After driving to Los Angeles Wednesday for a meeting and dinner with a friend, and returning home just a few ticks shy of midnight, I found myself less than motivated today. I was awakened by the energetic scratching of my poodle, Bo, on the bedroom door at 8:30 after crawling into bed around 2 a.m. Needless to say, I am dragging a little bit today.
As usual, my day started with a check of the headlines, and that immediately reminded me of something my dinner companion of the previous evening has said to me.
"Davy Jones of the Monkees died."
The words registered with me, but my distraction with my dinner companion pushed processing of that information to the back of my mind, where it remained until this morning. The headline added to my mood: "Monkees star dead of heart attack at 66."
Having grown up with Davy, Peter Tork, Mike Nesmith, and Mickey Dolenz on my television once a week made them feel like friends. My sister, who was a pre-teen at the time, had a mad crush on Jones that she carried into adulthood. Once, at a music festival in Minnesota I was covering for my paper, I met and interviewed the diminutive Englishman. He graciously signed my reporter's notebook: "To Debbie, Daydream Believer! Love Davy Jones" (For years after and until her death in 2010, my sister contended that I had signed it myself. But I swear, Davy Jones signed my book!)
Watching Jones on stage that evening back those many years ago reminded me how much energy the Monkees poured into their weekly romps. It was the Keystone Cops with long hair and silly clothes … who also happened to be a band. The hijinks were peripheral to the music; this was way before MTV and music video was conceived and the television show was a premise to market the band and its music.
It was fun back then, and the music is still fun today. I have “Pleasant Valley Sunday” on my iPod, and I cranked it as I drove home tonight from my class. It seemed appropriate.
Rest in peace, David Jones.
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