When teenage boys grow up...

We’re looking at switching to Liferay (an open source enterprise portal solution thingy – I’m very technical) at work.

While browsing the forums in the community section of the company’s page, I noticed something... unexpected. The ranks they use for forum members are all based on the Star Wars ‘verse – youngling, padawan, Jedi knight, etc.

Though I am a former member of the Cult of Lucas , this does not fill me with a sense of calmness and well being.

Baby, come back...

I've got iTunes on random and all of a sudden Donna's Theme from the Doctor Who Series Three soundtrack starts playing. I do nothing for three minutes and fourteen seconds. I just sit in my seat and grin.

So Long and Thanks for all the Fish

“Nothing, just... Come on inside.” He leads me downstairs to his room and I sit on the couch, tense and unnerved. Jeremy almost never worries – certainly not about me – and I think it must be something truly horrible for him to be watching me with such care.

He takes a seat across the room and rubs his forehead. “Douglas Adams is dead.”

My jaw drops open. Words come out. Lots of incoherent syllables and, then, “No. Can’t be. It has to be a mistake.”

“Hun, he died of a heart attack.” Jeremy stands up, takes a half step towards me, and then changes his mind.

“But – but he’s only 49. It’s gotta be a different Douglas Adams.” Jeremy shakes his head. “He’s really dead?” I ask, my voice small and trembling.

Jeremy nods and I burst into tears.

After awhile, after the torrent subsides, Jeremy lets me sit on his lap as I scroll through a news story he bookmarked for me. A black and white photograph of Douglas smiles up at me and my heart feels like it’s breaking a little bit. “There’ll never be another book,” I whisper and the words feel heavy.

There will never be a line I haven’t read before – something new to underline and memorize. Douglas Adams is dead and all I can do is stare at the screen in disbelief.

The most important meal of the day

“Please Daddy?”

My father sighed. “Pumpkin,” he said in the patient tones reserved for difficult five year olds, “you don’t even like that kind of cereal.”

We walked through the turnstile and into the grocery store. It was crowded and he made me take his hand. “But Daddy...”

He looked down at me, my friendly giant of a father. “It’ll taste like Cheerios,” he warned. “Are you going to eat something that tastes like Cheerios?”

Stupidly enough, I shook my head. At five, I was not yet an accomplished liar.

“We can’t buy food that you’re not going to eat.”

I realized my mistake. “I’ll eat it! I’ll eat it!” I insisted, too late.

My father shook his head. I dragged him to the cereal aisle and pointed out the masks on the back of the box but he was unmoved. He thought, I’m certain, that there was a lesson in this.

The next day, we visited my aunt and uncle. My cousin greeted me wearing a cardboard Luke Skywalker mask. I kicked him and burst into tears.

The Superhero

His back was too me but he must have been four or five. He trudged along, holding his mother’s hand, completely un-phased by the busy street. He had a head full of blond curls that Colin Baker would have envied and he was clad in a Spider-Man costume.

From their unhurried pace and the shopping bags in his mother’s other hand, it seemed clear that this was just an ordinary day – they weren’t on their way to a party or a special event. It was Tuesday and, in a five year old’s world, that was reason enough to don a Spider-Man outfit.

So much for my happy ending

“My ending was better.” I kicked at a pebble in the parking lot.

“Your ending?” one of James friends asked. There were five boys in total and I couldn’t keep their names straight.

“The ending I had planned out in my head before seeing the movie – the one I thought might have occurred to Lucas.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Instead we got an overdramatic ending that messes with the continuity of the original trilogy.”

All six boys blinked and I wondered if I were talking an alien language.

“Continuity?” one ventured.

“Luke asks Leia is she remembers her mother – her real mother – when they’re in the Ewok village. He makes a point of stressing the word real, implying that Leia knew that her adoptive mother was not her real mother.”

“Maybe her adoptive mother died and her father remarried?”

“Or maybe Lucas can’t be bothered to line things up properly.” I shot James a dark look. Where did he find these guys and why couldn’t we have gone on our own. As usual, he was trying – and failing – not to laugh at me.

“So what was your ending?” one of the braver boys asked.

“Simple. Bail Organa turns out to have loved her for years and he sweeps her off to Alderaan. She never recovers and dies a few years later.”

“Which one was Bail Orgian?” this from the complete novice who had only started watching with The Phantom Menace.

“Jimmy Smits,” I replied, gently.

The others groaned. “No way. No way in hell.”

“No way what?”

“No way that guy could get Natalie Portman!”

It was my turn to blink. “It’s Jimmy Smits,” I said. They just looked at me – six pairs of blank eyes. “Jimmy Smits,” I repeated.

They shook their heads. They were adamant. In their minds there was no way a guy like Jimmy could land a girl like Natalie. “This is why none of you have girlfriends,” I muttered under my breath.

It was months before James let me near his friends again.

Put on the shirt and toss back a mint julep...

The New York Times Book Review of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil claimed that it ”might be the first true-crime book that makes the reader want to book a bed and breakfast for an extended weekend at the scene of the crime.”

It’s a pretty accurate review. I know nothing of Savannah, Georgia other than what I’ve read in the pages of John Berendt’s book. Despite that, I have a fierce desire to go there. For years, I was on the mailing list of the Savannah College of Art and Design and I was green with envy when I found out that a former frenemy had moved there.

That’s why, when we visited a thrift shop this morning, I zeroed in on a horrible lilac t-shirt with black and white photographs of the city on the front. It was garish – yet oddly genteel – and the only thing that kept me from buying it was a disturbing mystery stain.

Did you hit your head when you fell from that shooting star?

“You know, this isn’t a bad song.”

My boyfriend’s step faltered. “What did you just say?”

I did an unsteady tap step. “This song – it’s alright.”

He held the door open, eyeing me suspiciously, as we exited into the bright sunshine. “That’s what I thought you said. Kat, you hate this song.”

I shrugged. “It just took me a little while to get used to it – “tell me, did you sail across the sun...””

Scott fumbled for his keys, a pained expression on his face. “Yes – I know how it goes.”

I titled my head to the side. “Is liking Drops of Jupiter worse than liking those Nickleback songs?” I asked.

“It’s a little less comprehensible given that you’ve hated it for years.”

I bit my lip. “I know. It’s just there was this fanvid...”

Scott smirked.

“It was really good,” I insisted. “I didn’t realize how perfectly that song fits Mickey’s relationship with Rose.”

He smirked some more.

“It really was perfect.” I insisted. “And at least I haven’t downloaded the song.”

“Yet.”

There was no point in denying it. “Yet,” I agreed.

You paid how much for it?

"Do you want to watch the rest of Asphalt Jungle?"

I shook my head and reached for the HMV bag I had left on the coffee table. "Look what I got!" I exclaimed as I hauled Queen of the Damned from inside the plastic depths.

Scott frowned. "I thought you tried to watch that once and only made it five minutes in?"

"Yes but that was before I found out that Paul McGann played David Talbot." I frowned. "To be honest, he's not exactly what I had pictured but that's alright. Mindless fun ahoy!"

"Errr. We still have half of Asphalt Jungle to get through."

"Mindless fun!"

Scott looked around, searching for anything. "I have an episode of Celebrity Family Fued with the casts of Three's Company and The Ropers."

I sighed. "You really don't want to watch this, do you?"

"Not even a little."

Big hair and trashy clothes - you know what that means

I’m trying not to look in their direction but it’s hard – really hard. The ex and his new girlfriend. Her hair is too big, I think, uncharitably.

Bree loops over and hands me a plastic cup full of punch. “That her?” she asked with a nod in their direction.

I sip the punch. “Yup.”

“She has big hair.”

I nod. “I noticed.”

“She’s clearly a Negaverse plant.”

I turn to face my friend. “You think so?”

“Definitely.”

I hide my smile in the plastic cup. “Thanks.”

You may watch it, but do you get it?

“That was Brent?”

Kay nodded. We were standing in the parking lot of my sister’s apartment building, helping her load all of her worldly possessions into the back of a van. Her someday brother-in-law had dropped off a box and sped out of the parking lot without a word.

I shook my head. Though I had never met him, I had heard – repeatedly – of his love for Torchwood and Doctor Who. “I don’t think he’s really a Doctor Who fan.”

Kay laughed. "You can’t know that – besides, he’s seen every episode.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt he’s seen them – he just doesn’t really get them. Otherwise, he would have offered to help.”

Kay nodded. “The Doctor always helps.”

I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Maybe this particular round of packing is a fixed point in history. Maybe he really wanted to help but knew that it would rip the universe to shreds.”

Kay and I looked at each other and grinned. “Nah.”

A not-so-special edition

“I knew they had the time wrong,” I grumbled as we milled about in the theatre lobby, our boots wet with slush. “If the original is two hours, the special edition is obviously going to be too long to schedule showings for seven and nine pm.”

My cousin shrugged. “You were the one that had to go opening night.”

I grinned. “I was, wasn’t I?” I grabbed his arm. “This is going to be GREAT. You’ve never seen any of them in theatres and I’ve only ever seen Jedi on the big screen.” I bounced lightly on the balls of my feet.

James rolled his eyes. “Yes, it’s cool – very cool – please keep your voice down.”

They finally opened the theatre doors and we claimed our seats – middle of the theatre, middle of the row.

We sat in silence, eyes glued to the screen. My mouth may have been hanging open.

And then...

“What the fuck was that!?!” I clamped a hand over my mouth in horror – even though it’s the late show, there are kids in the audience. “What was that?” I repeated, in a whisper.

“Greedo shooting first,” James replied.

I nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

I slid down in my seat and crossed my arms over my chest. I didn’t speak for the rest of the movie. I didn’t speak, hours later, as we wormed our way up the aisle and through the lobby.

“So what did you think?” James eventually asked, trepidation on his face.

“That! He! That! What! Gah!”

James nodded as I sputtered. “Do you still want to see Empire?”

“No!” I practically spat out the word and he laughed.

I still haven’t seen the other two special editions.

They seek him here, they seek him there....

I hoisted myself up onto the empty armchair. My dad was sitting on the couch, watching a movie. I studied the screen. “They’re in jail?” I asked.

My father nodded.

“How come?”

“Because they had lots of money and there were people who didn’t have any money who thought that wasn’t fair,” my father explained. That sentence probably ranks as one of the most stripped down explanations of the French Revolution in the twentieth century. For a six year old, it made just enough sense.

I stared in fascination at the guillotine on screen. “Did they really cut off the people’s heads?”

My father turned to gauge how upset I was. “Yup. Did you want to go back upstairs?”

I shook my head vehemently. This was cool.

So began a love affair that would last at least five years. That’s right, at the tender age of six, I became completely enamoured with The Scarlet Pimpernel (1982, Anthony Andrews & Jane Seymour). The movie was a swashbuckling tale of a dandy who spirited French prisoners away from Madame Guillotine while hiding his identity behind a foppish facade. What six year old could resist that?

My father had taped it – an act my mother would later bemoan – and I began watching it three or four times a week. I was obsessed with everything: the costumes, the intrigue, the hair – I loved it all. Mostly, though, I loved Percy.

Countless times, I closed my eyes and pictured that heart-breaking scene in the library. I was Marguerite, facing away from Percy – the Pimpernel – as he put his hand on my shoulder and gently squeezed. Twenty-three years later, I can still feel that phantom hand.

My own elusive Pimpernel.

There can be only one...

I was flat on my stomach, stretched out on the floor of the family room, rummaging through the bottom cupboard of the TV stand – I was desperate. I pushed myself to my feet and darted to the bottom of the basement stairs. “Mom!” I bellowed.

No reply. I ran up the stairs. There were only nine minutes left.

“Mom,” I panted, as I burst into the kitchen. “Are we out of blank tapes?”

“Are there any downstairs?”

“No.”

“Did you check the closet?”

“Shit!” I raced downstairs and was back in the kitchen a moment later. “None.”

“Then we’re out.”

“But I have to tape today’s episodes – they’re really important.”

“Can’t you go to the store?”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s on in five minutes.”

My mother sighed, “You’ll just have to tape over something.”

I ran to my room and slid to a stop in front of the bookcase. A dozen tapes were neatly labelled and resting on the top shelf. All were filled with episodes of Sailor Moon – all except one. I picked up the tape on the far left and bit my lip. The tape was labelled in careful blue letters: Doctor Who Movie.

“Damn.” My eyes darted to the alarm clock next to the bed. Three minutes left. The tape felt heavy in my hand. How much would I regret taping over it? How much would I regret not taping those episodes of Sailor Moon?

It was an unhappy choice but I couldn’t have both. I headed back to the family room and stuck the tape in the VCR. That night, I crossed out “Doctor Who” and wrote in “Sailor Moon eps ?? - ??”.

More than a decade later, I can’t remember which episodes I taped that day. I’ve since resorted to watching clips of Paul McGann on YouTube.

In my day, everyone knew he was the bad guy...

“I did something horrible the other night.”

I looked up from the brochure I was working on. Jasmine, usually so calm and composed, was fidgeting. “What did you do?”

“I let my son watch Revenge of the Sith.”

“Ah.” I nodded, knowingly. “How old is he?”

“Six.”

I whistled. “Ouch.” After seeing Sith in theatres, I had warned all of my friends with kids under the age of eleven to steer clear unless they could watch and evaluate first.

Jasmine shook her head. “It really upset him. He always wants to be Anakin when the kids play Jedi.”

“It’s not your fault,” I assured her. “You didn’t know.” Though you might have suspected after he slaughtered that village of sand people in the last movie, I silently added.

She said something else and I nodded, but my mind was already elsewhere. I was thinking that her story perfectly illustrated one of the biggest hurdles faced by the prequels. It wouldn’t have mattered if the stories were flawless (they weren’t) or if the films were executed perfectly (see note on stories), it would have been difficult for me to emotionally invest myself in Darth Vader – and we all know that’s what little Ani is going to become.

One film showing Anakin’s descent into darkness would have been interesting. Three films relying on me cheering for him as the anti-hero just didn’t sit right.

About Flirting with Fandom

I have an obsessive personality. When I discover something that I like, I tend to go overboard in my affection (this has frightened quite a few boys). References will work their way into conversations, music will blare out of car windows, and DVDs will be thrust upon the willing.

A few months ago, over at the wonderful Doctor Who LiveJournal community, I started chronicling conversations and events which would suddenly– to the amusement and confusion of coworkers and family – take a turn towards Doctor Who.

The posts were tremendous fun to write and people seemed to enjoy them but I couldn’t help but wonder if I didn’t have more stories to share, after all, Doctor Who is hardly my first crush. And so Flirting with Disaster was born (some day it will expect me to clothe it, feed it, and send it to university where it will meet and mingle with much smarter blogs).

FWD is intended as a collection of anecdotes and misadventures surrounding various infatuations held over the past thirty years– from the Mighty Mouse costume I had when I was four to the day I swore that I would switch teams and move to the UK for Donna Noble, Flirting with Fandom will contain a little bit of everything.

Frequently Asked Questions (as yet to be asked – I’m proactive)

Q. What do you mean “Flirting”? Aren’t you either in or out?
A. A few weeks ago, I walked into a comic shop where a heated discussion was taking place. I wandered around, eavesdropping on the conversation and caressing a copy of Scud: The Whole Shebang as I wondered if it was worth parting with $99. After five minutes, I realized that they were talking Star Wars. Yes, so minute were the details they were discussing that it took me – me who once vowed to seduce George – a full five minutes to realize that they were talking SW.

They were hardcore geeks, proof that I had spent my Star Wars years merely flirting with The Force.


Q. Wait! Some of these aren’t fandoms. How can a fandom pre-date message boards?
A. Oh we had our fandoms before the internet – we just thought we were crazy and alone.


Q. Is that you in the header?
A. No. That is the miracle of affordable stock photography.


Q. Who are all these other people?
A. While coworkers, friends, and former classmates will pop up, the regular cast includes:

Me – also known as Kat (in real life) and Devi (on LiveJournal, which may someday supplant real life).

The Boyfriend – Code name Scott
The Sister – Code name Sandra
The Cousin – Code name James
The Cousin's Wife - Code name Kay
The Ex – Code name Chip