Southern California is filled with contradictions and Orange County is rife with such cultural dichotomy. For the last 23 years, a hardy band of party lovin', beer swillin', and defiant defenders of a unique form of freedom of speech, have gathered at the edge of the railroad tracks which slice through the butt cheeks of up-scale, up-tight Laguna Niguel. Each year, the weekend after 4th of July, this hedonistic crew salutes the American Railroadmen in true ribald fashion. As either the north bound or south bound train rumbles by, a hundred yards or more of glistening gluteus maximus are bared to the passing passenger train.

There were a dozen or more passing trains on this particular afternoon, so there was plenty of opportunity for everyone to give the engineer a happy one-eyed wink. There are a number of stories about this event, most of them become greater bullshit as the afternoon wears on. There is some agreement that the normal 85 MPH pace of the train is slowed to 25 for this particular event. Some say the train staff raffle off who gets duty that day. I have it on good authority (someone not quite as drunk as myself) that once a sheriff stopped by to admonish the boisterous crowd just as the train came by. Glancing up to the train, he spotted a significant number of passengers pressing their butt flesh against the train's windows. Apparently he just shook his head and left.

There are larger forces at work here. Affectionately referred to as the "Mooning of Amtrack," this annual event has become a veritable cornucopia of bemused Bermuda shorted insurance salesmen, hard-core bearded bikers, Sunday afternoon sleaze-cruisers, bikini-clad nymphets, slap-happy heifers in serious need of industrial sized halter tops, out-of-their-element suds slurping surfers, lecherous lens toting photo-nerds, gape-mouthed goons, old scruffy duffers and a few early-wrinkled bleach-blonded Orange County matrons who just couldn't get enough of it all. I met Laura & Billy and Bob & Carolyn, and a number of other good-hearted bikers. I talked to some people who were clearly out of their element and wore a bemused and stunned expression all day, as if they had just been dropped off by a UFO mother-ship. And everyone seeming to enjoy each other's company.

Ron Stewart, president of the Orange County Assholes (one of the members made sure I understood that this is not an official chartered motorcycle club, but rather a group of people that like to have fun and ride bikes), had invited me to come to the event. Unfortunately, a last minute misunderstanding with the owner of the property kept the O. C. Assholes from selling their T-shirts, the proceeds of which were to go to the Fred Jordan ministries, a charity for skid row kids. The kids were the only real losers. Speaking of T-shirts, a black van with KROQ painted in orange letters on the side, skulked up and down Camino Capistrano occasionally flinging out T-shirts to the sweltering crowd.

One knot of interest surrounded the lady who would felt-tip illustrate your butt for $5. This became an ogler's paradise. Many a young lad and lass bared ass for the felt-tip wielding Picasso-ess. The participants, having shed their pants and inhibitions, were often slow to straighten up their drawers, much to the delight of the applauding crowd.

The Mud's Away Saloon was doing jam-packed business, the healthy young ladies behind the bar were pouring drinks with both hands. The Saloon was jammed to the gunwales with sweaty customers. It's a good thing the lady bartenders were clad in bikinis, else they may have gotten faint. I know I almost fainted (with lust?) when I had to get close enough to her to scream my order. There was still a lingering wiff of her musk dancing on my nose after she slapped a cold Bud in my fist.

By 2:00, with the sun cookin' my skull, I had mooned, drank, and talked my self into 'hotter than a two-pecker-ed billy goat' July hallucinating haze. The fun was still goin'. The crowd was looser. The butt mooning and occasional tit flashing was more lingering. My designated-driver had had about enough.

We poured into his car, turned the A/C on full-blast and sailed up the 5 Freeway, careening past SUV's loaded with glum young yuppie families headed for some plastic, canned form of entertainment venue that assured them that nothing untoward would taint their naïve idea of their Orange County paradise. Little did they know that right in the middle of their calm, clammy Republican nirvana, a crowd of beer swilling stalwarts were racing toward the chain link fence, shouting, "Drop trou', here comes the train!"

--Nuttboy