones, or even abraided netherbits. Boss had some impressive scratches on both ends, seeing as he rolled a bit after falling off. Beave and Frito had minor bumps. But what we all had was a story. The great moon of ’83.