By Scott Bowden
November 13, 2003
Dark Side of the Moondogs
Scott Bowden examines wrestling’s most fetching tag team
“Now, Scott, I’m gonna lay that chair shot in there. Try to keep your back straight.” I’m listening attentively as Larry Booker pulls me aside backstage at the Mid-South Coliseum in 1995 prior to the mat mayhem we’ll both soon be orchestrating for the usual 1,500 or so rabid fans in attendance. When Moondog Spot throws you a bone, you’d best pay attention.
Years ago, Booker had wrestled in the area as “Larry Latham,” teaming with Wayne Ferris (the eventual Honky Tonk Man) as the Blonde Bombers, with manager Sgt. Danny Davis. The Bombers had a good run as AWA Southern tag-team champions, which began in infamy in Tupelo, Mississippi, on June 15, 1979. Besides being known as the birthplace of Elvis Presley, Tupelo for years after the Bombers’ title win over Jerry Lawler and Bill Dundee conjured up visions of mustard-covered mayhem. Yes, the legendary Tupelo concession-stand brawl had it all.
After turning back challenges from such diverse teams as Hulk Hogan and Tommy Gilbert and The Freebirds, the duo traded the belts with Rick and Robert Gibson before dropping the titles for good to Hector Guerrero and Steve Regal on November 19, 1979.
Larry wouldn’t again have an impact on the Memphis tag-team scene until 1983, when he reappeared as Spot, one of the Moondogs, along with partner Rex (Randy Culley). Although the Moondog gimmick had been around for years, with Moondog (Lonnie) Mayne being the original, the Memphis gimmick can be traced to Capt. Lou Albano’s team who captured the WWF tag titles from Tony Garea and Rick Martel on March 17, 1981, in Allentown, Pa. Latham was called in for, um, Spot duty, on May 1, 1981, when the King character — grappler Sailor White — was put to sleep
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when White, a Canadian, was not allowed to enter the United States from Canada. The Apter mags ran a blurb that King had been hit by a car he was chasing; that wise old sage Matt Brock always got the scoop, didn’t he? (Unlike that young prick Eddie Ellner.)
Resembling nothing of his Blonde Bomber character of old, Spot was nevertheless recognized as Larry Latham by several longtime fans. With scraggly hair and beards, Spot and Rex wore tattered blue jeans and simple black boots to the ring, always carrying their trademark oversized, dinosaur-looking bones. Jimmy Hart, at the peak of his Memphis run, supposedly had brought the Dogs into the area to sic them on the Fabulous Ones, Steve Keirn and Stan Lane.
In one of their first TV appearances, Rex and Spot shredded the beautiful sequined jackets of the Fabs before using their big bones to bloody up the blonde babyfaces. It may not sound like much of an angle, but you have to understand that these jackets had been given to the Fabs by the godfather of Memphis wrestling himself, the Fabulous Jackie Fargo. As girls everywhere cried, a bloodied Keirn blurted out “We’re pissed!” on live TV — strong stuff for the day.
After taking their pride, the Dogs took their Southern tag belts the following Monday night. The feud later escalated when the Dogs used the ring ropes as a noose of sorts, trapping Keirn’s head between the top and middle strands. Keirn dangled between the two ropes gasping for air as the crowd reacted like Pavlov’s dogs at the sight of the near-death babyface. When some babyfaces from the back made the save and finally freed Keirn, his head snapped back in dramatic fashion as his limp body crashed onto the canvas — you just knew he was dead.
Alas, Keirn didn’t die, but he was deemed unable to wrestle the following Monday night. Back then, if a guy wasn’t able to come back and work the next week, the fans bought it as a legit injury. For years, fans had seen guys
take beatings for years and return next Monday ready for revenge. Since Keirn was “injured,” it was up to Fargo to come out of retirement to serve up some knuckle sandwiches and show those Dogs who was the alpha male of Memphis. After hitting the dogs with everything but the kitchen sink, Fargo and Lane called in Keirn from the back. Despite his neck injury, Keirn laid in some stiff-looking shots with a 2’ x 4’ on Rex, who was left to play dead. The Dogs then played up the injury angle, leaving to tour Puerto Rico.
The Dogs returned over the next few years, most notably working a hot program with Lawler and Jeff Jarrett in the early ’90s. By this time, Spike (Bill Smithson) had replaced Culley, who had moved on to such gimmicks as the masked Nightmare in Mid-South and as the original Smash from Demolition in the WWF. (But like Larry/Spot years before in Memphis, Culley was recognized by far too many fans and was dropped from the Demo gimmick in favor of new arrival Barry Darsow, who would later become the Repo Man.)
With Hart long gone, the Dogs had such masters as Ronnie Lotz and Richard Lee, the latter whom penned a song about his canines from the moon:
You’d better watch out for the Moondogs
Or you’ll meet your maker tonight.
Sound advice.
Never exactly the best athletes, the Dogs were now especially limited to brawling, administering and taking the stiffest chair shots in the business. That style suited Memphis fans just fine; however, the TV job boys weren’t exactly thrilled. By the time the Moondog litter produced Splat in 1995, the young pup and Spot were beating the hell out of TV jobbers. One Saturday morning, jobber Charlie Laird (who I often referred to on the air as “Charlie Lard”) learned he was working the Moondogs in a squash match and walked out on the promotion, sneaking out the back door like a scolded dog after Eddie Marlin questioned his manhood in front of the boys.
Now looking a lot like Santa Clause, Larry was one of the first who recognized my talent as a finish guy. At first, he’d find me backstage and privately ask for advice on a finish. When it came time to go over it in front of the boys, he’d give them the same finish to the match as I suggested. He did this knowing that some of the other boys might not appreciate a young punk like me coming up with the finish. Eventually, Larry would ask in the company of other boys, “What do you think, Scott?” Before long I was helping Lawler come up with finishes and angles, which didn’t exactly thrill booker Randy Hales.
After another heel run, the Moondogs were turned babyfaces to feud with my team of Tommy Rich and Buddy Landell in 1995. To set up a bout for the following Monday — a Chair-a-Mania match, in which chairs would be scattered about the ring for anyone to use — the Dogs were booked to dish out a particularly brutal beating to Rich, Landell and … me.
When I interfere to save Rich from being pinned, Splat knocks me to my knees. Rising to my feet — and keeping my back as straight as possible — Larry nails me with a chair shot that sounds like a gun going off. Amazingly enough, it didn’t hurt. At least, not until I woke up the next morning.
During next week’s Chair-a-Mania, I’m scheduled to get clobbered at the beginning of Chair-a-Mania and crawl to the back. This time, however, Larry wants to change things up, y’know, for “the people.” (The Memphis boys rarely called the fans “marks.” It was always “the people.” And scary people they could be.) Instead, I’d take this shot on the head. When I ask how I should protect myself this time, Larry looks me in the eye and laughs: “You’re better off not putting your hands up to block it — just close your eyes and take it.” Yeah, easy for him to say. (I’ll bet Mick Foley disagrees with that logic as well in hindsight.) Besides, I seem to recall a certain Moondog Spot using his paws to block all those chair shots from Fargo and Lane more than 10 years ago. When I mention this, he responds: “Yeah, and it looked like shit, didn’t it?” So, I listened to Larry: I took the shot, and he didn’t kill me. In accordance with the boys’ philosophy: More important than my head still being attached, it looked good on TV. For the people. That old Dog had taught me another trick of the trade.
