How We Allegedly Sat Next to a Celebrity and I Killed a Little Kid

So far, we haven’t had very good luck with comedy shows in Melbourne.  We don’t know what festivals are worth going to and we aren’t familiar with the big name Australian stand-up’s.  There’s a language barrier. We only understand every 4 out of 5 words and that’s only when people are speaking slowly.  Perchance some cultural differences in what’s considered funny; comedians seem to pander to physical humor and tend to default to the staples of standup (marriage, kids, sex).  Meh.  At least we’re starting to be free from hearing endless diatribes confirming what a complete dickhead George Bush was.  That was beginning to be repetitive…  and redundant.  

Anyway, we went to the opening of the Melbourne Comedy Festival recently and it turned out to be pretty hilarious.  They had performers from all over the world and a lot more variety than we’d seen in material so far.   I snorted a few times. I hate that when I think something is funnier than anyone else and I have to try to keep myself together as the crowd quiets down. I’d imagine Tom isn’t crazy about those instances either.

So Tom ended up sitting next to this lady that we were certain was an actress or celebrity of some sort. It was driving us crazy. You know, like when you’re driving home from the beach late at night, talking about the first concert you ever went to, and you realize you can’t remember a single song that Boston sings? Like that – brain in obsession mode.  Then Tom gets it…It’s Tara Morice, from Strictly Ballroom. I think that it was one of the better movies ever made, particularly one of the better Australian movies ever made.  It’s kind of an ugly-duckling-turns-swan dealio, the metamorphosis manifested in some wackily-embellished professional ballroom dancing moves.  The costumes were a riot – see it if you haven’t.  Boston’s big hit was More than a Feeling by the way.

(Tara Morice, actually her, not just possibly)

Relieved the celebrity mystery was solved, we watch the show. But you know when you’re like in the first few weeks of dating and still hanging on every gesture or innuendo that could help you read the other person’s thoughts? Like you go to a movie and something makes you laugh but then you look over at them to see if they’re laughing before you let yourself laugh too hard. And then there’s this whole thing if they look at you, looking at them, or if you know they know you are looking at them, but they still don’t look back? I think it bugs me if people look at me too much that way but it’s nice once in a while. You know me – I’m all about balance.  J

So I basically spend the rest of the first half looking past Tom, at Tara Morice and the guy I presume to be her husband (he’s wearing a ring, they’re holding hands) to see if they laugh when I laugh. Or if they look at each other when they laugh. Tom tells me I should talk to her during intermission. Poor famous people.  I was just reading an article about Jeneane Garafalo and they asked her how her life is different being famous now. She said a lot more people bum cigarettes, ask her the time and directions to the bathroom, but otherwise it’s much the same as before. I don’t want to be one of those pathetic users, a nonlinear lost sycophant...I’m so much more evolved than that.

Intermission starts and I leap across Tom and block her way out. “IS YOUR NAME TARA?”, I demand, probably in a bit of a menacing and inappropriately excited way, really.

“No.”, she replies calmly. 

“You’re not Tara Morice?  From Strictly Ballroom?”

“No.” She doesn’t seem weirded about me anyway.  That’s always a relief. Maybe she’s lying, trying to travel incognito, only we were sharp enough to crack her disguise. So “Not Tara” and I have a nice visit about dogs and neighborhoods around the city for about 15 minutes. I liked her.  Turns out Tom couldn’t hear what we were saying and, because we were having such an engaged visit, he’s assuming I’ve just made best friends with Tara Morice. God, he married well.

“Was that her?” he asks, just as the show was starting again.

“Oh, no.  Well I guess it was her for a while, right?”

There’s no time for him to drill down on that random Christine-ilosophy, as the show starts up again, so we talk about it on the train later that night. “Did I ever tell you how I killed a little boy with my car?” I ask him.  He knows if I gain an ounce, how many strands of hair a day I lose and every other random thing that’s ever happened to me ever. That I killed a child, and never thought to mention it, confuses him.

“I had a green light and was coming out of the Crossroads Mall in Boulder, turning onto 28^th Street.  This cute little 11 year old-ish boy ran in front of my car, I heard a loud thud, saw him roll up onto the hood and then disappear in front of the car, landing on the street in front of me as I stopped.” I knew I’d killed him. That sound will haunt me forever.  As it turns out, the little boy pops up and sheepishly shrugs “who knew that would happen?” to his friends who are still waiting for the crossing signal on the corner. By that time I’m out of the car and realizing that he’s not only not dead, but completely okay.

I decompensate. My car is askew in the middle of this major intersection with several lanes of traffic being blocked each way and I’m sobbing and inappropriately now hugging this poor child, probably way too hard.  I think I might have gotten some snot in his hair. Boundaries, hello.  “Um, lady, you’re scaring me more than your hitting me car did.” But I think we were both traumatized in our own ways and when I let go of him, he comes back and hugs me.   I think that may have been the nicest things anyone ever did for me, when he came and hugged me. I wonder if the little boy remembers that day.

Anyway, the poor little guy declines to let me drive him home, probably desperate to get away from crazy crying lady and get the crow-eating over with his friends. Apparently it’s quite damning in the 11-year old echelon, getting mowed down by a ’76 Ford Granada by a hysterical lady wearing a lot of matchy-match purple.