Day Dream Disbeliever

This is just awful. There is no possible news that it would be sadder to receive on a Leap Day. There is no easy way to say it. You guys, Davy Jones is dead.

That adorable, pocket-sized British crooner of Monkees fame died of a heart attack today at the age of 66. I was in a meeting when the news broke, and I returned to my desk to gchat messages from both my mom and husband, flippantly breaking the news as if this were on the same level as Whitney Houston dying or a Kardashian doing something trashy. Andy even used the letters 'btw' to introduce this horrendous revelation, as if it were a mere aside to something more important.  No. No, guys. I'm glad you thought of me when you heard the news, but this is not casual mention sort of information.  This is not secondary information.  This is sit me down, get me some tea and tissues, tell me gently knowledge.  It is important.

Davy Jones was my first love. Somehow, I can clearly remember sitting on the coffee table in a full straddle (if you can, why not?), watching Monkees reruns on our very timeless wood-framed tv set. The year was 1987. I was two. I didn't know much (including but not limited to not knowing how to use a toilet on my own, and not understanding the intricacies of syndication, which allowed me to experience this then-42-year-old man as a much younger but still-inappropriately-old person for me to fancy) but I knew I loved that tiny man-boy with the charming accent. Someday, he would be mine.

Fortunately and unfortunately for me, my mom's infatuation with D-Jo began in a more legitimate fashion when she was a wee teenager and young Davy was at the height of his fame in the late 1960s. So we indulged in our unhealthy, creepy obsession together. Until my little toddler brain moved on and formed a very concerning ménage amongst myself, Bert, and Bob, both of Sesame Street renown. Yes, a unibrowed, yellow, felt puppet of questionable (if any) sexuality and a kindly, middle-aged man who was undoubtedly great at spelling one-syllable words and counting to ten.

But I digress. This is not a catalogue of my strange celebrity crushes. This is about Davy.  He will be missed. I wish him a safe journey as he rides that Last Train to Clarksville in the sky.

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 I will always remember him as a fresh-faced sprite with a dreamy voice and surprisingly white teeth for a British man.

And I will always want to strangle Marcia Brady out of jealousy for this:

 

 

 

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P.S.  I left him off my daddy/boyfriend list on purpose.  He might have been biologically old enough to be my grandpa, but in my mind he has always been all-boyfriend, all.  the.  time.