No Room at the Inn- Crafting With the Quaids

no room
no room

And lo it came to pass, one Christmas Eve two wayward travelers found themselves exiled  in a strange land.  The comforts of the past -caviar, Belgian endive, bikini waxes, running water- all forfeit for a new life, a life on the run, from the cruel clutches of Johnny Law. It had been a hard year for Randy and Evi Quaid, a media circus born out of desperation, unpaid hotel room bills, lawsuits, and jail time.

As the holidays neared they just wanted to get their heads down, re-group, take stock of meager fare and plan, plan big for next year- the reunion tour, where Randy, re-born bursts naked from the ashes of his old husk of a career, a flaming phoenix of theatrical importance, the next David Hasselhoff.  This time, he'd bag that Golden Globe.  But for tonight?  Any port in the storm of the private hell they'd created would do.  It was a bleak time, we'd been living out of their Prius, me in the backseat with their mouthy Australian Shepard, Doji.  Long days spent driving from one rest stop to the next, playing endless rounds of "What's in Randy's Beard", late nights we'd spoon fighting over who'd cuddle Doji for warmth.

My mission had been to pull these lost lambs back into the fold, convert them with craft, let them find inner peace through self expression and maybe a little glitter.  Crafting on the lamb presents unique challenges, we were hurting for supplies and Evi was in a real bad head space.  One afternoon, I walked in on her in the ladies room, her face smudged with a fine white powder an empty packet of Cremora in one hand, I knew we were about to hit bottom.

On December 24th we drove as far as we could and yet Siberia was no where in site, the Prius finally ran out of juice and we limped to the side of the highway.  In a wild Canadian blizzard we walked from one hotel to the next, credit cards maxed, faces in the news, no one would take us in.  As we sat on the hood of the car, Evi fell to pieces, crying bitter tears, but something came over Randy, a look of divinity if you will and he described a dream he'd had the night before.

An angel had come to him, a sweet radiant creature, who'd said follow that star, the second one to the right.  So convinced of his vision we trudged back into the snowstorm until we found an abandoned mattress store, the back door miraculously unbolted.  Hunkering down for the night, Randy got out his pen knife and our last bar of soap, he fashioned a crude manger scene pictured above, and just for a moment, peace descended on our little tribe.