I got home from work on Thursday and found a manila envelope on my front porch. Inside was a recent copy of People Magazine. On the cover, you guessed it—Davy. Sigh. My brother's girlfriend expressed her condolences by giving me something to remember him by, a sleazy tabloid magazine. So thoughtful. I called to thank her. Speaking through my brother (after fourteen years together, they have a polished ventriloquist routine), she said I would probably like to hang them on my bedroom wall. So perceptive. That's what I did when I was ten, so probably I would still do that now. Right.
The day after Davy died, my former significant other from Los Angeles emailed me to offer his condolences. He was being snarky. (I don't blame him, we didn't part on the best of terms.) But I took it at face value and wrote back a short acknowledgement. It's funny, I felt sort of sad when I heard the news, but not all that upset. After all, Davy was never my Monkee.
When I was a kid, there were four girls in the neighborhood gang. Four Monkees, four girls, what could be more perfect. Since Karen had all the Monkee records and the hi-fi stereo, she got first pick, and she chose Peter. Laurie was oldest. She got first dibs on Davy. Susie, her younger sister, chose Mickey, so by default, I ended up with Woolhat. At first, I was disappointed, but like with any disappointment, you learn to accept it and eventually love it. In time I came to believe that I chose Mike. And yes, his pinups were on my bedroom wall for awhile.
Having said all that, though, I confess that when I heard a Monkees song on the radio, sung by Davy Jones, I shed a couple tears. Not for him, but for my lost childhood. Davy was only eleven years older than me. I wept for the days when I was still ten and my little world embraced my creativity. I cried for the days before I was relegated to the role of second-class female. The days when my body was still my trusted friend. When I was confident in my conviction that I knew exactly what my life was for: to write, to make art, and to deliver it to the world.
Which brings me to the second death, that of Thomas Kinkade. I disparaged the man's art in a few of my earlier posts. He was apparently on a mission to bring light to the dark gloomy Satan-infested corners of the secular world. That deserves some respect, I guess. I certainly can't lay claim to such a lofty ambition. Most days, the closest I come to a mission statement is “Survive, then die.” So, while I can't say I'm feeling terribly sad that Thomas Kinkade, my personal nemesis, is gone, I am feeling sort of bereft. Who will I denigrate now? Who can I hold up as the bane of artists? There is a void now. Maybe it's my turn to carry on the legacy. Maybe I'll start painting on velvet.
