I’ve never been one to obsess. On occasion I’ll pay more attention to something than normal, but never to the point where it could dominate my thoughts. This all changed, however, when I began watching a certain British science fiction show.
Apart from the old Twilight Zone, things from the sci-fi genre have never grabbed me in a profound manner. I kind of like Star Wars, I’m certainly far from a Trekkie (although I will socialize with their kind) and to be quite honest, I do not remotely enjoy Lord of the Rings. That latter part will likely turn some people off, and if so, fine. YOU’RE the one who’ll be missing the remainder of this wonderful piece.
Anywho, instead of studying for finals last semester, I began watching Doctor Who episodes by the bushel. From the first time the Doctor told Rose to run, I was hooked. Now, this wasn’t just a spur of the moment decision to watch the show based on critical acclaim, but rather a snowballing of friends’ recommendations and their arcane references to Who minutiae that soared over my head—if you’re fortunate enough to know me, you know I can’t stand being out of the loop.
Starting with finals week, I torched through the show, watching seven seasons (plus the charming Christmas specials!) in under a month, occasionally finding time to eat and contemplate going to the gym. I was barraged with so much wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff, my head began to spin. I cried when the 9th doctor regenerated into the 10th and started dropping “Allons-y!” into everyday conversation. I’ve also begun harboring an unhealthy distrust of stone statues.
Most people would be content with that, bringing themselves up-to-date with the show and waiting around for the 50th Anniversary Special and subsequent 8th season. Not me.
Since the final frame faded on “The Name of the Doctor” (the most recent episode), I’ve been like a junkie looking for his next fix. Luckily, the show had its original run from 1963 to 1989, for which most of the 600+ episodes are still intact, not to mention tons of novelizations and original Who fiction out there, all of which I’ve dived into headfirst.
Note for anyone looking to follow my slow descent into madness: The First Doctor is nothing like the eccentric, lively ones of the rebooted series. He wasn’t much more than a crotchety, old prick, but with just enough charm to balance out the negative elements. Kind of like Joe Biden.
It hasn’t stopped there. I’m not one for knick-knacks or tchotchkes*, but I soon found myself bidding on eBay for a Dalek paperweight (Spoiler alert: I lost). What papers do I need to hold down? I started searching for upcoming Comic-Cons in the area, planning on cosplaying one of the doctors.
It was then that I was stricken with a shattering realization: I’ve become a fanboy. Not just an enth-Who-siast (too much of a stretch?), but a full-blown openly obsessed fanboy. Cosplaying? These were the people I was taught to look down upon as a youngster! Nerds, geeks, basement-dwellers, what-have-you, and now I’m among their ranks!
And to that, I say:
* I still refuse to believe this is a word, coincidentally also the name of my Slovakian uncle
Dalton Mack
