Memories of a Monkee

1. Boy oh BOY did I want some Davy Beads. Yes, they were Davy Beads...NOT to be confused with Cassidy Puka Shells.


2. I longed to learn how to play the maracas...cause I truly believed there was an art to them. Davy made them look soooo good.


3. Richard Marx's 80s mullet had NUTHIN' on Davy's. Middle aged Davy knew how to rock it.


4. I learned how to sing harmony with the Monkees. Micky on lead; Davy and me on harmonies. Thanks, ole chap.


5. Two aunts; two different places to borrow albums. At Aunt Barb's I would just bring her's out and STARE at Davy and memorize his important personal facts. ("What? This says he plays the guitar. He plays the maracas!"--I actually said this.) From Aunt Cathy, I tried to steal...literally. I would hide the albums under my throw rug, which was under my bed, and pretend I had no idea where the albums went when my dad tried to return them.


6. The Real Live Brady Bunch at the Assembly Hall, spring 1994. One of the GREATEST mini-concerts EVER. My friend, Abbey, and I got to see Episode #64, "Getting Davy Jones." Yes, Davy was HERE--in MY town! Yes, he sang an encore mini-concert of three songs. Yes, he did the Davy walk from Daydream Believer. All was right with my 8th grade world. I still have the tee-shirt from that night. I want to wear it tomorrow, though I don't know how professional that would be.

Davy's Finally Free

Right now: listening to "I Wanna be Free" at school and crying. Remembering happy Davy, slapsticky Davy, tap dancing-shuffling Davy. Remembering afternoons and evenings watching the Monkees on Nick and how they molded my youth. Beatles, you came later, but the Monkees were there first: maybe a little bit more kid friendly? When other kids were listening to New Edition and Tiffany, I was listening to the Monkees. Thank you, Davy, for introducing me to British accents (maybe you're the reason I still love them so), true fanatic fandom (I tried to steal my aunts' copies of your vintage albums when 7), sappy fan letters (yes, I did ask for a lock of your hair, because I heard that's what you're supposed to do in fan letters), and an endless crush that even still tickles me today when I watch my Monkees on DVD.

My Love Affair with Target

It started as a child. My mom would take me to Target. It was inconsequential at first: just an errand. Then I started to notice the records. Big, beautiful albums, with gorgeous art. I'm talking a 12" vinyl of Dirty Dancing with Patrick Swayze splayed across the front. How could I not love it? Whitney Houston, Debbie Gibson, New Kids on the Block...they were all there. Then the albums became small, clickety-clackety cassettes: Janet Jackson, the soundtrack to Mo Money, still more New Kids. Finally, the bright, shiny CD's, with their HUGE cardboard cases, which enclosed an extremely hard plastic case, which had the CD inside: SWV, Jade, Pearl Jam's Vs., and still more NKOTB (cause that's what they were by then).

And, the clothes. Oh the Target clothes. Divine. The magazines...always 10% off. The most excellent school supplies ever. Need some Lisa Frank? Go to la Target. I remember asking my grandmother to take me to Target for school supplies, even though secretly, deep down inside, I knew she could get them for me cheaper somewhere else. (I still feel badly about that.)

Recently, however, I have a new obsession at Target: SNACKS. Their Archer Farms line is out of this world. The best parmesan garlic kettle baked crisps ever, and an even better frozen chocolate molten lava cake. I have recently been going to the small Target cafe for lunch. For reals. The chicken caesar salad is AWESOME! Way better than Panera's. They also have delicious sandwiches: the ham & swiss on ciabatta is grrreat. Finally...the best part...wait for it...PEPSI. Fountain Pepsi. But, here's the deal: you can still eat there with your Coke friends, cause they got BOTH on tap. Now, how is that for diversity?

Oh, Target. Always going above and beyond. Thank you. I'll really be in trouble if my Target ever gets the Starbucks in store, though. Just add 30 pounds to my hips and take hundreds outta my wallet. I actually hope this doesn't happen.

Three Times Golden

I'm happy to say my good ole buddy, Tom Cruise, got his mug on the Oscars in three, yes THREE, different segments last night. He helped Billy Crystal out with the [abysmal] opening, he was in the bumper reels about what makes movies great, and he got to hand out the much-coveted Best Picture award (to a much-deserving film, The Artist).

Yes, I have been a Tom Cruise fan since the tender age of 6, and I still love the guy. Ghost Protocol was AWESOME, and he's always excited for a winner (see below). This is America: you can believe in God, Jesus, or aliens, cause it's what this country is founded upon. I also choose to believe that great showmen never die. On ya go, Tom!

*YAY!*

Sheer joy is exemplified here. Yippee!

It's That Time of Year!

OSCAR TIME!!! Oh, yeah! I'm so excited about the Artist! Clooney rules! I want Brett McKenzie & Jason Segel to walk home with Oscar gold! I can't stop using EXCLAMATION MARKS!!!!!!


Now if only I knew more than two girls in this year's cover. I feel SO old.

MY Whitney Jam

I think this is my favorite Whitney song. Period. It's not just my favorite Whitney song that no one ever talks about; it's just my favorite Whitney jam. Sassy. Bold. Irresistible! I dare you not to get up and dance to this. I also dare you to not listen to it back to back. You best enjoy yo'self when watching this one.

P.S. You get extra credit if you can figure out why I love this video so much. No, it doesn't have to do with the sweet one overall strap unbuttoned a la Jordan Knight, but it does have to do with Jimmy Stewart and ole Hitch(cock).

Onward Musical Soldier

To continue on my musical streak...

I fell in love again last night...not with a man...with a sound...with a revived hillbilly look...with a HOOK. And, the choreographed dance moves didn't hurt either.

I'm a subscriber to Entertainment Weekly, I work in a middle school, so I'm not unfamiliar the name Bruno Mars. I just have never heard him before last night's Grammy's.

Holy fried peanut butter 'n nana sammiches, Elvis!

In a weekend full of music tragedy and celebration, this young un reminded me once again why I loveadorecan'tlivewithout uplifting, fun, beat-laden music. The pompadour? Perfect. The dance moves? Subtle, refined, and perfectly placed. The megaphone? Bringing new hip hop methods to old school 50s pomp (and pop) circumstance. In one word? Perfect.

I cannot wait to get my hands on some Bruno Mars.

Finally Speaking Out

All I need is a voice.

Sure, I love the shows. Give me choreographed boys from Boston. Send me some uptempo fireworks from a legendary Liverpudlian. Import some breakdancing, bigger than big reunionized TT men. I'll even accept a larger than life Madge halftime show (when in the mood).

But all I really need is a voice.

That's what we got tonight. In an evening full of flashing lights, over-the-top Roman Catholic oneupmanship, neon paint splatters, and failed run-laden tribute, all we really needed was a voice.

Clear as crystal. Pure as spring sunshine. Fresh as newly laid linen sheets.

Thank you, Adele.

Another Gone Too Soon

Several years ago I made a mix CD called "Whitney...Before Bobby." Since all the Whitney I owned was either on vinyl or cassette, I went through the public library's CD collection and got all the pre-Bobby Brown Whitney I could. The CD is still one of my favorites. It speaks volumes for the electrifying, uplifting, luminescent singer that is Whitney Houston.

She is who I wanted to be. As a girl growing up in the 80s who loved to sing, I know I wasn't alone in idolizing her. She was beautiful, extremely talented, and back then humble. Like too many others, she became a victim of her talent: she was labeled as a diva, got involved with grandiose movies, and tried to uphold an image that did not become her (in my humble opinion). Glimpsing headlines of her tumultuous and abusive relationship with Bobby Brown made me sigh in despair for my once idol.

But here's the deal, people: her voice can still give me goosebumps, her National anthem can still move me to tears, and I can thank God for the small gift of being able to hear, embrace, and celebrate her talent. It is still undeniable. Her end was too soon and too tragic, for she should have been a living legend for years to come. Let hers be a cautionary tale to get those you love who are struggling with drugs, abuse, or addiction help. For she should have still been great.