Catch Me If You Can

My mother was scheduled for a surgical procedure on Friday morning. I believe some form of HIPAA prevents me from getting into the details. If not, I’m in no position to press cases with my mother, as you will see.  

The afternoon before, we worked out the logistics. My sister had offered a ride for the 6:45am check-in time.  I drew the seemingly easy assignment of going to my mom’s house and letting the dog outside.  The timing worked well with my schedule.

My mother has had her dog for about a month.  She had been trying to adopt a rescue dog for months, but nothing had quite worked out.  She announced her intentions to take a break from the pursuit for a few months when Teddy came along.  Teddy is an eight-year-old Morkie with light brown hair.  He favors his Malteses side and has a larger structure than our family’s Morkie.  The timing was just right. My mother was elated.

Teddy moved in on the second day of the new year–the day after my mother’s birthday, and couldn’t have been a better present.  He and my mother became fast friends and best buddies, with Teddy acclimating immediately, ie, taking over the household.

One of the first things we discovered about Teddy was his energy, especially for an older dog. Ours is a total lapdog that does things according to his own schedule. And when in doubt, he’ll curl up on the sofa for a nap.  My mother has a lot of energy for her age, so it seemed like a good fit.  I hadn’t seen her that happy since her last grandchild was born.

Over the phone, my mother gave me specific directions on letting Teddy outside. At the moment, it seemed like overkill, though my mother is very detailed. While her backyard is fully fenced, she warned I’d need to keep him on a leash.  He’s good at finding gaps and will excuse himself on a whim, or to pursue a squirrel.  As we had snow on the ground from the previous weekend, I was also to wipe his paws with baby wipes once back inside.  In closing, my mother also apologized for the messiness of her house.  She always does this when I'm there while she’s away.  Usually, I don’t notice the difference.  You could eat off the bathroom floor, though she’d never allow it.

Friday was very cold.  It made no pretenses, an arctic air mass joining a leaden sky and bitter wind.  Given the way I felt, I’d planned on a light day.  I needed to run a few errands in the morning, then straighten up downstairs before retreating to the cozy upstairs loft to write.  

Society has a problem with sweatpants, and I’m just as guilty as the next person. The look has taken over to the extent that we now have dress and casual sweatpants. If I’m going to be out and doing something or seeing people, I will wear my nicer sweats and call them “joggers.”  If I plan on sitting on my ass all day, I have a drawer for my casual sweats.  Casual sweats are cheaper, larger, and less form-fitting.  Even paired with an expensive pair of Nike running shoes, nobody thinks exercise is on my agenda for the day.  Having planned for a light day, I went with my lazy sweats and a long-sleeved shirt.  I needed a coat, but figured I wouldn’t be outside that long.

Teddy was pleased to see me.  He leapt as if on a pogo stick and brushed me with his paws. I scratched him for a few moments before putting him on his leash. In the backyard,  he darted from place to place, exploring, looking for squirrels, and following sounds. After about five minutes, he did what he needed to and led me back toward the house. I wiped his paws and offered him a treat as a reward for his cooperation.  

I looked around the room.  My mother was right.  The place wasn’t its usual, tidy self. Most of this could be attributed to Teddy.  He had two beds, a handful of toys strewn across the living and dining room floors.  The dog had acquired a lot of stuff in three weeks.  Then again, being loved by my mother means you’re always cared for.  

Ready to go, I went to the front door with Teddy bounding in tow.  After putting my key in the lock, I bent down to scratch his head one more time and assure him that his momma would be home soon.  He caught a whiff of fresh air and slipped between my leg and the door frame, launching into a full sprint.  By the time I could turn around, he was two houses down and across the street. 

“Teddy!”

* * * *

A couple of weeks ago, I was playing tennis with my daughter.  As a result, I got what most middle-aged men get when playing with teenagers. No, not arrested. Injured.  I did something to my knee that has made a full stride quite painful.  

The day before my mother’s surgery, I aggravated the injury going up the stairs at our house.  I was in the loft watching the Maple Leafs besmirch and defecate upon the otherwise beautiful game of hockey and made several belabored trips up and down.  By Friday, I was clearly hobbled, moving like Willis Reed in the 1970 NBA Finals.

*    *    *    *

I left the door open with the key in the lock and gave chase.  Not only is Teddy active for his age, but he is also very fast.  Four houses away, seven houses away, a right turn toward the next block. I pursued as best I could, traipsing across icy roads, calling, pleading, begging Teddy to stop.  My lazy sweats proved detrimental from the beginning, as they sagged with each stride.

Teddy rounded the corner and halfway up the next street.  I closed in and he double back, through the yards across the street, hopping up on porches for a look around, then darting off across the snow-covered yards.

Prefontaine

Prefonteddy

“Teddy!  Stop!”

He’d pause and look at me, smiling with his adorably goofy underbite.  If I made a move in his direction, he’d take off again, head back, sprinting through the snow, paying no mind to where he was going or what danger he might encounter.  He was a full two blocks ahead of me as I struggled just to keep him in sight.  He made another right turn through the yards, porches, and driveways.

It’s been a dozen years since I was a regular runner.  I’m out of shape and much slower than I was then.  That said, I’m not sure I could’ve run with Teddy when I was in optimal condition, particularly in snow and ice.

To the people in their homes, looking through their windows, I must’ve looked like a wonderful idiot. Limping through the neighborhood, one hand keeping my pants over my ass, and pleading with an animal who clearly felt no obligation to cooperate.  

We had worked west on a collector street, with Teddy making frequent turns onto the perpendicular residential streets.  Three blocks south, and he would’ve been on a major street. I had to at least somehow keep him in the neighborhood.  Since Teddy was making up the route along the way, I had no way of getting ahead and cutting him off.

The further he got, the more I fretted.  I thought of my mother.  In surgery.  She’d be out soon and ready to come home later that day.  She’d be looking forward to seeing her dog.  I had to get it home.  My heart was pounding, and my lungs burned.  My knee ached sharply with every move. Teddy stopped to metricate in the snow.

“Teddy,” I said calmly as I moved toward him.  “Stay there, buddy.  Let’s go back home.”  

His eyes held my gaze for a few seconds before he was off again.  Straight ahead, full gallop, then back into the neighborhood.

“Teddy, please stop running,” I whined.  “Don’t do this. Please.” I felt pathetic and feckless. I had stepped on a ridge of ice and had bruised my foot to go along with my aching knee.  I wanted to drop to the icy ground and weep.

That wasn’t possible.  As difficult as this was proving to be, failing was not an option.  I imagined having to meet my mother at her house, post-surgery–loopy, in pain, emotional–to tell her that I’d lost the dog she dearly loved.  So irresponsible. After being spared the 5:30am wake-up and assigned the simple task of letting a dog go outside into a fenced-in yard.  She wouldn’t so much as trust me with carving the Thanksgiving turkey–four years from now when she finally felt somewhat comfortable having me in her home again. 

My family would say they understood, while looking at me with accusative eyes.  A likely story, they’d agree.  I was probably raiding the pantry and not even paying attention to the dog. Any ill effects from the operation would be attributed to the emotional and mental strain I’d put on my poor mother.    

With that realization, I resumed the struggle with renewed vigor.  I was Strap leaving the huddle after Coach Dale told me God wanted me on the floor. I carried on with a confident grin of a Philippian foundation.

This lasted roughly 186 seconds.  Teddy had covered two city blocks and was widening his lead.  Keeping him in my sight became my primary goal.  I realized that the only way I was going to catch this dog was with the aid of an automobile.  Unfortunately, mine was too far away.  Teddy could’ve covered a mile in the time it would’ve taken me to retrieve the car.

Going for one full-on chase, hopeful I could sneak up close enough and tackle him before he escaped.  I got close a couple of times, but he was far too quick.  He continued to visit porches and yards, pissing in every third or so. This could go on all day, or one of us would die trying. 

I called my wife, who works a couple of miles from my mother’s house..  She didn’t answer.  I left a message that she would later describe as me sounding like I was having a heartattack.  The hospital was just a few miles away, so I then tried my sister, leaving her a similar SOS.   

Fortunately, my wife sensed the urgency and desperation of my plight.  And was able to get away at a moment’s notice. I just needed to keep Teddy under surveillance. A young man driving a 4-Runner stopped with his window down.

“You got a runner?” he asked.

“Do I ever,” I huffed.

The man didn’t commit to joining the chase, but began following me in his vehicle.  My wife called a few minutes later to request my location, but drove up on us.  She saw furry Prefontaine galloping away from me and showing no sign of slowing.  My wife tried to cut him off using the car, a task complicated further by the icy roads. The man in the 4-Runner got out of his truck after pulling up about ten feet behind Teddy, who was in the middle of the street.

The man took a couple of steps, and both he and the dog broke into sprints with the man pumping his arms and legs furiously before shutting it down.  He continued on foot, and my wife followed in the car.  I went back to get the running 4-Runner and caught up with the chase.   

For the first time, Teddy showed signs of slowing down.  He frequently stopped to eat snow.  Not long enough for anyone to grab him, but at least there was hope. After his break, he zipped through a yard and beneath a fence into somebody’s yard.  When we arrived, he wasn’t there.  My wife spotted him on the next block over.  The man helping us headed that way while I rounded from the backside. It had taken on the feel of a police manhunt. 

Of all the three-word sentences my wife has ever spoken to me, at that moment, ‘He’s got him,’ had to have been my favorite.  Sure enough, Teddy had gotten cornered between two houses, and our Samaritan was able to grab him.

“Good game, Teddy!” he said, handing the dog to me.

We thanked the man profusely.  My wife offered him a cup of coffee, but he refused.  He told us he’s got dogs that like to do the same thing and was glad to help. I nevergot his name, but he did me a huge favor.  I held Teddy the way Lenny held the bunny, hugging and squeezing and climbing into my wife’s car.  In the interest of accuracy, I did not call him George.

“The hay is in the barn,” I told my sister, who had been monitoring our progress from a hospital waiting room.  “That was fun,” I said, more relieved than anything.  “Maybe we don’t tell mother about this until she’s further into her recovery,” I suggested.  “I wouldn’t want her to fret.”

According to the calculations I made after the fact, Teddy had made it approximately a mile from home when he was apprehended.  According to the tracker on my phone, I covered two and a half miles tracking the zig-zagging and moving up and down the streets.  I think I yelled Teddy in frustration, desperation, and anger more times that afternoon than all of Ted Kennedy’s advisors did throughout his career.

At home, I took a hot shower and ate a bowl of soup.  Later, I fell asleep sitting upright on the sofa while listening to What’s Going On by Marvin Gaye.  

That afternoon, my mother called.  Her surgery had gone smoothly and was successful.  She was at home resting and felt much better than she had expected.  She apologized profusely for her dog’s behavior.  What can you do here?  All I could say was that it was no big deal, and I was relieved everything had worked out all right.  My mother was the one who was in surgery; I couldn’t let her feel guilty about something that wasn’t her fault.  

“Someday,” I told her.  “This will be really funny.” 

It already was.

Town Car

             

1979 Lincoln Town Car.  The one in this story once looked this way.

My dad’s vehicle was in the shop with significant body damage.  He claimed alcohol was not a factor in the late-night, single-car crash, but I never could buy that.  The outfit underwriting his state minimum coverage did not provide for a rental, leaving him with few options.  He called one evening asking for a lift to his sister’s house, about an hour away.

“Your aunt has a car that she’s going to let me borrow,” he explained.

“That’s great,” I said, agreeing to take him to pick it up that Sunday.  “What is it?” I asked, bracing for something horrific.

“A Lincoln, I believe,” he said, nonplussed.  

This was a pleasant surprise; Lincolns were luxurious even before MOC McConaughey had those peculiar moments of introspection behind the wheel.  This also promised to be an arrangement that far exceeded typical family expectations.  In our family, favors, when not shot down in the request phase, could range from bait-and-switch to strings as cumbersome as battleship chains. Generally speaking, interfamilial transactions were rakish. When told my dad was getting a loaner, I had imagined something towed from a demolition derby, or a Bondo-colored Datsun without a passenger door.  

My sister decided to join us.  She was concerned about our father’s transportation situation specifically and was generally solicitous that his standard of living had been in a freefall since our parents’ divorce a few years earlier.  At that time, he was rooming with a friend and fellow divorcee in a pink house in an otherwise tidy middle-class neighborhood. They hosted Sunday afternoon basketball games in the driveway, played loud music, and consumed Coors Light by the hogshead.  Given the unsettling trend, my sister was rightfully anxious that our dad might actually consent to driving a Bondo-colored Datsun without a passenger door.

The Wilsons, particularly my dad, had a hideous automobile resume.  There was the primer-colored VW Bug that stunk of the 3M all-purpose adhesive that held it together.  The ivy green Capri that just stunk.  There was the Pinto Pony--for those deterred by the bulk of the full-size Pinto.  My father also took turns driving vehicles belonging to my grandfather, including the infamous yellow Toronado, and after his passing, his F-150 pickup truck.  Finally, things took a turn for the better when my dad bought a new, no-frills Mazda truck.  The transaction was particularly notable as the salesman looked like the Fender Rhodes player from a 1970s jazz fusion band, with a stellar coffee-colored Caucasian afro and robust bouquet of matching chest hair.  

But with the Mazda out of commission, he was reduced to the yet-to-be-seen stopgap. If it was, in fact, a Lincoln, it would be an amazing stroke of good fortune.  Still, knowing the characters involved, it seemed too good to be true. With the Wilsons, altruism is seldom a solitary motive.    

After a Sunday morning drive with nervous anticipation lurking, we arrived at my aunt and uncle’s place.  A 1979 medium blue Town Car sat resting on underinflated white walls in dead grass in the lot behind their house. Years in the elements had given the paint a greenish hue, with creeping pockets of rust around the edges.  The vinyl portion of the roof was peeling significantly, with pieces falling away in small, brittle chunks.  All four doors were intact.

Spanning the length of a beach volleyball court, this was the largest passenger car I’d ever seen.  Somehow, the word huge seems to sell it short.  The fender skirts were the size of surfboards.  I had no idea how it would fit in the downtown parking garage near my dad’s office.  I had doubts as to whether it would even start.

“Fucker fired right up yesterday,” declared my uncle as he hobbled off the front porch with the keys in one hand, a fresh scotch and soda in the other.

“Well, that’s nice and roomy,” I said, panning for something nice to say.

My sister trembled at the very sight of it.

“You don’t have to drive that, do you Daddy?”

He remained phlegmatic and patted her on the shoulder.

"Don't worry baby girl," he said. "Everything will be fine."

He then walked over and opened the door. The fetor was practically visible. A warm waft of air escaped, carrying the scent of cat carrion and piss.  My dad climbed into the driver’s seat, with his nose turned up and scowling as though he’d ingested a spoonful of castor oil.  He pumped the gas pedal and turned the key. After a couple of false starts, the engine came to life with a tired whine and a rumble that launched from the tailpipe in a toxic, coal-black fart.  In idle, it sounded like several pairs of shoes tumbling in a dryer while the belts squealed in torture.  However, the Town Car was operational, even if only autoschediastically. 

“Keep it as long as you need to,” my aunt yelled as my dad pulled the desperation on wheels out of the grass and onto the street, thick exhaust hanging behind it in a low, poisonous cloud.  

My sister and I followed, thinking that at any moment the vehicle might drop an axle or simply die on the spot.  We reached speed on the interstate, with the tires kicking clods of dried mud in their wake before settling into a comfortable wobble.  The exhaust calmed considerably while the retrofit CB antenna whipped like a fishing rod angling a stubborn bass.

My sister was preoccupied with the optics.  Though she’d never have to ride in the car, she was embarrassed for our father.

“We’ve got to come up with something else,” she said with a tone of genuine concern.

“Oh, it won’t last more than two weeks,” I reassured her.  “Even if it holds together, he’s not going to want to drive it that long.  Keeping it in gas is going to cost a small fortune.”

Though the car was less than twenty years old, it couldn’t have looked more anachronistic among the newer vehicles on the road.  We weren’t far enough removed from the oversized 1970s at that point to be completely past the trauma of those engineering nightmares.  Not only did the Town Car have the classic 1970s bulk, it also got the analogous gas mileage.   

True to form, we were about fifteen minutes from our destination when the turn signal flashed, and my dad steered the craft starboard into a gas station.

“Oh my god!” shrieked my sister.  “Already?”

True enough, the car had burned through just over a quarter-tank of gas in approximately thirty miles.  We pulled in behind to make sure everything else was okay.

“Yeah,” said Dad with mild surprise.  “The radio is broken, but by god the CB still works! It smells like cat piss, but it runs pretty well.  Shitty gas mileage, but we expected that.”

Whether it was a brave face or he really didn’t mind driving a rust-caked blue boat, my sister and I were humiliated by proxy.  Perhaps it was all relative.  My father grew up in the 1960s in a large family of limited means.  Any vehicle was a privilege irrespective of condition.  

My dad once told me of a car he had while in high school that had a rusted-out floorboard on the passenger side.  When he would drive his little brother around, he’d deliberately hit puddles so that muddy water would splash up on him in the passenger seat.  My father tended to be a function over form guy. Maybe the condition and appearance of the Town Car truly didn’t matter.  Maybe it was karma taking the scenic route.

Assured that he would be fine, we were sent ahead to the pink house.  Before the car episode and fallout, we had planned to spend the afternoon playing basketball with the boys.  The games and beer were in full swing by the time we arrived.  Aware of what was going on, the gang was eager to see the loaner car.  We tried to brace them for our father’s arrival.

“It’s so sad,” said my sister.

“It was probably really nice at one time,” I said, locating some specks of optimism in my gold snuffer.

A few minutes later, a thunderous rumbling could be heard in the distance as if a cacophonous drumline was ushering my dad’s new ride into the neighborhood.  As it lurched in front of the house, everybody stopped what they were doing to watch. Cat calls and wolf whistles greeted his arrival as the behemoth lumbered to a stop along the curb.

“Love those gangster white walls,” howled one of my dad’s friends.

“Oh no,” yelled my father’s roommate.  “You’re not parking that hunk of shit in front of my house.”

It didn’t stay for long.  In fact, that was the only time I saw my dad drive it.  Less than two weeks later, the Town Car threw a rod and met its long-overdue destiny. It was taken to the salvage yard.  My dad spotted my uncle the amount for the tow truck.  He figured it was the least he could do.   

In Bed and Streaming: The Compulsory Christmas Episode

 

Make room on the mantel, my friend.  An Emmy is headed our way

Nearly any television show with legs will eventually offer up a Christmas-themed episode.  This has been complicated by the flood of Hallmark Christmas presentations, where erstwhile celebrities go to keep their SAG-AFTRA memberships from going inactive.

However, back in the day, holiday-themed episodes were a staple of prime-time television programming.  The lifeguard/eye candy drama, Baywatch, never bashful about exploiting any and everything to fill forty minutes, less the two-minute introduction and seven-to-ten minutes of montages.  Somewhat surprisingly, this was not fleshed out until Season 5.

In December 1994, Baywatch presented the requisite Christmas episode, a two-part hall decker featuring tanning and scanning along the shores of Will Rogers State Beach.  Wedging some yuletide fun into the typical storyline was no trouble.  By its very nature, Baywatch was an exercise in futile storytelling and multiple shark jumps.  In addition to habitually meddling with natural selection, the ingredients for the Baywatch Christmas slumgullion included:

–Mitch is falling deeply in love (meaning the love interest has a yet-to-be-revealed terminal illness–don’t worry; the bread crumbs are there even if Mitch can’t find them).

–Mitch and Hobie are conned by a 10-year-old juvenile delinquent. 

–A conflicted priest

–Midgets!

–A snow machine

 

Clearly, this is the kind of television the Emmys were created to honor.  For a general lay of the Baywatch land, it’s a truncated cast.  Stephanie is off with that bake sale oceanographer, Riley, ostensibly diving for underwater ganja.   Logan is also notably absent, but nobody seems to notice. Matt is depressed because he hates Christmas.  This seems to stem from a chasm between him and his father.  Evidently, the senior Brody does not find lifeguard to be a noble profession for a filthy rich pretty boy. CJ tries to cheer him up, further blurring the status of their relationship. Caroline shows up late, jittery and in everyone’s business as if she’d heard there would be a Christmas delivery of Los Angeles snow at HQ.

Mitch, that affable clod, is madly in love as mentioned above.  Throughout Baywatch history, Mitch is to women as airplanes are to Lynyrd Skynyrd.  Her name is Tracy, she has a terminal illness, and longs for Christmas in Connecticut.  Mitch vows to give her the best Christmas ever as a few of the non-speaking lifeguards sort through a few boxes of decorations that have pragmatically been brought out to the beach to sort through.  

The plotlines are all over the map with stops in trite, non-linear, and ludicrous.  A group of midgets pour onto the beach for a quick vacation.  They take a shine to Matt and set up their little camp next to his tower.  Matt, not precisely the brightest star in the eastern sky, suspects something but can’t put his manicured finger on it.

The first rescue of the episode occurs when a paragliding Santa Claus, wearing Adidas running shoes, is put in peril by an oblivious boat driver.  The midgets see the whole thing and applaud.  They are easily amused.

A priest named Father Ryan shows up.  In an obscure bit of continuing education, Father Ryan is allowed to shadow CJ for a few days.  As CJ is easier than the first level of Pac-Man, they hit it off immediately.  Father Ryan considers leaving the priesthood.  CJ assumes it’s because he’s in love with her.  It’s not. Sad trombone.

Meanwhile, Paula Trickey guest stars as a single mother, problem gambler, petty thief, and transient.  She first cons an obese bookmaker with the help of her daughter, Joey, who is believed to be a boy until the second act.  They then team up to rip off a jewelry vendor on the boardwalk.  This one attracts the sharp eye of Officer Garner Ellerbee.  Joey gets away, but Homeless Paula Trickey is taken to county.  

Enter juicer Hobie, who makes Matt seem like DaVinci, who bumps into Joey and buys her sob story hook, line, and sinker.  Telling him she has no place to go and is waiting on her mother to arrive via bus from San Diego, Hobie takes her back to Casa de Buchanon.   When he opens the door, he finds Terminal Tracy on the sofa with Mitch, who is rounding first and showing no signs of slowing.  It’s unclear who she objects to, but Terminal Tracy goes home.

Mitch and Hobie are preoccupied with Joey taking a bath, but she refuses.  It’s at this point, the baseball cap comes off, the hair falls down, and Mitch and Hobie learn the truth–or some of it.  

The next day, the bus still hasn’t arrived from San Diego–maybe she meant rickshaw–and Mitch’s spidey senses detect bullshit.  Joey spends another night at Casa de Buchanon, during which Mitch finds her sitting on the sofa and firing up a lung dart. 

A more understanding Hobie learns that Homeless Paula Trickey is not on the rickshaw bus, but got pinched and is in the county lock-up.  Joey immediately goes to work on a scheme to raise bail with Hobie’s hapless help.

Unbeknownst to Mitch, Hobie and Joey sell raffle tickets for $20 a pop with the winner getting to ride in a New Year’s parade to be determined, sitting beside Mitch.  They raise $300, which won’t cover it.

Meanwhile, the obese bookmaker has enlisted muscle to get his money back.  He appears to be the Teemu version of Steven Segal.  I know, I also thought Steven Segal was the Teemu version of Steven Segal, but evidently not.  The lughead in a tank top and Silver Tab Levi’s chases the kids around the pier near Santa Monica.  Hobie and Joey run through the catwalk beneath the pier with Teemu Segal in tepid pursuit.  At the end of the line, Joey falls off the edge, dropping the money they made into the ocean.  Hobie tries to pull her to safety but has yet to reach his chemically enhanced optimal strength.  She falls.

Though out of view, the Baywatch news network has reported a goon chasing two children below the pier.  Mitch’s Spidey senses prevail again.  He somehow knows this involves Hobie.  The whole gang takes off, post haste.

After losing his grip and letting Joey fall, Hobie jumps in after her.  He plays one-man Marco Polo for a few minutes until the reinforcements arrive.  Mitch finds Joey on the ocean floor sitting on a rock.  After a few tense moments of CPR, Joey is saved.  She then tells Mitch the whole story.  Mitch feels for her.  The big moosie, his eyes already shrink-wrapped in tears. With Officer Garner Ellerbee’s help, the charges are dropped, Homeless Paula Trickey is sprung, and things are once again chop.  The judge wants to see Homeless Paula Tricky and Joey.  She’s hesitant, but Mitch says he’ll help her get a job if she goes through with it.  Problems solved.  It was interesting that while Paula Trickey was homeless, she wore different clothes every day, and her hair and makeup were perfect.  Location, location, location, as they say.

"Hi, Betsy, we need a new homeless, now.  But good-looking homeless." 

Meanwhile, one of the midgets waded too far out into the ocean.  Matt saves him.  The collective crush on Matt intensifies.  While he’s out on another rescue, the drowning midget decorates Matt’s tower for Christmas.  Matt suspects they are elves! 

It was the night before Christmas, and all along the beach, not a creature was stirring.  Except, an inexplicably tuxedoed Mitch. He surprises Terminal Tracy with a decorated lifeguard tower, a small dance floor, and a dinner table with no food. There’s some sentimental shuck and jive, some kissing, and then Mitch and Terminal Tracy trip the light fantastic on a remarkably level dance floor set up on the sand.  Montage time as the two scoot around, and the viewer hears what sounds like the fourth runner-up in a Diana Krall soundalike contest. 

Christmas Day arrives with everyone meeting at HQ.  Mitch, judging by his clothing, thinks it’s a round-up.  Homeless Paula Trickey–in another outfit, great hair and makeup- is there with Joey.  Mitch has arranged for a snow machine, but it is late arriving.  Christmas delivery can be complicated, dude.  The midgets come to the rescue, evidently finding a snow machine in their picnic basket.  Mitch is able to give Terminal Tracy the white Christmas she’d pined for. 

   

Christmas or Rodeo?

The party moves outside, where the snow has accumulated to a level providing for a snowman and snowballs.  In the middle of the revelry, Teemu Segal shows up, because a good hitman will always come through, even on Christmas.  Of course, he’s easily recognized, and he flees at the sight of Officer Garner Ellerbee, stealing an ATV.  Mitch and Matt jump on ATVs to give pursuit.

The Baywatch pickup truck is also summoned into action, with the midgets jumping in back to cheer on the driver.  The truck catches up and–I crap you negative–the midgets begin hurling wrapped Christmas presents at Teemu Segal, eventually causing him to crash.  The midgets jump on him until he can be taken into custody by Officer Garner Ellerbee.

Presents away!

Back outside HQ, Mitch leads the cast in the singing of “Silent Night.”  The episode reaches its merciful end.

Drive-in Totals

2:09 time elapsed to first dialog

34 pairs of gratuitous breasts

 3 aquarium shots

 8 confirmed product placements

That Which Does Not Kill Us: 2025 In Review

“Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn't.”

                                                –SL Clemens p/k/a Mark Twain


                                             “Whatever we’re doing for the New Year, we’ve got to try something else.”

                                                                                 –The Wilsons


                                                                     “Look what I did with AI!”

                                                                                       -Steve

Happy Holidays!

The COVID-stricken year of 2020 has generally been accepted as the worst overall 365 days in recent memory.  Between illness, lockdowns, masks, ZOOM meetings, and laypeople arguing scientific topics on various social media platforms, 2020 did suck.  However, roughly 350 days into the current year,  the fifth anniversary of 2020 has a solid claim for the title of worst in recent memory.  Perhaps it’s recency bias, but it seems we’ve spent much of this year, in the words of Robert Clark Seger, running against the wind. Let us now open the scrapbook and take a look at yet another year that can’t end soon enough.

Our story invariably starts and ends with volleyball, and it was another hectic year of serves, sets, kills, digs, travel, stay-to-play hotel arrangements, and PTO days spent in large convention centers filled with whistles, squealing girls, helicopter parents, and eighteen-dollar smoothies..

Sloane, the perennial free agent, signed with Oklahoma Charge for club ball this season, which, on balance, was a positive experience.  Tournaments took the team to Oklahoma City, Dallas, Kansas City (twice), and St. Louis before earning a bid to nationals on the final day of the final tournament of the season.  This took us back to a very warm Dallas for a week.  Sloane’s team competed admirably against teams from around the country.  The experience was priceless (the only thing that was without price on that trip), and we had a good time.  The girls ended up finishing in the top twenty in their division, and Sloane bumped into University of Texas Associate volleyball coach, David Hunt, but neglected to slip him her HUDL link.   It was a fun team and a fun parent group, with Sloane making some new friends while continuing to grow on the court.

In April, things took a turn for the scary.  Tax Day?  No.  We owe; the extension was filed.  On an otherwise routine Sunday evening, Kristen complained of not feeling right with tingling in her arms like a sleeping foot.  She took an aspirin and opted for the emergency room.  It was the correct call.   After an examination, transfer to St. Francis, tests, and admission, we learned her widow-maker artery was 99% blocked. It wasn’t a Fred Sanford “big one” moment.  It was far less dramatic, but she knew her body and did the right thing.   She was discharged a few days later with two new stents, a list of lifestyle modifications, and enough drugs to get Keith Richards through the Stones’ 1972 American tour.  

The results thus far have been positive. The change in diet has been good for all of us (even though she removed the Thousand Island pump that had been on the kitchen counter), and Kristen has emerged with a new attitude to accompany her enduring positivity.  Best of all, her doctor has been pleased. The numbers are trending in the right direction, and she looks great.  We’re infinitely thankful; Kristen is the core of this little family, and we love her immensely.

Sloane was a stalwart (and a concussion-free one this season!) for the Jenks Freshman team.  The Freshies had the best record in the program this season, winning the conference championship.  Along the way, Sloane collected Most Outstanding Player awards in two tournaments.  Like her mama, she loves being a Trojan, and we’re already looking forward to next season.  

And speaking of mama, Kristen served as the Jenks Volleyball Booster Club Vice President this past season.  Among her many contributions, she decided one Saturday while working concessions that the standard canned cheese nachos were boring.  A few calls were made, and voila, smoked brisket nachos were introduced.  This, along with smoked brisket sandwiches, was a hit and raised a lot of money for the program.

Though the trip to nationals in Dallas truncated her beach schedule, Sloane and her partner managed to earn a bid to nationals.  This fall, she has also been assisting with a volleyball instruction clinic for elementary-aged kids.  We’re told she’s a natural.

Sloane has a permit to operate a motorized vehicle in the state of Oklahoma.   She turned 15(!), took the course, passed the test, and got the certificate.  We’ve been impressed so far.  She’s a good driver, though she lacks patience with fellow motorists, and she tends to be overly concerned with what’s playing on the car stereo.  

The traditional gift for an 11th anniversary is steel.  Steve’s company gifted him something even better after reaching that milestone.  He was untethered from the hellscape that was referred to as his job.  It wasn’t the ideal severance, but when there’s a ride out of misery, a Lime scooter is as effective as a private jet.  He is currently in the evaluation process for what could be a very promising new job.  In the interim, he has enjoyed being a full-time writer, Mr. Mom, and limited handyman.  He feels better than he has in years and now looks forward to what lies ahead. 

As promised, we end as we began–with volleyball.  Club season has begun, and Sloane is playing for Tulsa Power. This also comes with a new position, as she is transitioning to defensive specialist to go along with some setting and hitting.  The team is talented, and expectations are high.  The first tournament, the week before Christmas in Dallas, will be our first look.  

It was an eventful 2025, and despite the various challenges and tribulations, we wrap it up with reason for optimism.  One thing we are certain of is that 2026 will be busy.  Thank you for taking a peek into our scrapbook and reliving the past twelve months with us.  We wish everyone out there a very Merry Christmas as well as a happy, safe, and prosperous New Year.

With gratitude,

The Wilsons–Steve, Kristen, Sloane, and Ashton.

A Hairstyle by Any Other Name

      It was the 1980s, and I was approaching my teenage years when I’d reach optimal wisdom and maturity.  I liked the rock music, and like many a male youth under the influence of Satan’s tongue, I wanted long, rockstar hair. A friend of mine cautioned me against it, claiming that it was a sin for men to have long hair. The exception was Jesus Christ.  I was told Jesus got a pass because he lacked the proper tools.
        Now, I realize there were likely no Super Cuts locations in Capernaum, so haircuts weren’t convenient.  However, I’ve seen Christ’s resume. If he could walk on water, bring Lazarus back to life, and feed thousands with a single fish and a loaf of Sunbeam Giant, I would think giving himself a fresh coif would be categorized as light work. 

        I faced two major obstacles in pursuit of my lofty crinal goals. First, I wasn’t a rock star.  Second, I had parents who paid for my haircuts (and most everything else) and had weighted votes when it came to my fashion choices.  Fortunately, my father had been through the same thing.  He’d grown up in the 1960s and battled his father over hair length–among other things. He was sympathetic to my plight.  Being the cool dad, he permitted me to grow my hair out under two conditions.  First, I kept it clean and brushed.  This would not be an issue, I assured him.  

        I had my pump bottle of LaMaur Apple Pectin shampoo, which not only kept my dirty blond hair shiny, but also left it smelling like an orchard–or Strawberry Shortcake’s sister, Apple Dumplin.’  I also owned a red Goody 8” flare-style brush.  It had special Comfor-tip bristles, and without the discomfort of regular bristles, I brushed my hair like it was a brood mare’s tail. And oh yes, I did just reference Joni Mitchell.  

    The second condition for wearing my hair long was that I keep it off my ears.  This seemed like a fair demand, and I was glad to take the deal. Little did I know that my dad had provided the schematic for what would come to be known as the mullet, the most disparaged hairstyle in the history of mankind.  

    In those days, a mullet was a fish.  One that looked nothing like a young man.  There were no nicknames, business in the front, party in the back, Missouri Compromise.  Simply stylish.  It was long hair without appearing unkempt.  At least that’s what we told ourselves.  

        Of course, long hair is an exercise in delayed satisfaction, but I was on my way, constantly tilting my head back to see if my hair would reach my collar.  It would take a change of venue for my new hairstyle to take full flight.

        I had always gotten my hair cut by the town barber.  Most males in our town did.  He probably had a 70% market share. Competent, but nothing fancy. Customers got cuts, not styles.  No shampooing or blow drying.  If you look at my elementary school yearbook photos, you will see me with the same boring haircut in all of them.

        It was a one-man operation.  The proprietor might close for an afternoon to go fishing.  Men from town would stop in to shoot the shit.  A guitar was kept in the back, and a collection of George Jones cassettes was stacked next to a portable radio/tape player.  George Jones also had an affinity for bad haircuts.  

         My mother got her hair done in the next town over, which was not as small.  Her stylist was a homosexual male, something I’d only heard about.  It was quite the novelty at that time in that place. I was never allowed to go with her. 

        As I mentioned in a previous tale, after we moved, I got my haircut at a flashy salon inside Greenspoint Mall in north Houston.  When I say flashy, I mean loud and tacky.  The stylists wore uniforms consisting of loose trousers and tight vests.  The staff looked like the Go-Go’s in a remake of Harum Scarum.  My stylist looked like Belinda Carlisle might if she jammed a steak knife into an electrical outlet.  As such, I’ll refer to her as Carli. 

        Carli’s hairstyle was an engineering marvel, a modern art sculpture of follicle annealment that had to have been highly flammable given the amount of hairspray it required. The same dirty blond as mine, it extended from her scalp and wrapped around diagonally like a stranded helter skelter.  I could only imagine how early she had to get up in the morning to style it.  

        Though I was only twelve years old, I was convinced I’d found my future wife.  She had everything I wanted.  She was female, talked to me, and was educated in the discipline of rock and roll.  Every month or so, we’d have forty-five minutes of meaningful conversation. She remembered my name.  We talked of music and life.  She was my confidant.  She always appeared happy to see me and came across as though she genuinely liked me.  My mother was also a generous tipper.

        I was young and stupid, and hormonal winds propelled my quixotic sails. I was nonetheless mature enough to understand the peril of my situation and the steep odds I faced.  Carli was an older woman.  Woman being the operative term.  I was three years from driving..

        It was a tough situation that I privately cherished.  Though never in optimal health, my dream was alive, and I harbored it, hoping one day it would come to fruition.  It was difficult, but I kept it all to myself. Carli also cut my dad’s hair.  If I mentioned any sort of attraction, he’d be quick to tell her, complete with embellishment that I’d never be able to live down. Though I was in love–or something vaguely resembling it, I wasn’t ready to make a public profession.  And I didn’t want to put her on the spot. Faced with this information, she’d be compelled to respond.  I wasn’t ready for that either way.    

        My mother would typically be more understanding, but I overheard her talking to a friend on the phone.  I was able to surmise they were discussing our afternoon outing to the mall and the haircut I’d received during said outing.  

“Oh dear, she looked even worse than before,” said my mother, who never said anything bad about anybody. Her words were thoughtless, callous, hurtful.  I was crushed.  My mother’s approval meant everything to me. She just didn’t know Carli like I did.  She was also far more pragmatic than I was at that time.  I clung to a fantasy, denying the pellucid reality.  

As luck would have it, we moved the following autumn.  Not only was my apple cart upset, my life was ruined.  My mother did everything she could to ease the transition, though driving eight hours each way to get my haircut was not reasonable.  

I got my hair cut one last time before moving.  I had to break the news to Carli that it was over.  I’d hoped she’d object, begging through tears for me to find a way to stay.  

“Bummer,” she said.

So brave, so strong, this one, I thought. 

It was well short of the teary response I’d hoped to receive, and reality finally began to settle in.  I was one of many rock and roll wannabes whose hair this woman cut.  I’m sure she regaled them with the same tales and came across as just as interested in their stories and problems.  It’s called customer service. As she pulled the cape off of me for the last time, she wished me the best with my move and new school.  Walking out, I turned my head for a final look.  She caught my glance and smiled.  I never saw her again.

* * * *

My hair had been long for more than three years when I first seriously considered cutting it.  I was playing basketball daily and had grown weary of having a sweat-soaked lock of hair slap me in the face every time I spun my head.  This was a big decision.  I recalled the story of Samson and that conniving bitch, Delilah.

One evening, I instructed my new stylist to cut it off.  It just wasn’t functional. It was weird initially, but far easier to maintain.  

The next day, as we filed out of science class, a member of the dance squad stopped me.

“I like your hair, Steve,” she said with a smile.  

Take that, Samson.  Unlike that gullible sissy, I still had game.