Davy Jones

It's hard for me to describe how I feel about the sudden death of Davy Jones of the Monkees.  How can anything I say be enough?  How can I properly express my appreciation?

I took a writing class once, and the teacher's mantra was, "Show, don't tell."  Okay.  I can do that.  This is how it began:

During the summers, Nick at Nite used to devote one night of the week to a different TV show.  I grumbled when they switched over from my beloved Munster Monday to Monkee Monday.  I never saw The Monkees before, and the commercials looked kind of stupid.  Certainly not up to the high standards set by The Munsters!  Luckily, my eleven year old self was totally obsessed with boys, and these ones were kind of cute...
 
So of course, I ended up in love with the show.  It was campy, zany fun, injected with great music and cute, if strangely dressed, guys.  In short, ideal for a preteen kid who couldn't decide if she was supposed to be watching Scooby Doo or MTV's Real World.  I became infatuated with Davy Jones, "the cute one" with the adorable British accent, perfectly unaware that he was actually in his early 50s at the time.
 
During a certain point that summer, Nick at Nite cancelled The Monkees' weekly run, but aired a twelve hour, overnight marathon of the show (a parting gift?) on it's sister network, TV Land.
 
I set my VCR, and watched all 24 episodes over the next two days.  For several years, this was my main source of the Monkees. 

I was alone in my mania until summer 2000, when Christina (finally) came on board with the debut of the VH1 biopic Daydream Believers: The Monkees' Story.  The cute boys got to her, too.

Now that I had a compatriot, my obsession became probably unbearable for my parents.  I wanted everything: records, CDs, videos, memorabilia.  My collection grew along with my fanaticism.  I started wearing bell bottoms. 

The pinnacle of my life, I thought, would be seeing a Monkees concert.  When they announced a 2001 tour, minus member Mike Nesmith, you better believe Christina and I were going.

The night was a blur from the very start.  Christina and I could not have been more wired.  It was a fantastic concert, made even better by Christina's sneaky and wonderful mom.  Unbeknownst to us, she sent the band a letter telling them what huge fans we were.  Davy Jones gave us a shout out from the stage.  He mispronounced my name six ways from Sunday, and I ended up with a new nickname from Christina as a result.

My heart still beats a little faster thinking about Davy trying to say my name.

I will never forget how happy we were that night, and how happy the Monkees have always made me.  I watch the episodes now and I laugh; not because the jokes are particularly funny, but instead because of how I felt watching them as a kid. 

Who knows if I would have gotten obsessed with the Monkees if it wasn't for that cute English boy.  I will be grateful to Davy Jones forever.  The Monkees brought more joy into my childhood than I imagined was possible.

I'm amazed and touched by the outpouring of love directed at Davy Jones and his family.  I'm glad I'm not alone in my appreciation.  I hope he knew how loved he was.