In the beginning, there were wolves. Two packs of them, dueling for supremacy, a lupine Montague v. Capulet conflict with Lou Diamond Phillips caught in the middle. And as a result, in the beginning, there was a stench. This stench stank the stench of a thousand stinks rolled in manure and left to rot in a reeking sewer. So the benevolent honchos at CBS woke up one day, grew tired of wearing noseplugs, and shelved Wolf Lake until such time as they could hire a writer who would make the show a lot more like The X-Files. That writer is Alex Gansa. From The X-Files. And so one piece of derivative television begat another, even more derivative piece of television. This is going to be so, so excellent.
Right away, we're warned that this program contains partial nudity. This is the part where we pray that Lou Diamond Phillips's clothes have been permanently affixed to his body, lest our stomachs turn and retinas burn; then comes the part where we remember this is the medium that unleashed Dennis Franz's ass upon an unwitting nation. And then we weep for what was, and what will probably be.
"Wolf Lake," the screen says. My mother, having watched with me once already, slaps her knee and says, "They should call it Woof Lake, because it's such a dog." She is grinning. She covets my job. Hey, Mom, thou shalt not covet thy daughter's recapping gig, else thou shalt be smote from on high with circus peanuts and then forced to watch Full House reruns for all eternity. Remember that. It's in The Book.
Seattle, Washington. A dinky motorcycle zooms up in front of an apartment building and screeches to a halt. Lou Diamond Phillips takes off his helmet and dismounts. Dear God, they didn't recast. My first disappointment. From above, we see through the eyes of someone peeking through the bars of a balcony, staring down at Lou. There's panting. It's clear something is lurking in Lou's apartment. Lou walks into the dark living room, drops his keys on the dark table, heads to the dark hallway, and turns into the dark bedroom. Am I recapping a children's book?
Lou undoes his cuffs. Shirts are so itchy, see, and he's far too heroic to remain clothed during a dire time of discomfort like that. With unparalleled bravery, Lou frees himself from the shackles of his shirt. And with unparalleled bravery, I do not push pause or change the channel. In doing so, I notice Lou's buffed himself up, his chest glowing with the sheen of freshly waxed skin. Drink it in, ladies: it's all free and only mildly toxic. Panting reaches a crescendo as whatever was ogling Lou now pounces out of his closet doors and knocks him backward onto the bed. He wrestles with it briefly until he recognizes his assailant: it's Crouching Tiger, Hidden Girlfriend. She's got pale skin, red lips, and dark brown hair, and she's very pretty -- the kind of girl only a contract could put atop Phillips's pelvis. Straddling his lap, she eyes him seductively. "You're gonna give me a heart attack one of these days, you know that?" he grins at her, practically drooling. "I hope so," she murmurs, ripping off her shirt to reveal a tight black camisole. Lou stammers that he thought she had a late class. "I wanted to surprise you," she heaves, throwing him down on the bed and slobbering all over his neck and chest. And, like all men whose crotches are being ridden by a hot young thing half their age, Lou can think of one thing, and one thing only: pushing her aside and going to take a shower before snarfing some pizza. The snort I let fly right here was so thunderous that my father popped his head into the study, concerned I was being savaged by a wild boar. For her part, the vixen clenches her thighs and leans in for the kill. "Oh, I like you dirty," she climaxes, gyrating atop his lap as she peels off the camisole and kisses him while he rubs her naked back.