While driving to work today, I listened to a story on NPR about leap year babies. The broadcast got me thinking that although leap year might be a crappy day for a birthday, it would probably be a good day to die because then your family would only be sad on your death anniversary every four years instead of once a year.
How’s that for a line of reasoning?
Well, I sure as hell never thought that Davy Jones would die on this leap year. As I write this, I’m still in shock.
Oh, how I loved The Monkees . When I was no more than ten years old, I’d run to the A&P to pick up the latest 16 Magazine the day it came out. I’d pore over it in the tiny back bedroom of the upstairs rented flat we lived in before my parents bought the house on Lincoln Avenue, gazing lovingly at pictures of Davy, Peter, Mike, and Micky. Little did I know that would be the beginning of a life of boy-craziness.
I listened to my Monkees albums, which I bought with my own money, for hours on end on my little record player (complete with the penny I’d place on the needle to prevent skips). I’d read every word of the liner notes and stare into each photo, imagining what it would be like to meet them in person. I was sure that if Davy and I knew each other in real life, the twelve-year age difference between us would be totally insignificant. I'd be out of high school before he turned thirty. We would make our relationship work.
I remember sitting on the floor next to my bed one night, listening to an album that had photos on the back cover and stats of the four of them--their birthdays, places of birth, and height. I think it was Meet the Monkees. Anyway, my mother came in and she was being really nice, quite the opposite of her "Jesus Christ, pick up this goddamn room" mood.
She asked to see the album cover I held with such adoration.
"Isn't Davy cute?" I said. "He's the cutest one."
Mom looked over the front and them scrutinized the info on the back. "He's only five-foot three!" she exclaimed, handing me back the album cover.
"That's okay," I called out to her as she left the room. "I'm only four-foot six."
My friend Lisa Gioia-Acres said today in a Facebook post, "Davy Jones from The Monkees has died. A little bit of my childhood went with him. R.I.P."
I found this little tribute on YouTube.
What's your favorite memory of The Monkees?