If a keg falls in the woods, but no one hears it, we’re taking it
One of the most exciting things that can happen to a growing boy is going to a keg party in the woods. Oh what good times the kids have, drinking alcohol, and having sex on each other, and watching out for cops, and falling down but probably getting back up at some point unless they’re dead. Hey, it happens.
Some of the fondest memories that I can vaguely recall happened at a keg party in the woods, I think. Listen, I’m not trying to promote underage drinking, so calm down. I’m just acknowledging that it happens all the time, as it has happened since Adam held Eve upside down for her first keg stand. That’s love. Don’t fear it, embrace it.
We used to have keg parties down at a spot called Millers Place. It was a rock pit just a couple of hundred yards through the woods from a cemetery. There was a big fire pit in the middle of two rock hills on either side. It was a great spot for teenage tomfoolery. Sadly it doesn’t exist anymore. It’s now part of a fancy private golf course. Every time I’m around the old neighborhood I think about going out there and sitting on the golf course at night and light a fire, crank Metallica’s “Master of Puppets“, smoke Marlboros and drink So-Mo-Dew-Co’s.(That’s Southern Comfort and Mountain Dew, but you knew that, right dear beautiful reader?) Unfortunately that would be illegal according to the groundskeeper, and the police. I’m a little sad to know that Miller’s Place is not being enjoyed by younger generations of awesomely cool kids doing awesomely stupid things.
There was always a palpable excitement whenever word got out about a kegger, leading to numerous questions. What should I wear? Will there be sluts there? Should I drink my face off? Who’s getting the keg? Do we have a buyer lined up or are 15 of us going to stand in front of the package store and accost every “cool” person that pulls in? Who’s carrying the keg out to the woods? Where’s the tap? What do you mean you don’t know? Who’s running this shitshow? Should we pour a gallon of gas on top of the wood to light the bonfire? A half-gallon? Just a cup? That doesn’t seem like enough gas, let’s go with the gallon. Woah, that was way too much gas, Crosby almost blew up. Write that down for future reference, just a half cup will do.
Which way do I run if the cops show up?
Running away from the police in the woods is a right of passage that all unruly children should get to experience at least once before they go to lock-up, or juvie, or boot camp, or whatever correctional program they’re heading to. Most of my advanced evasive maneuvers were learned from running through the woods, clutching onto whatever concoction was on tap that night and giggling like a schoolgirl. A handsome schoolgirl. You really should see me barrel-roll.
I also have this move where I actually become part of the forest, where my skin takes on the colors of my environment. It’s breathtaking. I’m not saying I’m magic, I’m saying I’m magical. There’s a difference. A slight difference. Okay it’s the same.
I have found that one of the easiest and most effective ways to run from the police is to just fall down and stay there. Which really plays to your strengths when you are having a hard time standing up anyway. Just don’t keep screaming “Take me down to the Paradise City where the grass is green and the girls are pretty”, over and over again while you’re lying there.
You’re supposed to be hiding, so cut the shit, kid.
Inevitably a fist fight would break out because it was the 80’s and every other fucktard wasn’t carrying a gun to shoot you in your sweet pretty face when you’re not looking, like today. So two dudes would square off, with little to no respect for the Marquess of Queensberry rules. There would be hair pulling and eye gouging and occasionally some biting. Sorry about that, apologies all around.. Karate stances would be assumed. Name calling would commence forthwith. The whorish behavior of the combatants respective mothers would be discussed loudly, as well as the outlandish sexual proclivities of the gladiators themselves. Someone would make that fake punch shoulder move. (Two for flinching) Eventually it would devolve into a wrestling match. Then someone would finally break it up and everyone would shake hands and laugh about how stupid the whole thing was. Then we would go back to partying and talking about how we would stay young and beautiful and best friends forever.
At least that’s how I remember it, but it’s been awhile.
Bill McMorrow 
This is an in-your-face, stream of conscience, masterpiece. It took me down so many different dirt roads still clinging for life to my memory that I had to read it twice. And of course I know what a So-Mo-Dew-Co is. You mean, there’s someone out there who doesn’t? That’s heartbreaking.
Hahaha, Stacie. Thank you very much. Oh to be young and awesome again!
I missed so much fun being a goody-goody. 🙂 Your blog is so clever. I love reading it.
Thanks, I really appreciate you taking time to read it. And goody-goodies are cool too.
I remember parts, the early parts, of some of those parties. The memories get a lot fuzzzier as the evening progressed. Wonder why.
It helps when people remind you what happened. Sometimes. Other times not so much. I did what? Thanks for checking it out.
If I may be so bold as to point out a few areas that you may have missed – all en route to the aforementioned Miller’s place.
The pond. The pond was sort of a rest area between the highway of The Neighborhood and Millers place – albeit without the homosexual deviance you find at some of the rest areas. The pond was our staging area. Another staging area was just beyond the pond, down the path a bit. In the unlikely event that there were some people who didn’t want to smoke a joint, mainly due to the fact that they were already too stoned but every so often someone just didn’t want to, they’d stay at the pond. Down the path a bit was the fort, this is where the hardcore smoking of the fatties took place. Wasn’t the fort just a plank of wood nailed to 4 convieniently placed trees? Winterfell it was not.
After we all got our glow on, the call would go out that Morsie was there with our keg, and those who were at the pond met those at the fort, exchanging pleasantries and then we’d all make our way through the cemetary to Miller’s place.
I think that’s how it went. I was pretty stoned.
Ummm, did you just rewrite my blog fucker?
I meant no disrespect
Hahaha, some taken.
Lol good times
Very good, Sister.
[…] Now, my mother had been gone for a couple of years when I decided to grow my hair. My father was against the long hair from the get go. He was always a fan of the classic crew cut in the summertime and a boys regular in the wintertime. When I told him “No, I shan’t be getting my hair cut this month, Father. I’m going to grow it long in the style of Ozzy Osbourne”, he was more than a little reluctant. He told me that he would kick me out of the house and I could live on the streets like a common vagabond if I didn’t get my hair cut. But luckily for me, this was also the period in time where he was pretty much always drunk, so he usually didn’t remember that he was mad at me about my long hair. Good times! This went on for a while. Dad would give me some folding money to “go get that fucking mop chopped” and I would go out and spend it on a pint of Jack Daniels or Southern Comfort and a pack of Marlboro box. Or maybe a stick of the reefer weeds all the kids were talking about. Hey, it’s only teenage wasteland. […]