Wednesday, February 29, 2012

An Open Letter To Davy Jones

Dear Davy,

When I was 12 and totally in love with you, I began many, many letters with those two words.  Of course, my undying devotion to you continued despite our 30 year age difference. The fact that you were 42 when I was a pre-teen was not an insurmountable feat for true love.  You were gorgeous and I was adept at making friendship bracelets, surely you would have felt the same if you had met me.  After all, there would be absolutely nothing pedophilic about the way that you would feel when you saw me in my knee length, navy blue culottes and yellow sweat shirt.

My friend Rachel and I bonded over our love for The Monkees.  She was in love with Peter and I was completely devoted to you.  Somewhere there are cassette tapes of our conversations recorded on a chunky Strawberry Shortcake player, conversations where she gently reminded me that you were married to Anita (at the time) and I eerily joked about her not being able to live forever.  (Not a sociopath, I promise).

The truth is that I was a scared little girl, living a sometimes torturous life, seeing you smile a boyish grin and pretending that it was for me despite the fact it had been recorded a mere 20 years before I was seeing it, gave me hope.  It also opened me up to a world of feelings that I never had or understood before.  Through crushing on you, I listened to and loved every Monkees song.  Really listened to them lyrically. (consider the lyrics to Carlisle Wheeling). 

Local St. Louis Channel 11 (KPLR) showed The Monkees after school and my summer filled with reruns on Nickelodeon giving me many chances to see your face and smile.  After all...I had seen English men before and by those standards you were apparently cream of the crop (Sorry Rowan Atkinson).  I watched every episode.  I've seen the movie Head (24 years later I still don't understand it).  One more episodes.  You were gone.  I mean, this was pre-internet, so you were GONE.  Sure, I caught you on an episode or two of My Two Dads, which led me to a short lived crush on Greg Evigan that is so completely embarrassing at this point I probably shouldn't even mention it.

I owe to you thanks for my love for the written word, my love for all genres of music, my completely developed, full-on corny sense of humor.  All of these things were sparked by a talented English lad thirty years my senior who will never know that I existed.  Perhaps it's better that way, you can remain perfect in my eyes forever.  Rest in Peace, David Thomas Jones.

1 comment: