Feel free to scream, cry or run naked in the streets over this momentous occasion. I’ll wait. It’s a big deal or rather I assume it’s a big deal. Boy Wonder has talked about little else for a solid year, so it is clearly a matter of Earth-shattering importance. Not only did we have to watch the November 23 special and ponder Matt Smith’s regeneration, but also I suspect that before long, I will have to purchase the DVD commemorating this event on December 10.
The famed BBC show is the latest in a long line of obsessions my son has been fascinated by in his short life and I suspect it won’t be his last. Let’s see, he was wacky over the Wizard of Oz, tripped out over the Titanic, went bonkers for the Beatles and spent considerable brainpower trying to riddle out the JFK assassination (which also commemorated its 50th anniversary last month.) I try to feign interest in his running commentary on The Doctor, the Daleks and everything in between, but most of the time I just nod. I learned the hard way that it’s best not to ask too many questions unless you want a 30-minute dissertation on TARDIS mechanics and Sonic Screwdriver design.
But I am supportive. I’ve picked up a fez, a Stetson and a bowtie for the kid (all of which have been worn by at least one of the Doctors.) When he learned that he looked very similar to Tom Baker (the actor who played the role the longest) I found the official BBC specifications for the fourth doctor’s scarf and spent five days knitting something that was longer than several adult anacondas. I must have done a good job, he wore it all around the neighborhood this past summer like he was expecting a freak snowstorm.
While I would like to pretend I was not this way as a child, my family disagrees. Whenever I complain about my son’s over-the-top enthusiasm for Doctor Who, I am reminded of the years I spent wearing a red wig and patent leather Mary Janes while belting “Tomorrow” for the entire neighborhood to hear. I hear about the binders full of Scratch ‘n Sniff stickers that probably emitted enough toxins to cause brain damage and how I used to hoard small Smurf figurines like they were gold bars.
“Don’t even get me started about your obsession with the Wilson sisters of Heart,” my brother pointed out. “You still have a shrine to them behind the desk in your office!” (I have to admit he’s got me on that one.)
A few months ago, we learned that the Fifth Doctor was coming to town and I asked Boy Wonder if he wanted to meet him. “I’d like to, but I understand it costs a lot of money and that you’re not into the show,” he said rather sarcastically.
I quickly marched the boy into my office where he could stare at the guitar Nancy Wilson signed, his brother’s Washington Wizards jersey signed by Michael Jordan and his own Wizard of Oz poster signed by two of the original Munchkins. I told him that I may not watch the show, or understand the show, but I of all people understand that it’s important to him and to meet a “Doctor” would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Who was I to let him miss out on that?
“So shall we fire up the TARDIS and meet the man himself?” I asked.
“Allonsy!” He affirmed.