Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes…

It’s 2014 and Hutch is trying to figure out what’s fueling Starsky’s latest funk. Starsky is spending too much time on social media and is confused by modern terminology regarding sexual identity and sexual relationships. He grows despondent, fearing he’s finally become too old to adjust to this brave new sexual revolution. Determined to get to the bottom of his partner’s distress, Hutch is forced to consult with the SHareCon con committee to get answers.

Originally published in the SHareCon 2014 zine.

In the mid-1990’s, email discussion lists, like VenicePlace (the first S&H slash discussion list), were the primary online fannish venue. Fans treated VP like “…a large, rambling virtual apartment building with unlimited space where we all live next door to those two gorgeous cops, and where every window has a great view of the boys when they come after work!” (From the FAQ) (Thanks to Fanlore.)

In 2004, the SHareCon zine featured the story, Partners in Adversity by CrowRow (Rosemary’s VP name) and Flamingo that focused on current events in the fandom, like the Starsky and Hutch movie with Ben Stiller and Owen Marshall, and how fans living in VenicePlace felt about it. It also focused on current technological issues we were dealing wtih like LJ. This became the beginning of what we called the VenicePlace stories. In them, the guys are ageless and still in their thirties, even though the show was over 35 years ago, and the SHareCon con committee is usually prominently featured.

Okay, that’s the Cliff Notes version. Remember Cliff Notes?

“Hey, buddy, dinner’s ready,” Hutch said, lifting the fragrant lasagna out of the oven.

“‘Kay,” Starsky said from the couch, distracted. Staring at his iPad Air, he carried it to the table, still reading.

Hutch didn’t think anything of it as he cut into the casserole, dishing out a reasonable portion for himself and what he considered a reasonable portion for Starsky. The salads were already on the table. With luck, Starsky wouldn’t notice that the ground beef was actually Gardein Vegan Crumbles mixed with chopped mushrooms. Without luck, he’d be bitching about that for a week, even after his third helping. Hutch smiled to himself and delivered the food to the table. Starsky, still reading, quietly started working on his salad.

Hutch watched him for a moment with a sinking feeling.

Something was wrong with Starsky. And Hutch didn’t have a clue as to what it could be. Didn’t have a clue, couldn’t find a clue, couldn’t buy a clue, could not even think up a clue. It had been a few weeks at least and still…no clue. Hutch was embarrassed to admit how long it had taken him to even notice. In fact, the hammer hadn’t dropped until he’d passed the marquee on Starsky’s favorite movie theater this morning and realized Guardians of the Galaxy had been out for at least two weeks and Starsky hadn’t bugged him about seeing it even once. Hadn’t brought it up. Hadn’t informed Hutch they’d definitely be going this Friday night, no ifs, ands, or buts, or even BUTTS. Hadn’t quoted reviews to him. And most importantly, hadn’t acted like getting to see the movie was the Most. Important. Thing. They. Had. To. Do. Right. NOW. Something was definitely wrong.

Sitting across from Starsky over dinner confirmed it. Hutch pretended to read his paper copy of the Bay City Gazette–folded in quarters the way Starsky taught him years ago–while watching Starsky read his Gazette electronically. Starsky sat there reading, eating demurely, sitting still… without constant chatter about the depressing state of the world mixed with interruptions about some unrelated bit of humor or celebrity gossip that would make it impossible for Hutch to follow whatever train of thought was jumping the tracks in Starsky’s brain, all of it interspersed with loud smacking noises and compliments on how “This had to be the BEST damn lasagna in the WORLD, no, not the world, in the UNIVERSE, or maybe the GALAXY!!! And what kind of meat is this anyway? Bison? Turkey?”

No. There Starsky sat. Quietly eating his salad while waiting a reasonable length of time so his lasagna wouldn’t scald his mouth instead of struggling to ingest it when it was way too hot because he couldn’t wait.

What kind of partner had Hutch become? Worse, what kind of a lover? Life partner? Soul mate? A failure, that’s what kind. A man so absorbed with his own petty interests he failed to notice something so critical it had robbed his lover of the very joie de vivre that had attracted him to Starsky in the first place.

Well, he wasn’t a detective for nothing, dammit. He’d get to the bottom of this. He’d learned long ago that the direct method never worked with Starsky. Not when he was hiding something that was bothering him. And he was definitely hiding this problem because otherwise, he’d be wearing Hutch’s patience thin about it. Like when Starsky had hated the ending of Iron Man 3, as though that was the most important social issue of the day. But there had to be some advantage in living in this broadband-high tech-wired-for-light-and-sound-insane asylum that Venice Place had morphed into over the years. They couldn’t sneeze in this place without 20 women yelling, “Gesundheit!” Edward Snowden and Julian Assange had nothing on the Neighbor Ladies, as Starsky called them.

Hutch activated his phone and hovered over the screen, ready to text “S very quiet. Anything I should know?”…then couldn’t figure out who to ask.

He could ask Flamingo’s mate, St. Anne, the logical one, the one most likely to give him a straight answer. But chances are she’d only text back: “S quiet? Thank your lucky stars and leave well enough alone.” Yeah. No point in asking her.

He couldn’t ask Suzan because she was still working off what Starsky liked to call her “antique Star-Trek flip phone” with limited functions.

He hesitated to ask Angel, Keri, or Taya, because instead of texting an answer, they’d be invaded by the worried women–including Keri’s little dog, Emma Abigail, who looked like an animated cotton swab and whose name Starsky always mangled. The women would be carrying pots of chicken soup, get-well baskets filled with all the things Starsky had no business eating, but loved, Starsky’s favorite comic books (which were…? Hutch had also not purchased any clues there, either) and a brand new, hot off the presses Blu-Ray 3D copy of the latest version of Godzilla because they all knew Starsky loved it. (Even Hutch knew that. How could he not after sitting through it four times at the IMAX?) Oh…and they’d also bring the TV to show the DVD on, since Hutch had refused to allow Starsky to buy an 80 inch 3D curved TV, insisting that there simply was no room for it in their small apartment. No, not texting them about this.

He could ask CC, but suspected that instead of answering, she’d show up in work-out clothes, ready to convince Starsky that what he needed was an hour in the gym with her to crank up his endorphins. It might be fun to watch Starsky talk his way out of that by making one sexual innuendo after another about his and Hutch’s latest romp in bed, but it would be more worrisome to Hutch if he placidly went along with the idea. Uh-uh. If anyone was raising that boy’s endorphins, it was going to be Hutch and Hutch alone.

He could ask Cyanne, the most sensible one next to St. Anne, and a great problem solver. But he knew her well enough to know what her answer would be. “S quiet? Yeah. No. Not my department. You’re on your own.” Truer words were never texted. Besides, hockey season was starting.

If he texted SHaron, she’d no doubt try to cheer Starsky up with choice selections of Baroque music played on her sackbut, a Renaissance-era trombone. While that would be just the thing to shake Hutch out of the doldrums, whenever Starsky caught her playing that thing in the rec room, he’d start pestering her to learn AC/DC’s Thunderstruck, instead of just enjoying what she was already doing. “Hey, those guys on the cellos did it, so how hard could it be on a sackbut?” No, Hutch didn’t want to go through that debate again.

He wasn’t texting Flamingo about this. No way. Not the woman who wears a Happy Bunny t-shirt that proudly declares, “I’m not mean. You’re just a sissy!” Not and have to read 20 rolling texts on “You mean you just figured this out? Gee, you must be clairvoyant, Hutch!” “Wow! Talk about insight…!” “Ah, yes, half of the most famous partnership in the world, the partnership by which all other partnerships are measured, has finally figured out the secret of the ages!” and, no doubt, her favorite, “Ever think of becoming a detective, Hutch?” Yeah, he was behind the eight ball on this one. It was too bad, too, since she probably actually knew what was going on. But when it came to the Big Pink, truth is, he was a sissy. And with good cause.

That left… He gaped at his phone and its extremely short list of Venice Place regulars he could call on without being buried under fan enthusiasm and realized the only one left was….

No. There had to be someone else.

He looked again. It was true. The only Neighbor Lady left he could send a text to and hope to get some kind of information he could actually use was… Rosemary… aka Tiranog, aka the only person who could mangle the English language with mixed metaphors and malapropisms more than Starsky, the woman who forever seemed to be on Some Other Page than everyone else, and whatever Page she was on had been written in Elvish, the woman who lived in her own universe, called simply, The Ro-Verse…

It didn’t matter. She and Starsky understood each other. They spoke the same language. Rosemary might have the answers for him. That…or she could engage him in two days of texting as he tried to interpret her first message and was forced to engage in a back-and-forth that got him deeper and deeper into the mire that was her unique and bizarre mind and…

STOP. He had to do something.

He paused and looked at this partner across the table. Having methodically finished his salad, Starsky was finally, carefully taking reasonably sized bite size pieces of lasagna, blowing on it a bit, then cautiously putting it in his mouth and chewing carefully. His eyes never left the iPad through the entire operation. Who was this man, and what had he done with Hutch’s partner?

“Starsky,” he said quietly.

“Um,” Starsky grunted in reply, never lifting his gaze.

“Guardians of the Galaxy is playing at the Rialto. I thought we might go on Saturday.”

“If you want,” Starsky said, his eyes still tracking back and forth on whatever he was reading.

“If I want?” Hutch sputtered, losing his patience altogether. “You’ve got to be kidding me! Do you realize in the last four years we have seen approximately 87 movies focused on comic book characters? Multiple versions of Batman, Superman, Spiderman. Every single last one of the Avengers and all their ilk. IronMan, ElasticMan, ArrowMan, Thor, Bore– Were any one of them my idea? Hell, no! You really think going to see a movie with a walking tree, a talking raccoon, and a green-skinned woman would be my idea? What the hell is it with science-fiction movies anyway that they have to paint women green? Don’t they think they come in enough colors now?”

“Okay,” Starsky said distractedly, never lifting his eyes from his device. “We don’t have to go.”

That shut Hutch up faster than if he’d left food on his plate. Which, Hutch realized suddenly, he actually had. He glanced at the lasagna cooling on the counter. Starsky had not helped himself to another serving. That was his first. It wasn’t finished yet.

A sudden sense of dread flushed over Hutch. Could it be possible? Could Starsky be actually ill and hiding it from him? He tried not to recall any of the billion of hurt/comfort fan stories in which Starsky suffered some lingering illness, dying dramatically in Hutch’s arms, leaving Hutch to live on without him. He remembered Starsky going on and on about the incredible drama of that long one, what was it called, one of Dawn’s magnum opuses, something about crustaceans and sandwiches–Starsky loved the literary attention, but it just gave Hutch the willies, like a goose walking over his grave.

He’d be damned if he was going to sit here in ignorance until page one hundred thirty-five. He yelled, “STARSKY!” so loud he knew they’d hear it through the building, and slapped his hand on the table hard enough to make everything on it jump and clatter, then stood up so fast he knocked his chair over.

That got Starsky’s attention. His iPad nearly leaped off the table and he fumbled, catching it before it could hit the floor. “Hey!” he protested, finally looking at Hutch as he put the device back. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

Hutch shut his eyes to keep from losing his temper all together. Maybe he should have texted Rosemary. “That’s what I was going to ask you. You’ve been acting so weird lately you’ve been like a pod person. What’s going on, Starsky? You’re not talking to me, we’re not socializing like usual, your appetite’s gone. I don’t know you anymore.” His voice nearly cracked on that last sentence. “If you weren’t with me all the time, I’d think you were having an affair!”

Starsky looked away from him and muttered. “Don’t be silly, Hutch. We’re too old for that kind of nonsense.”

“Well, then exactly what kind of nonsense is going on here–” Hutch stuttered to a halt. “What did you just say?”

Starsky didn’t repeat it; he just looked at Hutch with a forlorn expression and sighed.

There was very little that could get to Hutch faster, and while there had been times when Starsky had used that expression to play on Hutch’s sympathy, something told him there was no ploy in it this time. He moved around the table and got down on one knee beside his partner. “Starsky, what’s going on? You just haven’t been yourself, and I’m damned worried!”

Starsky could barely meet Hutch’s gaze. He shrugged desultorily. “I dunno… I guess I just finally started facin’ facts. The truth is, we’re not gettin’ any younger, Hutch.”

Hutch had no idea where all this was coming from. “Starsky, every living thing on the planet can say the same. This never bothered you before. Of the two of us, you were the one who was young-at-heart. Without the continual help from the neighbors, I could’ve never kept up with you. You created your own zines. You made vids. You were the first one to move to LiveJournal and Dreamwidth. You got the first smart phone. You taught me how to text. What’s changed?”

“The world, Hutch. The technology is just spinnin’ out of control, movin’ faster and faster. And none of it is private anymore. Somebody unlocked all the closets and they didn’t worry about who might look in. There’s no way to keep up with the vernacular. Remember when we could communicate with all the neighbor ladies just by posting a note on the VenicePlace mailing list?”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “Starsky, I can remember when we could communicate with our normal neighbors by taping a note to the front door!”

“Yeah, in the Stone Age!”

Hutch considered pointing out that there was no written language in the Stone Age, or paper, or apartments… and then realized that would get him nowhere so he left the topic where it lay.

“Well, funny you should bring that up,” Starsky continued, warming to his subject. “There are now so many different kinds of social media that the only reliable way we have with communicating with ALL our neighbor ladies so that they all get the message in a reasonable period of time is to–post a hard-copy note on the front door!”

Hutch almost blurted his relief at the news, then realized that this was part of Starsky’s problem. “Is that it, Starsk? You’re unhappy because you’re having trouble letting the neighbor ladies know when your laundry is piling up or you’re out of ice cream?”

Starsky shook his head sadly. “You just don’t get it, Hutch. The technology is passing us by. We can’t keep up. It’s all moving too fast. We’re old school. It’s all passin’ us by. And ‘when belief in a god dies, the god dies.'”

Hutch’s eyes widened in alarm. “Holy shit! You’re quoting Harlan Ellison? You are depressed!”

Starsky shrugged and glanced at his iPad.

On impulse, Hutch stood and snatched up the device. Worried, he expected to find an electronic bookshelf filled with Nietzsche and Herman Hesse, William Gibson and Harlan Ellison. If he found Sylvia Plath here, he was calling the department shrink. Instead… “What fresh hell is this–?”

“Hey!” Starsky actually sounded a little panicked as he made a grab for the device.

Hutch had no trouble keeping it out of his reach. It might have been the only advantage his extra height ever gave him over his agile partner. Standing and lifting the iPad high over his head, he stared at it, scrolling a seemingly endless trail of…stuff. Little moving pictures that repeated over and over, still pictures, most of them female celebrities. Some text posts, but not that many. And porn. Of course there was porn. But mostly, it was these bits of moving images and pictures.

“Don’t drop it!” Starsky yelled. “And now you’ve lost my place! I’ll have to start over.”

Hutch turned his back, blocking Starsky so he could lower the iPad and scroll more conveniently. He noticed a repeated theme, duplicate images, many iterations of the same short film bits. “I recognize this woman! We’ve seen her in a bunch of different movies lately. She was in Lucy. It’s Scarlett Johnson, right?”

Starsky gave him that disgusted look he reserved for whenever Hutch was being brilliantly clueless. “Johansson! Are you sure you’re really a detective?”

Hutch scowled. “Oh, am I supposed to be taking notes at these movies? Especially when they have scientifically implausible plots? I probably should since most of them are more like a crime scene than entertainment!”

“Very funny…”

Hutch handed the device back to Starsky. “So, all this moping around is over your latest celebrity crush? Are you kidding me? You’re not talking to me, you’re acting as though you lost your puppy, and you’ve got no appetite! You usually have three helpings of lasagna, and you didn’t even finish one tonight. Tell me I shouldn’t be worried.”

“Well, wha’d’ya expect when you change the recipe on me?” Starsky said irritably. “What the hell kinda meat was that anyway? Bison? Turkey? Or was it that super extra lean crap you keep tryin’ to feed me that’s nothing but ground up bones and sinew, huh? Or was it just rehydrated dried mushrooms? It kinda had that fungusy taste–”

“Don’t change the subject! What’s bothering you? You can’t talk to me anymore?”

“Not about this, Hutch. You’re still using a pocket watch, for cryin’ out loud! Your car is a rattletrap antique! An ugly one. If we unplugged every device in the building, you’d do a jig!”

“Don’t tease! That’s the hottest thing you’ve said to me in a week.”

“See what I mean?” Starsky pointed to the seemingly innocent iPad on the table. “You have no idea how fast things are changing. Hutch, they’ve changed all the vernacular. I’m not sure who we are anymore. We used to be two men who happened to be cops who loved each other. Now, we might be ‘demisexuals,’–people only sexually attracted to whoever they’re in a close relationship with, ‘cause I’m sure not interested in doin’ it with anyone else–”

Hutch felt an irrational surge of relief, but it was brief.

“Or maybe we’re ‘monoamory’ since we’re having just one intimate relationship. Unless I’m not fully understanding that term. I mean, at my age, I might be misinterpreting all this stuff. Nowadays, depending on the social group, ‘homosexual” can be considered an offensive term, while ‘queer’ has become a more accepted term for people who aren’t heterosexual, heteronormative, or cisgender. But when we were younger, queer was an insult, while homosexual was a more ‘polite’ term. See what I mean?”

Hutch blinked. Heteronormative? Cisgender? He was really beginning to miss the days when Starsky would read to him from a paperback copy of Ripley’s Believe It or Not.

Starsky was on a roll. “Some gen fen might consider us ‘queerplatonic,’ which refers to a non-romantic relationship based on platonic love that is stronger than friendship. Sounds like us, doesn’t it? Especially when you think back to our early days when we were spending 75 percent of our time together, but we couldn’t see into the future and what it might hold for us?”

“Well…that makes sense…” Hutch muttered, feeling lost, but wanting to contribute something to the conversation. He tried not to focus on the salient fact that there were gen fans in the building.

“Yeah,” Starsky said, nodding, “until I found out that a partner in a queerplatonic relationship is called a zucchini. I haven’t found out why, but I’m pretty sure I’m not ready to think of myself as a green vegetable of any kind. But that’s why I’m sayin’ I don’t even know what to call us anymore. I just can’t keep up! But you don’t care if we stay relevant. How am I supposed to talk to you about this when I know you don’t care if we plunge back in the Stone Age of the AOL heyday, delphi dot com, paying for Internet access by the minute, and VCRs?”

Hutch blinked. Did Starsky honestly think the cave painters of France had VCRs? He shook his head, trying to focus. “What’s wrong with calling us what we always have–Starsky and Hutch?”

Starsky’s eyes got soft, and he gave Hutch a look that went straight to his heart. His balls were somewhat engaged as well and, if he wasn’t careful, his cock was going to get involved in the conversation and then he wouldn’t even be able to remember the last thing he’d said.

“Starsk–do you mean to tell me this entire crisis of faith is all because you were looking for pictures of Scarlett Johnson?”

“Johansson!” Starsky snapped. “Of course not! How shallow do you think I am?”

Hutch pressed his lips together before the truth could slip out.

“Don’t answer that!” Starsky snapped. “Okay, maybe that’s where it started, but it’s impossible not to get caught up in all this new stuff. It’s Facebook, and SnapChat, and Reddit, and Instagram, and Twitter, and Tumblr, and Vimeo, and Vine, and LinkedIn, and GooglePlus, and Pinterest, and Flickr–

“Don’t forget MySpace!” Hutch said helpfully.

Starsky gave him a scathing look. “No one uses MySpace anymore. Oh, and don’t forget RedBubble and DeviantArt–”

Hutch sighed, feeling a headache coming on. “Oh, I’m sure you’re right at home in DeviantArt!”

“Don’t make fun! There’s tons of original, beautiful art there. Like portraits of us as anime characters.”

“Really–?” That at least sounded artistically interesting.

“I’ve even found pictures of us as super heroes and Lego characters…”

Okay, thought Hutch, less interesting. Lego?

“…With a little red and white Lego Torino… So cute…” He lost his focus for a moment, but then came back, frowning. “It’s like this Brave Weird World,” Starsky went on, looking both sad and a little dreamy, “full of passion, and diversity, and ideology, and new ideas, and life hacks, and all the hottest pics and gifs of– I mean–”

“Sandy Johansson?” Hutch said with a smirk.

“Scarlett! But that’s not the point,” Starsky insisted. “The point is, it’s all passed us by. We’re out of date, out of touch, out of style. We can’t keep up. Our brand isn’t even our own anymore! It’s been co-opted by the Internet and doesn’t even refer to us in some areas. Like when some rappers used the names ‘Starsky and Hutch’ to refer to bad renegade cops, the kind that bust heads first and ask questions later.”

Now Hutch was really lost. They had a “brand”? Like Mars Candy or Coca-Cola? Or was this something you’d burn into the side of a cow? He was too rattled to ask. He’d heard of stories that featured that kind of branding and some things he just Did Not Want To Know.

Starsky held up his hand. “It’s all just Too Much. And talking about it has just made me realize how overwhelming and hopeless it is. I’m done. I’m going to bed.”

And without another word–and certainly without carrying his plate to the sink or offering to help with the dishes and kitchen clean-up, Hutch noted–Starsky trudged off to the bedroom, leaving a slightly irritated (housework-wise) and bewildered (Starsky-rant-wise) Hutch in his wake.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, he thought, and leaving the kitchen in disarray, he walked out the front door.

Only Starsky could get me this crazy, Hutch thought as he stood outside Rosemary’s apartment with one hand lifted, ready to knock. He’d dismissed the idea of texting her when he thought about having to respond to whatever chaotic unrelated text she might send back.

He lowered his hand. Knocking could possibly alert the others to his presence. No one in the building knocked on doors except him. The other neighbors spent most of their time just boldly walking in and out of each others’ apartments. Doors were never locked. Sometimes they weren’t even shut. Rosemary’s and Flamingo’s doors were closed to keep their dogs and cats from wandering into the hallways. But no one locked their doors. It would impede the steady flow of fan traffic and interaction. And over the years, Hutch had learned there was no better security system devised than devoted fans. His apartment hadn’t been ransacked once since they’d set up the special video cameras that covered every square inch of their apartment. (He made sure he threw a towel over the bathroom cameras during inopportune times, however.)

There was a chance Rosemary could help him. Of everyone in the building, her brain worked closer to Starsky’s than anyone else’s. It canted off far afield most of the time, but still, there was an affinity between them.

Deciding to be as bold as their fans, he grabbed the knob, opened the door, and walked right inside Rosemary’s inner sanctum.

Only to be greeted by eleven startled expressions.

“Hutch? What are you doing here?” Flamingo asked.

Shocked by the mass of people present in the apartment, he nearly fell back against the door. “What are you ALL doing here?”

“Getting ready for SHareCon!” the con committee said simultaneously.

Of course, he thought. Otherwise they would have been tracking his whereabouts and he wouldn’t have surprised them. Suddenly, a manic baying ensued and he was swarmed by a pack of dogs of all sizes, colors, and genetic combinations, barking, leaping, and either vying for his attention or trying to protect the women from him. Before he could think, one of the dogs, a medium-sized red creature, leaped fully into his arms and French kissed him.

“Foxy!” Flamingo yelled. “Get down! Stop!”

She and Rosemary jumped into the fray just as two tiny dogs he recognized as Ro and Flamingo’s evil Yorkie-mix sisters–Pepper and Clancy–grabbed his jeans around his ankles, snarling and tugging the denim. Another little fluff ball of a dog that looked like an animated cotton swab ran circles around him barking joyously. He was surrounded by more activity than he could keep track of. And all he wanted to do was brush his teeth.

He handed Flamingo her dog, the French-kissing, tree-climbing Foxy, as Rosemary lured Mitzi and Clancy, her two dancing dogs, away into another room by going into their practiced dance routine to the musical accompaniment of her whistling When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.

“Emma Abigail, you stop that this minute!” Keri snapped, attempting to pull the cotton swab into her arms and failing. Hutch could only be grateful Starsky wasn’t with him, or he’d join in Keri’s pursuit, calling the little dog anything from “Emily Dickenson” to “Abigail Adams” to ” Emmagail Abeline”–one of his favorites. He did it so often, it was a miracle Keri could keep track of her own dog’s name.

Meanwhile, Taya manually and forcibly extricated the tiny dervish Pepper off the hem of his jeans. “Pepper, no! Hutch is our friend!” Pepper ignored this, her jaws snapping in Hutch’s direction like a miniature shark’s as Taya hustled the mini-demon into her crate and shut the door to keep him safe.

He glanced, exasperated, at Cyanne, St. Anne, Angel, SHaron, Suzan, Lorraine, and CC who remained well out of the fray, observing with bemused expressions and helping not at all.

“Allergic,” Cyanne said.

“Not a dog person,” Angel said.

“Protecting the canvas,” Lorraine said, carefully nudging her easel around so he couldn’t see what she was painting.

“Working on a piece,” Suzan said from behind a large monitor. Hutch could tell she was busy changing the image on the screen so he couldn’t see what she was working on.

“Working on lots of pieces,” CC said, as she swept a pile of tiny cut out images into a box so he couldn’t see what she was working on.

“Helping to assemble lots of pieces,” SHaron from England said, as she swept a pile of completed craft items into another box so he couldn’t–you get the idea.

“Too busy laughing,” St. Anne said.

“That, too,” the others confessed.

“Hutch, why are you here?” Flamingo asked again, holding the squirming Foxy who was desperately trying to reach Hutch for just one more kiss. There were times when he thought the manic red dog was his biggest fan. Even Starsky never Frenched him with that much enthusiasm.

Taya gave Flamingo a disapproving look and said sweetly, “She means, what can we do for you, Hutch?”

“No, she doesn’t,” Flamingo snapped back. “The con’s less than a month away. We need to get back to work.”

That was when he glanced around the apartment. Usually he did knock when he needed to ask a favor of the neighbor ladies. It gave them time to race around and remove portraits of him and Starsky in embarrassing positions. But he’d always wondered what the conspicuously blank spots on the wall held. Since he hadn’t given them any warning this time, he finally found out. He was sorry he did. With an effort, he averted his eyes, focusing instead on the tables in the middle of the living room that contained all kinds of craft materials, a binding machine, tons of paper in various colors, zebra striped bags, and other items. It was easier to look there. There were some things man was not meant to know!

Glancing at the floor–possibly the safest place in the apartment for his eyes–he found himself staring at a blond, fur-covered footstool parked under one of the craft tables. He wondered why it wasn’t situated where someone could actually use it, when it stood up and waddled over to him. He jumped back a step in alarm until he realized it was just another dog. A small, oddly shaped pudgy little guy who was now looking up expectantly at him. He leaned down, and gave the little fellow a pat. What soft fur…!

“Scruffy!” Lorraine called. “I’m sorry, Hutch, he’s just looking for something to eat. He’s always on a diet!” She waved a carrot in the dog’s direction, and he immediately turned and waddled back to her, tail wagging excitedly.

“I’m…uh…sorry to interrupt. Interfere. Intercede?” he said, straightening. “No. Listen…I just came to ask Rosemary something….” His voice trailed off as everyone gaped at him, then slowly turned to stare at Rosemary, who was just edging her way back into the crowded room, sans dogs.

She smiled wanly and shrugged.

So it’s true. They haven’t had time to watch the monitors lately. Typical. One of the few times he and Starsky could get some actual privacy and Starsky’s in a snit about something.

“Go use my apartment,” Flamingo said impatiently. Foxy was close to escaping as Flamingo struggled to contain her.

“She means,” Taya said nicely, giving Flamingo a meaningful glare, “if you’d like to talk in private, no one’s in Flamingo’s apartment right now. And it’s quiet.” The barking hadn’t abated much, and Emily Dickenson–that is, Emma Abigail, was still circling Hutch’s legs while Keri tried to catch her.

“Good idea!” Rosemary agreed. “Flamingo’s place.”

“Someone give that man a blindfold,” Anne said drolly and everyone laughed again.

Hutch didn’t want to know why.

Hutch followed Rosemary down the hall to Flamingo’s apartment. He’d been here before, of course, to ask St. Anne’s advice, but the security cameras had always given the inhabitants fair warning. He stepped into Flamingo’s living room and stopped dead in his tracks. He ignored furniture, bookshelves, and other standard items as his eyes fixed on the walls, which seemed to be some kind of Louvre-esque dedication to Starsky and his love affair. The detail and talent of the artists who had created these homoerotic masterpieces was impressive. But the subject matter was intensely unnerving. Maybe being portrayed as Lego characters wasn’t such a bad idea.

Hutch stared at one of the least frightening pieces, a portrait of himself, where he was, thank God, clothed. However, he seemed to be dressed like a Viking with long braids that reached down his back. And, even when he was in his twenties and in shape, he had never, ever looked that good.

The piece next to it was completely mind blowing: it was Starsky, his physique equally augmented, only, this Starsky was naked and wearing manacles, his wrists bound in front. The Viking’s captive, Hutch couldn’t help but wonder, feeling a certain part of his anatomy twitch with helpless interest at the sheer eroticism of the work.

Taking a deep breath, Hutch jutted his finger at the chained Starsky and demanded, “Seriously?”

“Hey, he posed for it. Don’t blame me,” Rosemary answered. “Did you need something? I’ve got to get back to the con comm meeting.”

“He posed…!” Hutch sputtered, then forced himself to stop. He’d deal with Starsky directly about that. Later.

Remembering that he needed a favor, Hutch took another deep breath and focused on the woman before him. She looked so normal, a mix between hippie and Pre-Raphaelite, nothing to warn a person how… fast things could slip into the bizarre once you started a conversation with her. But he was out of options.

“What’s wrong, Hutch?” she prompted.

In for a penny, he thought. “It’s Starsk. He’s… well, I think he’s depressed. Or something… He’s not himself.”

“Are you feeding him soy meat products on the sly again?” Rosemary demanded.

“Yes, but, that’s not what he’s depressed about. You know how he can’t miss seeing the latest summer blockbuster movie.”

Rosemary nodded. “Uh-huh. I remember. Godzilla. Four times at the Imax. Does he have the DVD yet? Flamingo picked up the Blu-Ray–”

“No, no, that’s not it.” Hutch made a mental note to check their Amazon account. “I’m just concerned because I suggested we go see Guardians of the Galaxy this weekend-”

Rosemary grinned and said, “I am Groot.”

What? I’m a root? Hutch winced, hoping the side trip into the Ro-Verse wasn’t starting before he’d even detailed his problem. He decided to ignore the non sequiter for the moment. “Yes, well, with luck you can have that treated. But, when I mentioned to Starsky that we could see the film this weekend, he wasn’t interested.”

Ro’s whole demeanor changed. She looked alarmed. “What? That’s not possible.”

“That’s what I thought,” Hutch said, relieved that they were actually on the same page.

“How could he not be interested? There’s a barely dressed, nubile green woman in it and the movie uses all of his favorite music. This is serious.”

“Would I be here,” Hutch gestured at the walls of naked Starskys & Hutchs surrounding them, “if it wasn’t?”

“What did he say?” Rosemary asked.

“Well, I couldn’t translate half of what he said. He kept talking about Crimson Jones, that woman in Lucy. Doesn’t she play the green woman in Guardians? When they have all that makeup on, I can’t tell the difference–”

“Crimson Jones?” Rosemary looked pensive. “What’s Lucy? Did they make a bio-pic of Lucille Ball? Is it still playing? I’d love to see that! She’s my hero!”

Too late, Hutch realized he’d inadvertently veered them both into the Ro-verse and he wasn’t sure how to get out. In his experience, explaining things usually just made them worse.

“The movie has nothing to do with Lucille Ball,” he said calmly, trying to keep himself on track. “Lucy is a recent sci-fi movie about a woman who is forced to transport some new illegal drug in her body and it leaks out and lets her use her whole brain, not just ten percent–” He stopped abruptly. He’d gone too far. Closing his eyes, he sighed. He’d done it now.

“Who uses just ten percent of their brain?” Rosemary wondered. “And are we talking about the actress Red Joanie or the character Red Sonia?”

This was all Starsky’s fault. His partner was making him crazy. “Stop. I don’t think I’ve got her name right. But whoever she is, she’s Starsky’s latest celebrity crush and he’s got it pretty bad for her. We have to go see every movie she’s in, and she’s in a lot. Some of them are good, some, not so much. She might be in this latest movie…or not.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of her, Hutch. Not that that means anything. I haven’t heard of most of the people who are in movies these days, even when I’ve seen them. We can look her up on IMDb, but I don’t think she’s in Guardians of the Galactic Empire. That woman’s green, not red. Unless she’s playing the talking raccoon. But I think that was a guy’s voice. But who can tell these days? Is Starsky prejudiced against green women? Or does he have some weird preference for red ones?”

Hutch realized he might never get out of this apartment. Well, eventually, Flamingo would need to sleep here and she’d rescue him, but considering they were only a month away from the con, that could be sometime around four in the morning.

“Forget the movie and the actress and the…raccoon?” Hutch said, trying to remember what brought him here. “It’s more than his lack of interest in the latest movie. When I tried to get to the bottom of his funk, he started going on about all this stuff upsetting him on the Internet. He talked a lot about new nomenclature, using terms I’ve never heard him mention before, like monoamory, heteronormative, cisgender, and demisexuals-”

“I don’t understand. Is Starsky spending time online with fans who are sexually obsessed with Demi Moore?” Rosemary asked.

“I don’t think so,” Hutch answered carefully, suddenly afraid. “But I’m not positive. He rattled it off so fast and was so upset about everything–”

“You don’t want me to try and translate those terms for you, do you? ‘Cause I’m probably not the best person around for reality checks….”

“No, nothing that extreme,” Hutch quickly answered. “It all started when he was trying to follow that actress from Lucy.” Remembering something else, Hutch said brightly, “Oh, yeah! She also played the Black Widow in a couple of other movies. Maybe you saw those?”

Rosemary nodded, obviously trying to build a picture of the problem. “Well, whatever is bothering him, I’ve gotta say–green women, red women, black woman–Starsky’s gotta get credit for being color-blind when it comes to appreciating women.”

This is not helping, Hutch thought, getting depressed himself. Exhaling in a rush, he talked faster. “Well, apparently, he was having trouble following that actress because there were just so many different places fans were posting things about her – Twitter, Tumblr, DeviantArt , MySpace…” He paused. “Scratch MySpace. Not there. But lots of other places.” Hutch couldn’t remember all the names.

“Yeah, I had that problem when I started following Turlough O’Carolyn.”

“Is he playing the raccoon in Guardians of the Galactic Discourse?” Hutch guessed.

“No, he’s an Irish harper.” She didn’t even hesitate at the sharp right turn in the conversation.

Music! At least this was an area he could understand. “One of the guys who taught you in that music camp you went to last summer?” He’d been meaning to ask Rosemary about that trip, but hadn’t had a chance. Starsky had forbidden him to have any more interaction with his Fingerpicking FaceBook groups after the Singing Policeman vid went viral two years ago. But Hutch really missed the music scene and was seriously considering accompanying Rosemary on her next trip.

Rosemary looked at him as if he’d lost his mind and answered in a tone that clearly wondered How could anyone ask such a stupid question? “No, Hutch. Turlough O’Carolyn has been dead for nearly three hundred years.”

Okay. Back in the Ro-Verse that quickly.

“Oh,” Hutch said dully. His mean streak getting the better of him, he asked snidely, “Is there a lot of Internet activity for a guy who’s been dead for three centuries?”

Her eyes grew sharper. “A lot more than there is for Vic Rankin!”

He winced. “Touché. Anyway, how did you fix your problem?”

“I didn’t. I had to get help. So I went to Huggy. He clued me into some programs that marketers use to track their products, which helped, and set up some Google alerts for me.”

“Huggy?” Hutch echoed.

“He’s got quite a lucrative Internet business. You might want to talk to him. If he could find me a man who’s been dead for three hundred years, I’m sure he could figure out how Starsky could follow his Red Lucy woman. She isn’t even dead yet and, well, she’s actually popular.” She said the last word as if it were an expletive, which, perhaps it was to people who followed three-hundred-year-old dead dudes. Then she added more kindly, “…Though I don’t think we should hold that against her.”

Hutch knew better than to ask, but he had to know. “Hold what against her–the fact that she isn’t dead or that she’s popular?”

“Both.” She grinned. “Do you need help with anything else?”

“No, thanks, Rosemary. That was surreal, I mean, really helpful.”

“Great.” She gave him a quick hug, then scurried off before he realized what happened. “See you later, Hutch.” The door shut behind her and he found himself in Flamingo’s apartment, alone with Flamingo’s cats and all her toys and art. Art he’d never been allowed to see before.

Hutch stared at the graphic pieces for a moment, allowing the positions in one or two of them to sink into his memory for future exploration with Starsky, then realized two cats were glaring at him from a high bookshelf. The black Mehitable and gray and white Archy sat, tails swishing, among multiple pairs of Starsky and Hutch dolls engaged in various positions of coital bliss and a collection of toy Torinos. To express their annoyance at his presence, Archy swiped at a tiny Torino, sending it crashing to its doom. The message was clear. You need to go.

He turned to do just that when he realized another cat, a handsome black and white one, was twining dangerously around his ankles. Ah, Hutch thought, Flamingo’s cats weren’t glaring at him. Taya’s cat, Murphy, must’ve snuck into the apartment out of curiosity, invading their sanctuary.

“Murphy,” Hutch said to the cat, “you must be my spirit animal, because your Law is ruling my life.”

Making a small “braow” sound, Murphy rose up on his hind legs. His friendliness hard to resist, Hutch leaned down to stroke his plush fur, and as he did, Murphy stretched up on tiptoes to bat Hutch’s nose gently.

Hutch heard the tinkling crash of another plastic car.

“Gotta go, Murph,” Hutch said with a final stroke. “I need to wake up my partner. We’ve got a Bear to corner.”

Starsky and Hutch walk into a bar, Starsky thought to himself, which is the beginning of a really bad joke or…. He stopped dead just inside the threshold until Hutch ran into his back, nearly knocking them over. What the hell–?

Nothing looked the way he remembered it. What had once been the dim interior of the Pits, populated by street regulars and a fairly seedy clientele nursing glasses of beer, wine, or mixed drinks, or feasting on Huggy Specials–which were nothing more than regular hamburgers–was now a bright and bustling center of modern trends in food and drink: micro-brewed beer, wine coolers, and exotic mixed drinks with lots of fruit and little umbrellas. Glancing around, Starsky saw blackboards filled with daily specials: bison burgers, grilled salmon, vegan collard greens, falafel… Technology was everywhere. Young people sat at tables with laptops, tablets, smartphones, everyone working on something with focused diligence. Starsky had a sudden appreciation for Steve Rogers’ consternation when he woke up in the 21st Century.

As one of the wait staff–a lovely mocha-skinned young woman clothed in more tattoos than fabric on her muscular frame–attempted to guide them to a table, Huggy sauntered up. “Well, well, well, look what fate has brought across my threshold this fine and lovely day! I’ll take care of them, Kristopf.”

Starsky reevaluated the young–woman? man? person? as she smiled at them and handed Huggy their menus. Hutch elbowed him to bring his attention back to their host.

Huggy was dressed in pale linen loose-fitting pants, deck shoes, and a tight-fitting tie-dyed t-shirt in shades of orange that read in bold black letters NET NEUTRALITY.

“It’s great to see you, Huggy!” Hutch said. “We’ve been a little busy with work. But I didn’t think it’d been that long since we’ve been to the Pits… You’ve made some changes. I like it! New name, too!”

Starsky spied the name Hutch was referring to in acid-washed type on a huge chaotic art piece on the back wall that stated “Confidential Informants Arena.” CIA–cute. Starsky stared at Hutch in dismay. Some changes…? “Are you kidding me? This looks like a Starbucks on acid! What happened here? This isn’t the Pits!”

“Actually,” Huggy said smugly, “it is. The Pits as you remember it, Starsky my man, can be found just beyond those doors–” He jabbed a thumb behind him toward a set of dark double doors at the end of the café’s long central room. “We keep it exactly as it was in the 70s just for…old timers who are more comfortable there.”

Starsky started to splutter. “Old timers! Who are you callin’–” Then he stopped. Huggy had a point. He would be more comfortable in the dark interior of a classically-styled Pits hunkered over a beer whose name he could pronounce and getting served by a recognizable Anita or Donna or any of Huggy’s usual staff. Isn’t that what he’d been complaining to Hutch about earlier today?

Then he realized Hutch and Huggy were exchanging meaningful glances. Oh, shit. I’ve been set up. “Okay, I know that look. What are you two up to?”

Huggy led them to a vacant table in a private corner and put down their menus. Waving them to their seats, he signaled to one of his staff as he said, “Wha’chu talkin’ ‘bout, Starsky? I haven’t seen or spoken to Hutch in forever. I was beginning to think you two didn’t love your ol’ buddy, Huggy Bear, anymore.”

“Don’t jive me, Huggy,” Starsky complained. “It’s old fashioned.”

“He’s telling the truth, Starsk,” Hutch insisted. “I haven’t talked to Huggy since the last time we conferred with him over a case and that was a couple weeks ago.”

Starsky narrowed his gaze at Huggy. “You’ve been talkin’ to the Neighbor Ladies, haven’t you?”

Huggy joined them, sitting at the table as Kristopf showed up with a round of beers in tall Pilsner glasses. The brew had a perfect head and was so cold the glasses were dripping condensation.

Starsky eyed the glasses suspiciously, but his first sip was crisp and clean and very refreshing. Fine, but I ain’t eatin’ falafel.

Huggy nodded after drinking some from his own glass. “It’s possible that some intel from Venice Place has come my way. What of it? Am I not still your main source of what’s goin’ down in this town? Am I not still the man with his ear to the ground, his nose in the wind, his eyes on the horizon–”

“It’s bad enough you turned this place into a fern bar without ferns,” Starsky groused, “now you’re making yourself sound more like a hunting dog than a confidential informant.”

“Hmpf,” Huggy snorted. “I see my inside information is COH-rect as usual. It sounds to me like my man Starsky here has the Out Of Step Blues. What brought all this on?”

Starsky just glowered and stared at his beer.

“Can you believe this?” Hutch said unhappily, indicating Starsky. “My very nice life has been turned upside down all because of…of…something as silly as Lucy.”

Starsky turned to Hutch in dismay. Lucy? What–?

Huggy looked equally confused. “Lucy? You mean Lucille Ball? My sources hadn’t said anything about that. You’re one up on me, now. Man, Starsky that redhead really is Retro, dude! No wonder you’re feelin’ out of step with the world. Though I think there’s a retrospective of her work comin’ up on COZI TV on cable later this month.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Starsky asked Hutch.

Hutch started stammering. “Not Lucille Ball. Lucy. The actress from that crazy movie. What’s her name… some color thing… like Red Sonia…no… Crimson in Clover. That’s not it. Come on, Starsky, you know what I’m talking about!”

Starsky had never known less about what Hutch was going on about. He was clueless. Red Sonia?

“Ooohhh,” Huggy said as if he suddenly saw the light. “You’re talkin’ ‘bout Scarlett Johansson! That fine specimen of female perfection. The Black Widow! My fav-oh-RITE Avenger. She can avenge me anytime.”

Starsky had to grin as Huggy waxed poetic about his favorite actress. They slapped palms together and laughed.

“Right, right,” Hutch mumbled, as if trying to remember the woman’s name for future reference. “Scarlett. Scarlett Johnson…no! Johansson!” He looked up with an intent expression, as if trying to clear up a salient point in a case they were working. “She’s in that new movie, Galactic Discourse, right?”

“If you are talking about Guardians of the Galaxy, then I’m afraid, my friend, you are wrong,” Huggy said. “If you are talking about Galactic Discourse, the zine…then I’m not following you at all. The magnificent Zoe Saldana stars in the movie currently at the Rialto, not Scarlett Johansson. The only thing those two women have in common is a wealth of incomparable talent and beauty, but they have completely different body types, acting styles, and they’re not even the same race.”

Hutch nodded, as if mentally taking notes. “That’s right. I had that backwards. The woman in the movie is green. Totally different race.”

Huggy stared at Hutch, concerned. “Hutch! You’re a better observer than that, my man.” He turned to Starsky. “What happened to him?”

Starsky shook his head. “He spent twenty minutes talking to Rosemary. Alone. He hasn’t been the same since.”

Huggy nodded sagely. “I dig it. Been there. Done that. Took a few days to get over it. He’ll recover.”

“I hope,” said Starsky.

“Hey,” said Hutch, clearly tired of people talking about him as if he weren’t there, “this isn’t about me!” He shook a Hutchinson finger in Starsky’s direction. “This is about you and the Funk-That-Will-Not-Die! That all started, supposedly, over a woman with red in her title–”

“You mean red in her ledger?” Huggy asked.

“I mean in her name! Miss Scarlett Jones and Starsky’s inability to track down her every last image, film clip, quotation, review, and gif.” He pronounced the last with a hard “g” sound.

“JIF,” Huggy and Starsky immediately corrected him.

“What,” Hutch said, confused. “She advertises peanut butter, too?”

Huggy stared open-mouthed.

“He’s been like this ever since–” Starsky said softly, as he rubbed a hand over his face.

“It’s pronounced,” Huggy said slowly, “JIF like in the peanut butter, not GIF with a hard ‘g’, Hutch. We’re just tryin’ to help.”

“Well, stop helping me! I’m fine…if a little confused. I’m sure that’ll clear up. It was bad enough I got help from Rosemary, I had to talk to her in Flamingo’s uncensored apartment–”

Huggy let out a long, low whistle. “I bet that was a shock.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Starsky mumbled. “I’ll be explaining my way out of that for months to come.”

“I bet.” Huggy must’ve decided to take matters into his own hands. He did have a business to run, after all. Possibly more than one. “Look, Starsky, from what my man, Hutch, here is fumbling to explain, and from what I’ve been told by my other reliable sources–”

Starsky rolled his eyes and considered spray painting the lens of every last camera in their apartment.

“–it sounds to me like you just need a little help in the technology department. Gathering information in this day of public and private scrutiny can be challenging. Even the Bear has come face to face with an onslaught of information overload. How to find the info you need on a daily basis is the number one challenge of our modern age. But I think I can help you.”

Starsky narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Huggy’s help could be more complicated than the Neighbor Ladies, and there were never any chocolate chip cookies involved. And sooner or later, the bill would come due.

“Give him a chance, Starsky,” Hutch implored.

“I’m serious, Starsk,” Huggy said. “First off, there are things out there you can do right now that might be all you need. Start with a Google Alert. Simple, straightforward, and likely to pick up a good 60 percent of Ms. Johansson’s most relevant items. Depending on how obsessed you are, there are commercial programs you can use that monitor social media and will analyze how many mentions your search topic is getting. Like TalkWalker dot com, Twilert, Twazzup–all of which will keep track of your current obsession for you. That’s stuff you can do on your own that don’t take much effort.”

Starsky shook his head. “Well, thanks, Huggy, and I’ll look into those programs. If they save me some time, that would be great. But I need more than something that will just collect information. These days, when I’m on the Internet, I feel– well, like the way I felt walking through your door. Out of step. Lost. Like things are moving way too fast. Too fast for someone like me. Even when I find the information I’m looking for, it frequently comes with a vernacular I’ve never heard. I think I’ve finally gotten too old for this modern world.”

Huggy recoiled as if he’d been struck. “You have got to be kidding!”

“Finally,” Hutch said as if relieved, “we get to the real problem. He’s been like this for days! I can’t get through to him. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

Huggy leaned forward, looking concerned. “Starsky. You’re the most with-it, up-to-date dude I know, besides myself. You’ve never been afraid to sample the latest technology trends and social issues. What’s throwing you all of a sudden?”

Starsky sat back feeling obstinate. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Huggy looked at Hutch for help. Hutch sighed. “He keeps running into terminology–mostly about relationships and sexual identity–and is having trouble keeping up with it. He seems mostly rattled about how to define us in the new vernacular.”

Huggy made an amused sound and chuckled. “Starsky, the world has had trouble defining your relationship with my Viking brother for decades now.”

“Not funny,” Starsky grumbled. “When did it get so complicated, Hug? And why? What do we need all these new terms for anyway?”

Huggy nodded sagely, as if he were finally twigging on Starsky’s distress. “Well, living languages are fluid things, my man. They change as the needs of the people who use them change. What a lot of our more conservative associates like to call ‘political correctness’ is often just peoples’ attempts to be polite–to regard others in the way they would like to be regarded. People should have the right to define themselves the way they want. That’s why we will always need new terms.”

Starsky sat back, listening to his friend, trying to be open to what he was telling him.

Huggy nodded. “Yeah, the old terms were pretty narrow. Take the term ‘heterosexual’ as an example. Well, the dictionary defines that merely as a sexual attraction to the opposite sex. There’s no attempt to define the term in regards to emotional attraction or attachment. And that’s just one example.” Huggy smiled at Starsky. “That’s somethin’ you should appreciate, my man. It’s what we’ve all been fightin’ for, isn’t it? Marriage equality. Social equality for all people. Young people today are defining themselves in ways that feels right to them and making terms that fit. They aren’t willing to hide in some closet just to make others comfortable. I know you can dig that, Starsky, ‘cause you were pretty tired of your own closet not that long ago.”

That hit home for Starsky, and he found himself relaxing a little.

Until Hutch leaned forward and said quietly, “I think Starsky is worried because he’s not ready to define himself as a…” he looked around to be sure they weren’t being overheard, “…a zucchini.”

Starsky glared at Hutch as Huggy blinked for a moment, then burst out laughing. As Hutch shrugged helplessly, clearly having no idea what he’d said wrong, Huggy finally got himself under control.

“Look, you two,” Huggy said, “that term refers to people in relationships with strong emotional bonds that fall outside the typical romantic relationship, but are a lot closer than just being friends. Like, if someone asks two super-close friends, ‘Are you two dating?’ one of them might answer, ‘No. We’re zucchinis.'”

Hutch just blinked. “You think that makes it clearer?”

“I’ll tell you what makes it clearer,” Huggy said. “You two haven’t been in a relationship like that since you became detectives. Maybe even earlier. You were soul mates and partners from the beginning. And those are terms that will never go out of style. But you progressed beyond that long ago. Remember, I’ve caught you both doin’ the do more times than I care to remember. You most definitely are NOT zucchinis.”

“Does that make you feel better?” Hutch asked Starsky.

“Which? Bein’ reminded that Huggy keeps catchin’ us in the act, or that I don’t have to think of myself as a vegetable?” Starsky smiled at his partner. “I guess it does.”

“Y’know, Starsky, when you’re unsure of the terminology you bump into while vicariously enjoying the charms of Miss Johansson, you can always turn to the Urban Dictionary to help you out.”

“There’s a dictionary for that?” Hutch said in surprise.

“But I might have something that would be even more beneficial to my brothers-at-heart,” Huggy said. “My staff has designed a new app we’re getting ready to release in beta. You can help us test it. I’m callin’ it WurdOnDeStreet.” He wrote the title out for them on a napkin. “Microsoft gets cranky if you try callin’ anything else ‘Word.’ If you use my app, Starsky m’man, it will gather up the disparate forms of information on your crush of the moment and collect it all for you in one neat tidy package. And as you peruse the collection and find terminology you’re unfamiliar with, it will explain it for you just by hovering over it. Search engine and annotator in one tidy function to help any of my not-so-hip brethren stay up to speed.” He pulled out his phone, swiped the screen, tapped something into it, then showed them the interface. A search for Zoe Saldana scrolled past.

Hutch leaned over his shoulder as they looked over the information. “What a lovely woman,” Hutch said. “Even when she’s green.”

Starsky just gave him a look. “You’re not allowed to talk to Rosemary without me ever again.”

“I agree,” Hutch said way too quickly.

“So, how much for this amazing little app,” Starsky asked Huggy suspiciously.

“For beta-testing–nada. Once it’s released as an app, it’ll just run a few dollars. Anyone can afford it.”

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other. Finally, Hutch asked, “This thing doesn’t collect personal information, does it, Hug? Like credit card numbers?”

Huggy held a hand over his heart. “You wound me to the quick! It is strictly legit. You think I’d be asking you fine members of the Bay City Police Department to test it otherwise! Give me a little credit.”

Starsky nodded and pulled out his phone. “You get a lot of credit, Hug. You gave me a lot to think about. I’ll test your app.” He turned to Hutch and nudged his shoulder with his own. “And I’m feeling better. Good enough to take you up on your offer to go see Ms Saldana in all her green glory. We can catch the 8 o’clock showing of Guardians of the Galaxy.” At Hutch’s dismayed expression, Starsky said, “Hey, it was your idea!”

“I was desperate at the time. Doesn’t anyone make movies out of real books anymore?” Starsky was about to interrupt the anti-comic-book-movie diatribe when Hutch none-too-graciously conceded. “Okay, okay. I’ll go. On one condition. That this weekend we go see something more thought provoking. Something with more depth and social relevance than a talking tree and a walking raccoon.”

Huggy laughed. “I am Groot!”

“I think Rosemary is looking into a treatment for that,” Hutch said without missing a beat. “Come on, Starsky! And I won’t complain once about the Green Galactic Guards.”

Starsky groaned. “Hutch, your movies are like watching paint dry! Which one is this? Please tell me the art theater isn’t having an Ingrid Bergman revival!”

“Starsky, I think you’re referring to Ingmar Bergman,” Huggy said.

“Ingrid, Ingmar,” Starsky said dismissively, “Hutch knows what I mean.”

Hutch nodded. “Yeah, I know. I wish they were, for either Bergman, but no. I’d like to see a new film that’s having a limited release. The New Your Times said it’s an allegorical treatise on societal restrictions combined with action-adventure with a sci-fi premise. I think you’d actually like it, Starsk. The guy who played Captain America is in it, but you can hardly recognize him. And Rotten Tomatoes gave it a 95 percent rating, and they only gave Godzilla 73 percent, and you loved that.”

Starsky sighed. This was the most enthusiastic he’d seen Hutch in days. He had been making life pretty difficult for the Big Blond lately. Maybe if they went to see this snorer of a film and Hutch loved it, he might even get laid afterward. That would do more for his mood than anything else. And with the neighbor ladies still hip deep in SHareCon preparations, they might even have some privacy. “Okay, partner! That sounds fair. What’s it called?”

“Snowpiercer.” Hutch looked incredibly pleased.

“Oh,” said Huggy brightly, “that’s the film by that avant-guard director from South Korea, Bong Joon-ho. I saw that last night with Kristopf. You’ll like it, Starsk. It’s wild! Just your type of flick. You won’t be bored. Even without Scarlett Johansson.”

“Well, that’s a recommendation if I ever heard one,” said Starsky. “Let’s do it.”

“Yeah,” Huggy continued as Hutch lifted his beer in a silent toast to his partner and took a long drink. “It’s an amazing story, and even more interesting when you realize it was inspired by a 1980s French graphic novel.”

“Graphic novel?” Starsky said. “You mean–a comic book?”

Hutch spewed his beer and Starsky howled in laughter, while Huggy just shook his head and complained, “I will never understand you two if I live to be a thousand.”

end

References

How to Use Google Alerts: 11 Steps (with Pictures) – wikiHow

http://www.wikihow.com/Use-Google-Alerts

Talkwalker Alerts – The free alternative to Google Alerts

http://www.talkwalker.com/en/alerts/

Twilert (Twilert) | Twitter

Tweets by Twilert

Twazzup (twazzup) | Twitter

Tweets by twazzup

Urban Dictionary

http://www.urbandictionary.com/