I have lived a strange life, but there was no time stranger than the year-and-change that I spent in West Hollywood. It was my first time truly separated from my parents, living on my own (with one or more roommates) and seeking gainful employment. All the while, I was making fitful attempts to break into the business of show, and generally trying to figure out what in the hell I was going to do with my life.

West Hollywood was, for me, an exotic place, strange and wonderful. Its population included a significant percentage of homosexual males, which took a bit of acclimation on my part. (I think that was the start of my reevaluation of my ingrained “family values.”) More to the point, it was a place full of people who were working in the entertainment industry, or were working somewhere else until they could start working in the entertainment industry. I was constantly encountering minor-league celebrities, and even a few major ones. (I can tell you that all heads turn when Danny DeVito walks into a record store.)

For the last eight months of my stay, I worked at a “postal center,” a mail-drop that rented boxes to people who wanted to have a physical address that wasn’t their own. For an additional charge, we also provided an answering service. The upshot was that you could give the appearance of having a real office. This was especially popular with some of our skeevier clientele. (Oh, and weren’t some of our clients’ customers surprised when they walked in expecting to confront the person who had failed to deliver as promised, only to find some dope in a red t-shirt shipping packages.) We also did custom wrapping.

Linda Blair (of Exorcist fame) ran her fan club out of our place. The actress who played “Nancy’s” mom in the first Nightmare on Elm Street had a box too. I shipped stuff for Jay Ward (the creator of Bullwinkle) several times, and once for Rick Moranis.

But that was nothing, because behind the counter was our very own “celebrity,” a young man named Scott Thorson. Thorson had gained notoriety as the lover of flamboyant pianist Liberace. He subsequently sued the entertainer for palimony and received a small settlement for his trouble.

Scott started working shortly after I did. My chronology may be a bit faulty, but I’m fairly certain it was just after Liberace’s death from AIDS in February, 1987.

I really didn’t care for him. I believed that he was smarmy and full of himself. At our workplace, there was a long, wooden stairway leading to the basement, and more than once I fantasized about booting his ass down the hole.

Yet–and here is the extremely odd part–I wound up doing his taxes.

I don’t know if it was because he thought that I was smart, or cheap, or wouldn’t ask too many questions, but to my surprise he offered to pay me to fill out his 1040. Despite my dislike, I agreed. Money was money.

There was very little to it. The materials he provided showed no unusual financial activity. If there was more to the story–and given Thorson’s seedier associations, it wouldn’t have surprised me–I never knew it. I signed my name, collected my cash, and for a moment became David Thiel, Hollywood Tax Preparer. I left California a few months later. These events are unrelated.

Thorson subsequenly wrote a book, became a federal witness, got shot, and went to prison. He’s out now, and good for him. The book is being made into an HBO movie. Steven Soderbergh is directing, and Matt Damon is playing Scott.

I do not believe that Matt Damon will ask me to do his taxes. But in case he’s reading, know that I work cheap and don’t ask questions.

Dave Weird David Thiel Superstar, death and taxes, Liberace, Scott Thorson

Last week, something rather extraordinary arrived in my mailbox: the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly, sporting a cover solely devoted to Doctor Who. According to the press, it was notable for being the first time that EW had so recognized a British TV series. But for me, it was more remarkable than that. I believe that it may have been the first time that Doctor Who took the cover of any general audience American magazine.*

If Doctor Who is still a cult show in America, it is far more mainstream now than ever before. Not even the late ’70s wave of Tom Baker mania can compare.

I became a fan during the early ’70s, when some of Jon Pertwee’s episodes briefly aired on PBS stations such as Chicago’s WTTW. Back then, Doctor Who wasn’t a cult, it was more of a secret society. Information about it was scarce. My only points of reference were a couple of rambling Famous Monsters of Filmland articles and a handful of off-hand mentions in my collection of sci-fi books.

A few years later, the Target novelizations inexplicably cropped up at my local Waldenbooks, but even then it was hard to piece together a coherent history of the show. The stories were randomly chosen for adaptation, so one might jump from a 2nd Doctor story to one featuring the unknown-in-America 4th Doctor.

It was all tremendously mysterious. That was perhaps part of the fun.

Recently, my coworker’s teenage daughter expressed an interest in Doctor Who, and naturally I did everything I could to encourage her.** She binge-watched the entire modern show, and is now taking a second pass with her two sisters, both of whom are also hooked. I could not be happier about this.

She has a huge advantage in that there’s now an entire World Wide Web built to service geeky obsessions. Every aspect of Doctor Who has been exposed, diced and flayed.

Yet there’s still room for surprise. Her mom took the two of us to lunch to talk about the show, and I mentioned in passing something about the Doctor having stolen his beloved TARDIS. She perked up; she hadn’t known that! That moment of delight–and my own part in it–is something I will treasure.

*I may have overlooked a TV Guide or such. Drop me an e-mail if you know of a mainstream U.S. magazine–not a niche publication like Starlog–that gave over its full cover to Doctor Who.

**I initially warned her away from the classic show. As much as I still love the old stories, I believe that modern audiences might be put off by the pacing and production values. She since has expressed an interest in at least sampling the earlier Doctors. I bought her a copy of the book Doctor Who: 100 Scariest Monsters, and wrote her a list of recommendations. Well, more of an essay than a list. But it was only three pages.

Dave Doctor Who

Tick, tock, goes the clock…

I didn’t turn forty-eight until today, but I’ve been thinking of myself as that age for most of this year. As my birthday approached, I began dwelling on the number fifty. It loomed on the horizon, its grey, loathsome bulk blotting out the sun.

Maybe it was a defense mechanism, maybe a moment of clarity, but I then began to consider that perhaps turning fifty in the not-too-distant future won’t be such a horrible thing. After all, Vicky will be fifty this December, and she’s looking good.

So maybe it will be acceptable to be in my fifties come 2014. At least until I spot the even larger, more abhorrent mass of the sixties in the not-far-enough distance.

Jerry Van Dyke, my bête noire, turns 81 today. Curse his unfunny hide.

Dave General Jerry Van Dyke, one year closer to death

The ’10s have been brutal for Doctor Who actors. Last month, there was sad news about Caroline John. And now comes word that Mary Tamm, who played the first incarnation of the Doctor’s Time Lady companion Romana, has died from cancer aged 62.

As with Caroline John, Mary Tamm was only with the show for a year. And I can’t help but think that, like John’s Liz Shaw, the problem was that Tamm’s competent, strong-willed character was perhaps threatening to a lead actor who needed to be the most important thing on the screen.

But, boy howdy, did she draw my attention away from Tom Baker. Whereas Elisabeth Sladen’s Sarah Jane Smith was the woman I wanted to marry, Mary Tamm’s imperious ice queen–and her form-fitting white dress–shook my teenage hormones like no actress in a British kids’ show previously had. I was deeply disappointed when, at the start of the following season, Romana “regenerated” into the form of Lalla Ward.

I met Mary Tamm a couple of times at Doctor Who conventions. I’m really not certain how I held myself together long enough to have these photos taken.

Goodbye, Mary.

And now, please, can we have a few more years before the next member of the TARDIS crew passes?

Dave Doctor Who Mary Tamm, obituaries, smokin' hot babes

As 48 comes rushing up at me, I find myself pondering who I’ve become. What happened to the geeky film fan who hungrily devoured every sci-fi confection? Who rarely met a fantasy flick he couldn’t give the benefit of the doubt? I mean, I bought a ticket to Gremlins 2. Tomb Raider. Atlantis: The Lost Empire. Escape from L.A. For crap’s sake, I willingly paid to see Wing Commander. Wing Commander.

Now it’s 2012, a full 13 years A.W.C. (After Wing Commander). A new Spider-Man movie has been out for two full weeks. I haven’t seen it. A Batman joint premieres tonight at midnight. I could barely care less.

I know that it’s not because I’ve matured. I spent much of last weekend playing Lego Batman 2. A videogame based on a toy based on a comic book.

Three guesses which Batman I prefer.

How is it that I’ve become so blasé about these big-budget popcorn flicks? Have I really become…discerning?

Granted that I’m pretty sick of hearing about The Dark Knight Rises. I thought the previous film was vastly overrated, an ugly, preposterous bagatelle masquerading as a Important Treatise on Post-9/11 America. I truly don’t understand why it is that we expect or even desire that a story about a billionaire who buys mammal-themed crimebusting gear and punches evil clowns in the face should be serious and socially relevant.

And as much as I want to see Anne Hathaway slink around in a Julie Newmar catsuit, her fellow in villainy Bane is my least favorite member of Batman’s rogues roster. He’s everything that sucked about ’90s comic books in one ‘roid raging luchador.

I can’t say that I won’t go at some point. If nothing else, I do at least like to be able to complain with authority. But I do wonder about the guy who paid good money for Superman IV and Batman & Robin. What ever happened to him?

Dave Movies Batman

Last Saturday, we didn’t set out to adopt another cat, but…well, here we are.

We’d wanted another Maine Coon ever since Hobbes died. Bixby was allegedly a “Maine Coon mix,” but it seems that he’s more mix than Maine Coon. He has the look, but neither the size nor the temperament of the breed.

We began actively looking at cats again in the past couple of months, but Maine Coons aren’t all that common at the local shelters. However, late last week the county humane society listed a “Maine Coon mix” named Kuda. I thought that it was worth driving out to the ass-end of Urbana, where their facility is located. (In a display of gallows humor on someone’s part, it’s right next to the county nursing home.)

When I saw Kuda up close, I thought, “well, this is promising.” He was a huge, fluffy cat with oversized paws and great tufts of toe hair. Major bonus: he was already four-paw declawed. We asked to take him into one of the “get acquainted” rooms and soon thereafter were filling out adoption forms.

Kuda–renamed Baxter after the dog in the movie Anchorman–is a bit bedraggled in appearance right now. We think that the previous owners didn’t take very good care of him; he’s basically one big, walking mat of fur. The shelter staff shaved off some of the mats, but he’ll probably be shaved more thoroughly when I take him to the vet this Thursday.

It’s been two days since we brought him home, and we’re still in the early phases of the new-cat-introduction process. He’s spending most of his time shut up in the spare bedroom. For such a big boy–16 lbs., at only 2 years, 3 months old–he’s awfully skittish about his new surroundings. There have been brief encounters with our other cats, most of which have not gone especially well. As I type this we’re letting the others explore “his” room while he’s in our own bedroom. Hopefully we can let them freely mix by week’s end.

So, welcome, Baxter! We hope that you have a long and happy life with us.

Dave General cats