“I read the news today oh, boy. . .”
I’m writing you a letter to send off into the digital airwaves in hopes that you might read it as you drift up to Rock Star Heaven.
Let me assure you, I’m not jumping on the posthumous bandwagon. I already wrote about my love for you (here and here) long before you were eulogized by Deborah Norville. That posthumous bandwagon? They haven’t thought about you for decades. Pay them no attention. And they’ll probably tack on a footnote that you once played in the musical “Oliver!”
Here there will be no footnote that you once played in the musical “Oliver!”
We weren’t meant to be, you and I. You were not of my generation. I had no business loving you. I should’ve been off hanging out with kids my own age. Maybe Kirk Cameron, like the rest of teenage-1989.
But thanks to cable reruns, I hung out with The Monkees. And I think I speak for a lot of women when I say, I watched the show just for you.
In my mind, the other Monkees were just your human props. Mike was too mature for me. Peter was too immature for me. Micky was too Micky for me. And then there was you. And maybe a few great songs. And maybe some Benny Hill-esque shenanigans set to a few great songs.
You were as cute as a teeny-tiny turnip seed. A normal-sized woman might’ve fit you inside of her back pocket. You probably would have enjoyed that. Me, at just 5’1”? Well, I might’ve fit you inside of my backpack. You probably would not have enjoyed that. Unless it had some sort of transparent, net-like window thingy that provided proper ventilation. And maybe a salt lick and a few cedar sticks to chew on.
1966-Davy. (Sigh.) Oh, what a pity that I wasn’t even a zygote back then. Because we would’ve made beautiful, freakishly short children.
And those children would have had no trouble at all finding parts as gnomes or Oompa Loompas or garden shrubs in their high school plays. Then a talent scout would spot them and they’d be snatched up by Hollywood because of their unique ability to play 9-year-olds for 35 years.
Oh, what might’ve been.
I’m sure the rest of the Bradys would agree — despite you donning a pre-‘80s mullet, you were the best celebrity cameo ever to try to shag a teenage Marcia Brady. You put even Desi Arnaz, Jr. to shame. And Joe Namath, too. Well, he was Bobby’s crush so that’s neither here nor there.
I’d like to close by honoring you, the Davy Jones I wish to remember.
I don’t really know what you’re doing in this iconic video for Daydream Believer. You’re snapping. You’re clapping (a little off-beat). You’re lip-synching (a little off-sync). You’re trying to play a duet with Peter. He doesn’t seem to like that. You’re desperately hoping Micky will hand you back your tambourine so you’ll have something to do with your stumpy little fingers.
You poor thing, you’re just knocking yourself out to appear relevant here, what with the way that everyone scoffed at you for calling yourself a musician.
And then finally, mid-song, you realize something. All you really need to do to be loved is that odd little dance that makes you look like a bell-bottomed leprechaun.
A bell-bottomed leprechaun that I want to make sweet, sweet love to.
Said a 1989-Angie who believed “make sweet, sweet love to” means passionate necking.
And said a 2012-Angie who knows exactly what it means and wants her husband to know here that she loves him very much.
Rest in peace, Davy. I hope to see you on the other side. (I hope that won’t be for a few more decades.) I hope you’ll look just like 1966-Davy. With no mullet. But that little gold tassel necklace? Yes, please wear that.
P.S. Sorry, Davy, that I opened this letter with a line from a Beatles song. I always get The Monkees and The Beatles mixed up. Oh, except for the fact that The Beatles were actual musicians and not like, say, former Broadway actors who played in the musical “Oliver!”