Crippled with Guilt

It Ain't Easy to Hide When You're Crippled with Guilt Inside!

I wrote this entry right before I met my husband and three years prior to the death of my mother, who at the time was bedridden with breathing problems, Parkinson’s Disease, arthritis and not to mention, worsening dementia. This was also the beginning of the end of my father as I knew him. A few weeks earlier, he basically “checked out.” He got his affairs in order—handed me important keys, papers and told me where to find other important documents. He turned off his hearing aid and we have barely had a normal conversation ever since then.

My father stands on the fourth step that leads up to a medical clinic on Junction Blvd. A boulevard of broken dreams.  Set in the heart of Corona, Junction Blvd. is the main strip of an impoverished Hispanic neighborhood in Queens, near Shea Stadium. It is a town immortalized by Paul Simon in Me and Julio Down by the School Yard as well as the Lemon Ice King of Corona. It is now a bleak block that is chock full of shops—mostly stores that hock inexpensive goods. Along with the obligatory Mickey D’s, Dunkin Donuts and Duane Reade, Junction Blvd.  is filled with seemingly endless amounts of check cashing places and signs like compra ahora, pague despues (Buy now. Pay later). In fact, one of these signs flashes in a window in a store that hocks a variety of household items along with Cingular phone packages.  There are infinite amounts of cheap clothing stores—featuring low cut halters, short minis as well as dresses with bold prints and plunging necklines in their windows.

In the middle of the block, a short stout Hispanic woman with long, jet black hair positions herself in front of a giant Igloo cooler. She clutches a toddler in one hand and a bottle of Poland Springs in the other. “Agua, agua,” she cries out, desperately hawking her water. A bottle that goes for un dolar. One dollar. So insignificant to me—a nice, Jewish middle class teacher. But probably a big deal to this seemingly poor immigrant woman.

My dad and I are in the heart of Corona in desperate search of a notary public to authorize a form from the Banco Popular. It is a paper that my dad needs in order to continue receiving his Medicaid. The closest branch is here. There is a notary atop the clinic’s stairs. We have to climb. We need to sit. We need to wait.  One more step. One step at a time. 

Two emotional cripples. That is what my aunt always called my parents. Ever since I can remember, my folks lay in bed the way Charlie’s grandparents did in Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. That was normal to me. Occasionally, they would arise just like Grandpa Joe when he got up to help Charlie find the golden ticket at Wonka’s candy land.  

But there was never any rainbow at the end of my parents' daily journey. My mom would go to work as a high school aide. My dad hasn’t worked in over thirty years. But he would get up. Go downstairs. Stop at the donut shop for our muffins and crullers, buy the New York Times and be fully immersed in the day’s news by the time I woke up.  My dad and I used to talk about everything from the pitfalls of Reaganomics to the perpetual crisis in the Middle East as well as my own struggles to make friends, get a boyfriend and fit in at work.

Ooh, child. Things are gonna get easier. Only now I am not a child. I am a forty year old woman still unmarried, still trying to fit in and make sense of the world.

Why the hell do we have to be here in Corona today? Why do I have to schlep with you to this poor, God-forsaken neighborhood?  Why do I have to scour Junction Blvd. in this blistering heat, roaming up and down like a lost puppy in search of a notary? Why dad? Why do you need this bank statement from Medicaid? Why can’t you be like everyone else’s father who works and retires with a nifty pension or the pop who has amassed enough wealth to live comfortably in those golden years? Why can’t you run your errands like you used to?

At least, my best friend—my Greek best friend who may know as much Yiddish as both Jackie Mason and Alan King is here to keep us company. She drove us here and waits with my dad as I zip up and down Junction on a mission like Wylie Coyote trying to capture the Road Runner.

The first bank I drag my father to will not notarize his form.

“I am sorry. His passport expired,” says the uncompassionate clerk with the tight bun, tight skirt and even tighter ass.

“Yeah but he has his Medicaid card. He’s got his social security card. Who do you think that is on his passport photo—the man on the moon?” I angrily retort.

“I am sorry. Those are the rules. You must have recent I.D. and his expired.”

Lo siento to you to, bitch.  Do you have any idea of all the aggravation I have been through this week trying to secure documentation for Medicaid? Do you care that the day before I traveled with my dad to Manhattan to the URO so they could help him reinstate his funds from Germany? An Auschwitz survivor who lost eighty members of his family during the war whose life always sucked. For the last thirty years, he basically stayed at home and was unable to work crippled by depression and in some instances, manic depression.  Does anyone care that my father can lose his Medicaid?

What’s the matter with me? Why am I obsessing abut closing out this Banco Popular account? Am I just so selfish wanting to close out an account whose funds I could then take and escape to Bermuda or the Bahamas?  No. Got to close out the account and get the paperwork to Medicaid so my father can continue receiving home-care. This stupid account puts him over the legal limit of funds the city permits people who receive services.

 My father, the emotional cripple now clings to his cane and stairway railing is just a shadow of the man I once knew.  He is no longer the man who read the Times cover to cover, voraciously viewed CNN and MSNBC and despite being housebound would engage in conversations for hours. The man who faced so much adversity in his life. The man who said he never gave up hope was giving up. 

“I can’t make it up the stairs. I am too tired,” he says with weakened breath.

             Instead of grasping his hand and saying, “Dad, it is okay.” I find myself taking hold of his arm and urging him, “Come on.  You can do it.”

But instead of my father ascending victoriously atop the stairs like Rocky Balboa, he lets go of the railing and falls down the stairs, hitting his head on the hard floor. His hearing aid begins buzzing. He sits momentarily motionless.

 Is he doing this on purpose? Like the way he lies in bed all the time staring at the ceiling when I damn well know he can get up, put on the television, grab the newspaper and begin a conversation like he used to. Like how he refuses to take medication for his depression and instead chooses to remain in his pajamas and sleep for most of the day and most of his life.  Why is my father who used to know everything about politics and the plight of New York City’s homeless population now having not only his body but also his mind grow weaker and feeble?

 I am frozen with fear.  I am crippled with guilt. What if my father is seriously injured or worse? How would I ever live with the fact that in my panicked attempt to settle bank business, I could have killed my father? Thankfully there is no blood just a bump on his head. The clinic’s doctor flies down the stairs trying to help. Asking in broken English, “Are you okay?”

 I am not surprised that there is no response.  My father’s hearing aid is now in my hands like all of his business. He sits up staring blankly ahead like he has done for the past couple of years, cut off from the world. Disengaged and disinterested. He recently disavowed having anything to do with Don, a close family friend who was like a son. A man who never judged him. A man who was the only visitor to his home besides me.  In his paranoid state, he has decided that Don tried to steal money for him when in reality; Don has assisted us with financial matters and took care of all of my father’s bills.

 Okay. This accident doesn’t seem to be so bad. . But what if he has some internal injury? Ooh, child… Please tell me everything is going to be all right. Not only is my dad going to be okay but I can finally get the happy ever after that I have so desperately wanted for all of these years. Why can’t somebody please love me?

The ambulance finally arrives.  After several hours in the ER’s trauma room, he is deemed fit to go home. Go home to what? My mother whose frail body is now ridden with arthritis, Parkinson’s disease and chronic lung disease. My mother who, too is battling dementia and memory loss. My mother who lies on the bed getting changed and diapered by the home health aide like she was a baby. Two emotional cripples now have their bodies crippled with various physical ailments. They have round the clock home-care.  Thankfully, two of the kindest and caring health aides assist them with all of their needs. In and out of emergency rooms. Is a nursing home around the corner? To quote the Rolling Stones, “What a drag it is getting old.”

All of this uncertainty. What kind of life is this for my parents?

What kind of life is this for me?  

Lessons from MJ: Why Can't We Look at the Man (or Woman) in the Mirror?

Michael Jackson taught us many valuable lessons in lyrics and in life.

Please note: These are some of my personal musings about one of my favorite entertainers of all-time, Michael Jackson. There may be a few spots where I do the Felix Unger thing and "assume" some stuff about him that may or may not be so. It's just that I was one of his many fans who took his loss very personally and would like to share my spin--but it is just one gal's  take on the Michael Jackson phenom, situation or whatever you want to call it.

 Michael Jackson: RIP. I know what it is like to be weird and different. People just can’t as my husband  says, dig that. They want us all to conform to what society thinks is normal. Normal is boring.  Michael had a beautiful and sensitive artistic soul and spirit. He endured years of abuse from his father. He had compassion and empathy for other people. I don't think that a horrible person can write songs like Heal the World, We are the World and Man in the Mirror.

Man in the Mirror is all about making a change and realizing that it has to start with you! I’ve shared this song with my students. Even ten year olds are not blind to its magical message--don’t wait for the world to get better, do whatever you can to be kind to yourself and others.

I will now proceed to what we call in school as making a "text to self" or "text to world" connection. I’ve also noticed that people are always looking to blame other people for their own flaws, mistakes or inadequacies. The Blame Game is featured everyday everywhere--watch it  in the work place, on the street, just about anywhere and anyplace.  Wouldn’t it be cool if everyone “fesses up” when he or she screws up instead of looking to blame someone else? It’s all about taking responsibility for one’s own actions. A very valuable lesson for kids and kids of all ages.

As far as Michael Jackson goes, I’ll quote my hubby again (gotta give credit where it’s due) when he says, society gives people labels. You are this or that—one way or another. MJ was just like us. Not perfect. He made mistakes. We all do. We are all shades of grey. But there are very few of us who make the world a better place like MJ did. He appeared to have so much angst inside because it seemed he was not kind to himself. He kept having all of these surgeries to make himself something he was not. Seemed like he was trying to change into something that he thought society expected.  Yet all that did was make people talk about how weird he was. All of those  judgmental people who think they know everything. 

The media. They build up celebrities, put them on pedestals just to rip them apart later. Disgusting. We love this. We watch Access Hollywood and even crap like TMZ. Don’t know how people who work at a show like TMZ sleep at night—stalking other people. Vultures. Even I contribute by reading things like Star Magazine. It is a bad habit I have had since a kid and can’t break. I actually once stopped for a few years after they wrote a horrible story about John Lennon.  My students read a book called the Kid Who Ran for President by Dan Gutman. It’s a fantastic satire of the entire presidential campaigning process. Written for kids but I think grown ups “get it” even more. In the Kid, a sixth grader, Judson Moon is running for the president of the United States for the “lemonade party.” All of the media loves the twelve year old celebrity. But then when a “scandal” hits—it’s revealed that Judson threw another kid’s history paper about the constitution down the sewer—it looks like it may be all over.  A newspaper reporter warns Judson, “Nobody out there is your friend. Everybody wants a piece of you. To sell newspapers or magazines. To improve their TV or radio ratings. To make money. All I’m saying is be careful. Don’t trust anybody. America chews up celebrities and spits them out. And America is about to clear its throat with you, Moon!”

Michael Jackson was constantly being eaten up and spit out. One moment he was celebrated for his music and the next he had every nook and cranny of his personal life examined under the microscope. There were many allegations made against him. And he's done "interesting things" (to say the least) like dangling his infant son outside a window to show him off to the world. He never should have stated publicly that he allows children to sleep in his bed. Who knows what actually happened. But society can’t handle that. It’s weird and different. 

But that voice—especially when he was a kid. It was so strong, innocent, powerful and pure. Michael was Mr. Peter Pan. Never grew up—living in Neverland. At first, everyone thought that was so cool. A ranch with an amusement park and zoo animals which he shared with his pet chimp and the public. Sometime later, the chimp was gone and he lost his ranch. But nothing is forever not even Neverland and sadly the King of Pop left us before his time. But maybe it was his time to go. I guess we all move on to the next chapter when it’s meant to be. But most of us will never leave so many musical gifts to the world that MJ did.

Poor Michael. Had a s--tload of money which everyone wanted a piece of.  He just gave it away. So innocent and trusting of other people. Yet he seemed to be surrounded by so much greed and folks who used him. (Actually, he was greedy too when he bought the Beatles catalog, betraying his friend, Paul McCartney).

Sorry MJ got addicted to pain medicine. Maybe he was trying to make all of the hurt inside go away. So much humiliation. Yet I think that people can say whatever they want. Weird. Bad. The fact remains MJ is the one of the greatest entertainer that ever lived.

 

I am so sorry Prince, Paris and Blanket lost their dad while they were so young. It can’t be easy to be MJ’s children—paparazzi at every corner.  And for a while, the media said that they may not even be his biological children (even look like him). If by some chance they were not biologically his offspring, they will always belong to him. After all, they shared so many special times and moments with each other.

I remember how Michael and Brooke Shields used to be such good friends, especially when they were teenagers. I guess they both had very controlling parents and were two sweet child stars, forever in the public eye connected. People used to think Brooke was weird, too. Well, mostly her stage mom who did not seem to let her daughter breathe yet let her take on some very adult roles at a young age (Blue Lagoon, Endless Love). But look how well Brooke turned out. A Princeton grad, successful television and theatrical star, wife and mom to two daughters. Brooke Shields’ speech at MJ's memorial was o honest and from the heart. She "got him." They seemed to share  such a special friendship.

The jury convicted Conrad Murray  of involuntary manslaughter in the accidental overdose of MJ. Okay fine. Blame the doc, if you want. But I think if Murray didn’t give MJ the drugs he wanted, he would have found a doctor (or someone else) who would have given him all the Propofol he wanted.

Yes, it’s sad that Michael Jackson was planning a world tour and we could all be sad that he could have given us more great music and yes, it’s so sad that his family lost a son, brother and father. I’ll always remember the little boy with the sweet voice singing, I’ll be There. Smokey Robinson said that little MJ sang, Who’s Loving You better than he did (and Smokey wrote it!) We’ll always remember the moonwalk, the Thriller video and the Dancing Machine video with the brothers doing the robot. But to me, it’ll always be about the Man in the Mirror. Or in my case, chick in the mirror. Gotta keep self-reflecting and trying to be honest with myself. Everyday is a constant struggle to keep evolving, trying to make myself a better person and taking steps to make the world a little bit brighter.

Fear, Loathing and Clutter in Queens

Doesn't everyone need one of these? Why is it so hard to let go of our past and clutter?

During my entire life I have surrounded myself with clutter. Garbage. Crap. I think there is some comfort in doing this. It makes you feel safe. I think all of my clutter cushioned me and sometimes even protected me from the outside world. Sometimes there were so many newspapers, papers and books around, it was difficult to get around the apartment or my room.  I did not want to go outside. But you know what? Having all that crap around did not make you want to stay home, either. You knew you should stay home and deal with all of the clutter, but with all of those mounds—none in any particular order—you became Scarlet O’Hara and said, “Tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow.” But then you did not want to deal with it then either. For so long, I would clip newspaper articles—thinking I may need them for a later time. Maybe for an article I may work on in the future. I did that a lot when I was a sports writer. Sometimes newspapers would pile up because I liked to keep notebooks of a day by day account of the NY Mets. Of course, I could not go through them  everyday. So they would pile up sometimes a week at a time. Clutter can attract cockroaches and yes, they were often on hand, too. Eww. Gross.

Still have way too much crap and clutter in my apartment. Way too many clothes, memorabilia, videos, books, magazines, and teaching resources. (Does anyone really need an I Dream of Jeannie bottle? Nope. But I ain’t getting rid of it). And now that I’m married, my husband has added a lot of his crap and clutter, too. Well, of course, it is not all crap and in fairness, he did get rid of a ton of personal belongings prior to moving in. He relents that besides his own dresser and a few bookcases he brought from his bachelor pad, I only gave him one half of the large-walk in closet to store his stuff.

When I first moved in here some fourteen years ago, the rental agent was like, “You are a single gal. What do you need with such a big apartment?” But when I saw the huge walk in closet and gigantic living room area, I could not pass it up.  I live in what is called a “junior four.” Eat in kitchen, average sized bedroom and a separate dining alcove adjacent to the living room. Tons of closet space, too. (Well, not anymore). Plus, it was just two blocks away from where I was living from my parents. At first, I thought, Yeah, maybe, I do not need all of this extra space. Yet it seemed so appealing. All of this is mine! Plus, it is absolutely amazing how quickly it all fills up! I swear I think the papers, books and other junk multiplies (just like cockroaches) when you are not watching!

But it was not just the clutter that made my parents’ place uninhabitable.  It was the constant yelling, screaming and bickering between my parents and me. “You goddamn sonofabitch-bastard,” was a favorite line of my mother’s. This was usually directed at my father but I could be told this if I returned from Dan’s Supreme (located next door) without one or two items from her grocery list. While my father would often tell my mother how stupid she was. (And you know what? Sometimes I silently agreed with him).

Two emotional cripples. That’s what my Aunt D always said about my parents. I love my aunt but she could be harsh, even when she doesn't mean to be.  She also sometimes says stuff that makes you wonder if she’s just another one of those typical "keeping up with the Joneses" Long Island stereotypes. I’ll never forget her lamenting when my cousin was searching with her husband to buy a new home for her family that “a million dollars does not buy much anymore.”  That may be true but not something a working-class school teacher from Queens, wanted to hear.  She and my uncle showed up at the hospital when my mom was dying. I really appreciated that. However, I did not think it was fair that she chose that time to chastise me for not keeping in contact with her. I know both of us felt that neither one of us made enough effort to "reach out and touch" the other. Aunt D's Brooklyn nasal-like accent drove my mom crazy. But a person can’t help where they’re born and raised. Yet it wasn’t just the quality and tone of the voice—it was the judgment that the voice could inflict on people, especially my parents.  She was always very critical of my folks who could not help that they had "issues."  (They were both manic depressive and hospitalized on several occasions for their "issues." Dad, originally from what used to be Czechoslovakia, is a Holocaust survivor who lost 80 members of his family including his mom and brother during World War 2. My mom, from the Bronx, battled mental illness for her entire life. Despite this, I know they loved me with all of their hearts but it was never easy being their daughter).

I don’t get the judgmental thing—no matter who it is coming from and to whom it is directed.  What the f**k makes someone think that they are better than someone else? We are all people. Sadly, some of us are not privileged (money-wise or otherwise) and may have serious issues that prevent us from properly functioning in this world. ..

On a lighter note, I've never been out to eat with my aunt when she did not send something back because it was too hot, too cold, too this or too that. One time, we went to a local diner that I often frequented. She ordered the most expensive thing on the menu (lobster). Ate the whole thing and then claimed to find something on her plate that did not belong there. So she complained to the waiter (loudly) and then refused to pay for her meal with the manager at the register. Very embarrassing.  The last time we went out to eat, she actually sent my spinach back to the kitchen because she didn't think it was warm enough. 

Our last few "get togethers" have been a lot more pleasant than the ones before.  She is extremely crafty, handy and makes the best damn stuffed cabbage in the world. She recently knitted me a multicolored scarf that I absolutely adore that she mailed from her winter condo in Florida. Plus in a very lovely gesture, she gave me an old music box that plays Rain Drops Keep Falling on My Head. My mom received one just like it when I was a kid but it disappeared in recent years. (I think one of my mother’s substitute home-care attendants helped herself to it). So that was so incredibly thoughtful. I am thankful that we have reconnected, especially since I do not have a large family. But sometimes even those folks, who may care about us, say and do things that can be hurtful. And damn, it cuts even more when you have an elephant’s memory and you’re like me—just can’t let go of the past.

…Then there’s the fear factor.  I have been so afraid of just about everyone and everything since I was little. Mostly so afraid of what other people thought of me and so afraid of being judged badly. It always became a self fulfilling prophecy. Just wanting to fit in and be accepted—often by people who were not worth a damn. I have been told people sense fear and weakness—especially mine. I guess I have always been fearful and probably very weak, too.  I am afraid of getting sick, feeling extreme physical pain and of dying. My husband says once I get past that, I can lead a much happier life. So afraid of airplanes and have been since I was little. It is not the 9-11 thing. Not afraid of terrorists, really. Just afraid of the damn thing exploding and having a heart attack in the final moments.

Maybe part of it is just not being able to enjoy moments. Forgetting the past, not worrying about the future and just trying to enjoy the present. Trying but it is so hard. Even the day I got married, I panicked. Got a call from the radiologist’s office as we were walking from City Hall to lunch at the South Street Seaport that they needed to take more pictures of my boobs. I was already panicking that I had cancer. Poor me, I thought. I was finally getting married at age 43 and wouldn’t even get the chance to enjoy anything including time with my brand new husband. But it turned out to be nothing. Thankfully.  But there’s always next time. Afraid of getting ovarian cancer which they can do nothing for. Or pancreatic cancer. It’s got to suck to get some horrible illness where you waste away. As much as I am devastated at the loss of my beloved Monkee Davy Jones, I think it’s great that he did not suffer. He just dropped dead while he was doing what he loved most—spending time with his horses. That’s got to be the way to go.

Supposed to hang on to hope. Always did. Always believed stuff would get better. There was always tomorrow. But now tomorrow means getting older. Sometimes I long to be a kid again and be taken care of. Only thing is, I never was properly cared for. My shrink used to call me the pampered yet deprived princess. I was deprived of coping mechanisms and not shown responsibility and how to be strong and even how to clean, cook and take care of things. Don’t want to blame my parents because that is just wrong. Could have done that on my own. Often I would just retreat into my Brady Bunch, Partridge Family and later into the Eyewitness News world. I would just ignore the fighting, the bickering and imagine life as a Brady or reporting the news sitting next to Ernie Anastos in the anchor chair. That got me through a lot of name calling in school—especially being teased about my hair. That damn shit that sits on the top of my head.

Thankfully, there is still some left—even though it has been thin for a while. But it has been a source of misery forever. Bald until I was three. In fact for my second birthday, my mother pasted a velvet bow to my head. It then grew and was actually not too bad for several years. Very thick and frizzy. That was before the day of hair products. Probably just needed some gel and deep conditioning. No More Tangles just didn’t cut it. Then came the worst and deepest cut of all. When I was in fourth grade, Vic from the hair salon next to the fire station cut my entire braid off and made my hair so short, I looked like a little boy. Of course, I did not know how to take care of it. So it just became a fuzzy afro and that is how it went for the next four or five years. Not sure why he cut it so short. I think my mother’s arm hurt from brushing it everyday. That was an ordeal. But in retrospect, my hair was long and bushy. I looked like Carole King or a hippie which really wasn’t terrible and like I said, products could have cured that. But boy, was I teased with that “do” for the next several years.  I joke I looked like a member of the Jackson 5 sometimes which for a ten year old Jewish kid from Queens is just not okay.

Nowadays, it’s blonde and somewhat relaxed from a variety of products and chemicals. Definitely overprocessed. Luckily, I haven’t gotten brain cancer yet from the formaldehyde you can find in some of those straightening products--- especially some keratin treatments. My beauticians swore that whatever they’ve used was safe. But you never know.

I wear the proverbial heart on my sleeve all the time. (My husband says I need to work on that. I have gotten better at holding back saying what I’m feeling. But he says it’s all in my body language and often mine says, “F**k you!” I need to work on that). It’s just that I hate phonies--so did my mom. She had a phony-o-meter & could spot one a mile away and had absolutely no tolerance for fake- insincere people. Neither do I and that sometimes that makes it difficult for me to function in this world. As you know, there is so much b.s. and many people really only care about themselves and are just nice to those who can help them or those they feel they can get something from. (Don't worry. I know there are so many good folks there, too and I am thankful for having some good friends and people in my life).

Gotta believe in the church of me. That’s what I keep telling myself. ‘Cause in the end, that is all that’s left or what matters. I am the only one who can make me happy. Like John Lennon said, “No one can save you but you.” Also, his teacher asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up and he said, “happy.” I know it’s a choice. For the longest time, I sat on the couch and chose to be miserable.  But trying to get my butt up. Maybe someday I’ll actually make it out of the old ‘hood. Lived in the same part of Queens for my entire life. Trapped myself. Sometimes, we get used to our own misery. In my case, I think it just remains the fear of letting to of a past and trying to stay connected to stuff that never really made me happy in the first place.  But change can be scary but I know, oh, so necessary.

I believe in the church of John Lennon and me! Listen to the color of your dreams!

I guess it all goes back to that old Make Your Own Kind of Music motto. If ever there was a song written about me and for me, this is it. God bless Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil. What a gift they have been to this world with all of their wonderful songs. But this one. OMG! Nobody can tell you there’s only one song worth singing. But that is how it is. We are all expected to be the same. As a woman, we are supposed to want 2 kids and the perfect house in the suburbs and acquire a s--tload of money. We are all supposed to behave, act and look a certain way.  They may try and sell you. The damn media. We all got to be skinny and perfect. Cause it hangs them up to see someone like you. Yup. Society can’t handle different. Yet if it were not for those of us who are different, all of the great music, art and inventions would never have come to be. Those of us who are different have a special mirror and window into stuff that other people just can’t see.  Plus we get ostracized for being different. People know we are sensitive and not so strong. Sorry but sensitivity can leave us weak and vulnerable.  And we become prey to the rest of the world.

Forty Paw Salute to Animal Rescue Workers

There's more to life than Monkees...like owning pets!

Life is certainly not all about Monkees, Bradys and Waltons. (Well, especially if you are living in 2012). I have already shared some of my teaching experiences and will add more musings later. But I’d like to transition from Monkees to cats and pets. 

This week, I won Anjellicle Cats’ raffle and received a generous movie gift card. I wanted to take this time to offer a forty paw salute to the incredible local New York City rescue groups (including Anjellicle Cats, Amsterdog Rescue, Hudson Valley Animal Sanctuary and my dear friends at Loving Touch) that go into shelters everyday rescuing the pets on death row and taking in other abandoned, sick and homeless animals. 

 I can’t ever bear to read great books like Old Yeller, My Dog Skip and Marley and Me (or watch their movie counterparts) because I know a beloved family pet will die in the end. I just can’t imagine going into the city pounds and choosing which animals you will save and knowing all the poor little pets with their paws and snouts pressed against the cages that you leave behind may never make it out and never have that safe lap to sit in or warm bed to sleep in. 

Sorry, ending is too sad...just can't go there!

 For anyone in need of a reality check, please visit pages like Pets on Death Row and Pet Pardons on Facebook. It is absolutely heartbreaking to see all of the beautiful, poor creatures fighting for their lives (due mostly to the irresponsibility of their owners and other human beings). To me (a life-time pet owner), when you adopt something, it becomes a family member and a lifetime commitment. If for some reason, one is totally unable to care for a pet, I feel it is the pet owner's responsibility to find it a good home or contact a rescue group and not leave it at the city shelter where it does not stand much of a chance. Putting money away for when pets get ill or having pet health insurance to me, is also a no-brainer. 

I also think it is totally absurd when people drop a s--tload of money on a "designer pet" from a breeder when there are so many beautiful muti-grees (and pedigrees) who end up in shelters. And anyone who does not spay or neuter, is just plain stupid. 

Visiting Pets on Death Row-like pages also renews faith in humanity and mankind because along with the photos of the pets in the “gone but never forgotten” albums, there are so many animals who end up in the “safe” folders due to the relentless, passionate and selfless work of the rescue workers. These folks get shelter pets needed vet care, nurse them back to health and place them into foster and permanent homes. (Some of the recovery tales and “after” pictures of shelter pets are amazing). Their dedication, sweat and tears are inspiring. These are not crazy people. They are mostly passionate people who have full-time jobs but give up their free time to do their parts to make the world a better place for animals. Wish I could help more than just by donating some money and signing a few petitions to reform the shelter system. (We already have more than enough pets in our apartment). And of course, even for those one or two more that we or some other good-hearted person takes in, there's always the tragic thousands (or more) that are left behind. 

Celebrating these beautiful creatures and the dedicated folks who save their lives!

There’s a wonderful story I share with my students called "All the Cats in the World." In it, an old woman feeds a bunch of homeless cats down by a sea shore. At first, she is thought of as foolish and crazy, since there are so many kitties wandering about. But then the critics realize how important it is to help just one, two or few creatures at a time. Kindness and compassion are the two most important qualities that should drive us as human beings. After all, wasn’t it Gandhi who said, “The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated?” And once again, a tip of the hat and wag of a tail to animal rescuers. May they all be rewarded for the wonderful work they do! 

Share this with kiddies and show them how you can change the world by helping one cat (or one of anything) at a time.

Getting Davy Jones Grand Finale (from Television Collector Magazine- Fall 1997)

In conclusion, Davy talks about the regrets he had about making the movie, Head. I thought the movie was awful and sent the wrong message to fans (especially since in one scene the guys were seen running off a bridge, almost like they were committing suicide). Davy thanked me for bringing this up and we then wrapped it up by discussing upcoming projects which at the time included the 30th anniversary tour, horse racing and a couple of other projects including writing of a novel and adapting a book into a show, never came to fruition. He was amazingly open about everything especially since he did not know me personally. Even though it's been nearly fifteen years since our chat, it was a dream come true having one of my heroes open up in what I think is an insightful conversation. Hope you all agree and enjoy!

The beginning of the end of the Monkees: the disastrous 1968 theatrical release, Head.

Before our phone conversation ended, Davy and I discussed the movie, Head. The war scenes were not too graphic; people were used to seeing far worse images on the evening newscasts. But the suicide scenes disturbed me. Considering the Monkees' popularity with kids, I thought the scene when Micky jumped off the bridge at the film's beginning and the guys floating lifelessly underwater at the conclusion were most inappropriate.

"It was totally against my wishes to do the Head movie," he notes. "The suicide scene was like the Houdini thing where we are escaping from the water tank. The idea was, you never really escape life. There's not any particular way out. The message of that and the Monkees' movie was totally wrong for what our audiences were at the time. It totally buried us.

"I'm glad you've spoken with me about it. That's bothered me for 30 years and I've never spoken to anyone about it," he continues. "I was totally against the suicide thing. We were being chased. It was the beginning and end (of the film) and they wanted to tie it together. We ran through the tape at the bridge and jumped because we were running away. We were escaping. I still have flying dreams. It would have been better if we would have flown away and done the Superman thing."

It seems that only  a man of steel could keep up with Davy's schedule. In addition to the 30th anniversary tour, and new album, Just Us, Davy plans to return to England shortly to continue horse racing. There's a Monkees movie in the works. He's adapting a book, Mr. God, This is Anna, into a musical, and writing a novel, which he describes as Jackie Collins-like with an espionage twist.

And Davy reports that he and Micky are getting along quite well and plan to return to the stage together and collaborate on a television series.

"We understand each other," says Davy. "We've had our fist fights. We know how to hurt each other and don't do it anymore. Micky never had a brother. Neither did I. Micky had his problems too. He was lost. He was alone. He was getting divorced. He felt worthless.

"He felt all he was ever going to be known as was Circus Boy and the Monkees. But he picked himself up and realized he's got talent and has responsibility to himself, his children, me and everybody around us. And we both stopped thinking about ourselves and more about the overall picture and everybody else.

"We talk family and girlfriends. We're always hugging each other. It's wonderful. Peter, too. Peter's opened up and mellowed out. He's not so frantic and so scared of fame. He was a singing waiter in a Santa Monica hotel five years ago because he didn't want the fame. He just can't handle it. We're traveling in $500,000 tour buses. Micky and I. And Peter's in a Winnebago. There are certain things he can't let go of. He's paying for the tour bus because that's part of the deal. He's also paying for the bloody Winnebago. But that's Peter. He just keeps holding on to this eight track image he has and an 'I don't deserve it' attitude. But he does deserve it."

And even though the captain of Marcia Brady's heart is not perfect, he too, deserves the fame and adulation. The Prince Charming of pop rock is just too special to too many people and has been for too long to ever have that crown taken away.

This is how most of us will forever remember Davy, the prince charming of pop rock and captain of Marcia Brady's heart.

Getting Davy Jones-Part 5 (From Television Collector Magazine, Fall 1997)

Davy continues to open up about the difficult rollercoaster ride of a pop culture icon. He even discusses getting arrested for drunk driving.

Despite the successful Dolenz, Jones, Boyce and Hart 1976 tour, the mid to late 70's was not always an easy time for Davy, the fallen teen idol.

During the latter part of his Monkee career, Davy wrote a song called You and I, which seemed so prophetic of what was to follow in his own life. You and I appears to be about the rise and fall of a teen idol. ("In a year of two, there'll be someone new to take our place. Another song, another voice, another pretty face.")


One day it's Davy's face on the cover of Tiger Beat, then it's David Cassidy's, and after, it's on to the next heart-throb flavor of the month. "You and I was the insecurity of knowing what was going to happen. I heard horror stories of singers from the 60's going into bars and singing for a beer. There was a period in my life when I was divorced and I went out on the road with Micky, Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart. We did very well and sold out wherever we went. It was great.


"Then in the late 1970's, Micky and I went to England to do the Point, a Harry Nilsson show. After that, I started to date girl. I was 35. she was 45. She had a couple of kids. It was getting much into the same thing as being married. I saw the same thing happening. So I moved to the country. I started to write. I was probably doing a bottle of scotch a day. I was going to the pub and sitting in my little fifteenth century cottage alone, writing, riding across the forest every day, enjoying my sort of freedom.


"I wrote a song called Fallen Hero, which was much the same as You and I. I'm sitting there at six in the morning and the sun is coming up and there's only like another shot in the bottle. The last verse says, "The cattle awoke in the meadow. I behold the dewy dawn. I've rediscovered the many truths and pleasures I once knew with me were born. The light that once lit up my life has turned its back on me. My soul is like a garden. At long last, I am free.


"And so it was a very interesting period in my life." Davy says it wasn't until about 1985, by which time he had re-married and his third daughter, Jessica, was a toddler, that he snapped out of his so-called "self-persecution."


"I was offered a part as Jesus in Godspell. I toured with that for a year and ended up at the West End of London. Then the review came out and made me cry. The London Times said that Davy Jones molded this unruly cast and was a perfect example of the way (Jesus) should have been portrayed. When you get a 'yes' in a world of 'no',' it's great. The Monkees was the opposite. We always had "yeses.'



"We had one 'no' when they said the Monkees can't play and can't sing. It was such a load of bullshit. It was just that we didn't because we were hired to do a TV show about a group. It was different than the Partridge Family. It was not sort of like a bunch of kids halfway strumming and playing. Mike Nesmith's a good musician. He proved that by writing good stuff.

Unlike the Partridge Family, the Monkees were the real deal--writing, singing and playing their own instruments.

"Peter Tork can play any instrument. Micky Dolenz plays the drums and guitar. So can I. We became a group and went out and did 200 concerts with just the four of us playing. And, we're still together 30 years later. We haven't been on TV, but we have been touring and working together on a new album."

 Prince Charming and fallen hero aside, Micky Dolenz points out in his autobiography, I'm a Believer, that Davy is not immune to throwing a few profanity-ridden tirades and being extremely difficult to work with, especially during the 20th anniversary tour in 1986.


The two also had a major falling out during the London production of the Point and did not speak for several years following the incident. In They Made a Monkee Out of Me, Davy describes a few incidents that occurred after consuming too much alcohol. He seemingly light-heartedly sums up those drunken episodes by noting, "That is when I started drinking..."

"I would no sooner now get in a car and drive after having one beer than jump off the moon," Davy says today. "I did it. I got called in about two years ago. I was shopping Christmas time for my kids. We were going back to England the next day. I stopped at the local restaurant that I eat at every day. I had the same bucket of clams, the same onion soup, and the same two large glasses of beer.

"On the way home, I got stopped and arrested for drunk driving. At the time, my adrenaline was flowing. I was high on going home. I wasn't weaving all over the place and the Breathalyzer didn't say I was drunk. It was the officer's opinion. Had it been anyone else but davy Jones, it wouldn't have happened.

"That's why I must watch what I do because I'm a target in many ways. But (overall) I am a very privileged person." Incidentally, Davy says he now limits his alcohol intake to an occasional glass of wine with dinner.

Getting Davy Jones-Part 4 (From Television Collector Magazine, Fall 1997)

In Part Four, we get into some really cool in-depth stuff about Davy trying to keep up with his image and the pressures of stardom. Very open and admits that it was never easy being Davy Jones.

"Give her an autograph and tell her, it's been nice knowing you..." (from "Star Collector," written by Carole King).

The fans. There are several documented acts of kindness Davy has shown towards his devotees. the one involving the girls whom he visited in Phoenix after they were nearly killed crossing the streets with their Monkees albums is legendary.

In They Made a Monkee Out of Me, Davy wrote how he was hailed a hero for that incidnet but soon forgotten afterwards. The image Hollywood created for him was soon abandoned when the Monkee's star began to fade (about the time their movie, Head flopped and it was revealed that Davy had secretly been married for over a year and had an infant daughter.

"You don't want to be the person who doesn't live up to that image," he says. "I have very little respect for celebrities who say, 'I don't want to sign. I don't want to do this.' I've been this face now for 30 years. There's not a time I walk through an airport or down the street that somebody doesn't say, 'Hey, Davy Jones!' I'm always answering questions.

"It's no big hardship to me. But there are times you need to escape, like when I go to my home in Pennsylvania. It's very remote. There's only about 800 people living there. People say, 'Why do you live there? Why  not Hollywood?

"Well, I have an apartment in Santa Barbara, but I rarely spend any time there. I like to be away from it. There's no happier time I have than when I'm brushing over my horses, wallpapering, painting or fixing the roof.

"There was a time I went to the bottle and went to excess. It was because I was rebelling against my own commitment of having to do this celebrity thing. I would no sooner have ended up in the gutter if not for having aunties, uncles, and sisters who are still telling me, 'Don't come back here with a big head. You're still David. You're still our little brother.' So I'm still pretty sound on who I am.

"They say you always lose your first fortune in rock and roll, and most people do. They don't realize the expenses that have been incurred for them to be who they are, and they just flow with it. They make $300,000 videos and they drive in limousines and stay at silly hotel prices.

"Most careers whether it be Judy Garland, Sammy Davis Jr., or Frank Sinatra, all the big stars have always had their ups and downs. I'm sure Geena Davis is biting her nails right now--three flops in a row. One more and you're out. She just bought a $25 million property in Santa Barbara. Most careers are like  fish bowl. You go up and down. You find a very sensible little place halfway up that fish bowl that you're comfortable on and you hover there for a while. That's what a career is all about.

Davy and the Monkees sang lots of cool pop tunes with plenty of soul on their tv show, records and at concerts!

 "I'd rather sing and act and entertain the way I do than have the pipes that Michael Bolton has because he doesn't have any soul. He can sing but he doesn't have any soul. I may not be the world's greatest singer in the world but I got a lot of soul and what I put across comes from my heart. You have to surround yourself with people you trust, which isn't always the easiest thing to do. You've got to be able to live in the penthouse and in the basement. You've got to be able to adjust and never be bigger than yourself.

It's a tough thing. It's not easy being me. I'm very happy when I'm just swimming in a crowded pool or in line to pay my grocery bill. I have no problem with that.

"People say to me, 'What have you done for the last 30 years?' If I have to explain that, it's ridiculous. I am a working actor. I would rather be working on a Sunday night in transit, sitting in a hotel and my band would, too. We'd all rather be working and if it's not that, we'll pop off to a club someplace and jump up and do a set. It's only because that's what we do. When we're not doing it, we're unhappy. That's what people can't deal with--the unhappiness of not working after they have dedicated their commitment of being an entertainer.

"I saw an ad in the Hollywood Reporter, years ago: 'Actress needs work.' The name was Bette Davis and it gave a number--her personal phone number. That was when she started to do a few bits and pieces before she died.

"My daughter worked for a casting director for a number of years, Joanna Ray, in Hollywood, who casts a lot of movies. She said, 'Dad, you would be so surprised at the amount of people who come into this office looking for day jobs. The names that are coming in for $3000 or $5000 a day, auditioning, and not getting it.' She said, 'I'm embarrassed.'

"I don't think there's anyone out there that's got the idea that I can actually still sell tickets and put bums on seats. They have this image of a young guy with stars in his eyes. Well, I am quite youthful because I work on it. Sound body, sound mind. I know that eventually somebody will throw a script in front of me that won't entail that I have to be Davy Jones. There's no reason I couldn't have played The Riddler in Batman.  When that happens, I'll be out there.

"I had a great experience that last couple of years when I played Fagin in Oliver (all over the United States). It was so great because the reviews said if you think you're going to see Davy Jones, Monkee, think again because obviously this guy knows his way around the stage and he's done his homework."

Doing what he loved best--entertaining his fans!

Getting Davy Jones-Part Three (From Television Collector Magazine, Fall 1997)

Here's more of my interview with Davy where we visit with other life-long fans and continue to discuss the beautiful connections Davy has made with his fans through the years. I took out a couple of parts (which were already noted in my "Death of a Daydream Believer" post). 

Adored by fans all over the world (including those in his native UK).

Neither the talent of the other three guys nor their teams of songwriters should ever be ignored. However, most of the band's fans I've met are fascinated with Davy. Take for instance, Laurel, a twenty-something recording artist from Queens, NY, who had a hit dance single, For Your Love in Canada. She still kisses Davy's picture and album covers and dreams about him.

"He was my first love, " she notes. "He was the archetype of what a guy should be: charming and witty. Which is funny--my husband is all of those things but whenever I'm upset, I run for the CD box set and I'm instantly a child again. Even the sad songs make me happy."

Fans greet Davy as if he still adorns the covers of Tiger Beat and as if they are still teenager. "A middle-aged lady came up to me the other day, "Davy recalls. "She opened this little cardboard box and showed me this little silver ring. There wasn't anything special about it. And she said, 'About 30 years ago, my sister saw you on the beach in Marina Del Ray. I told her that if you're ever in California and see Davy Jones, tell him I love him.' Well, it happened. I was on the beach. I took the ring off my finger and told her to give it to her sister. It was just a little ring that I probably got from a relative or a friend. So (30 years later) she is standing there. She opened up this little box like it was a treasure. And I went, "WOW!"  Then she broke down and cried. She said, 'I love you so much. I have four beautiful children but I've always loved you and I'll always support you.' and then she walked away, turned at the door and looked at me with tears just flooding down.

"Last night I was going down the line while I was waiting for Micky to get on the bus. I was signing autographs and the fans were saying you're so nice for doing this. A girl said to me, 'Oh, I love your beads.' I had a pair of love beads on for about a week; somebody had given them to me at a concert. I said to the girl, 'Would you like them?' She said, 'Yes.' So I took them off and I put them on her neck. And she'll probably keep them for 25 years."

Marcia Brady's favorite prom date has been divorced twice and entered his fifth decade of life. Eleven-year old Yvonne Gonzalez doesn't mind. She scribes Davy Jones love notes in her journal that begin, "Dear Sparkling eyes..."

For the past three decades, Davy has represented the Prince Charming coming to the rescue of young ladies. "Girls are raised their whole lives with a standard of a fairy tale prince, some gentleman like Davy Jones to sweep her off her feet. It's no accident that Davy always got the girl. When he begins crooning, It's Nice to Be with You, what young girl with innocent sentiments wouldn't be romanticized? ponders April McCray. 

"Another reason for Davy's appeal with little girls was, he seemed almost child-like. Quite often he was dressed in little boy's clothes like in Head's 'Daddy's Song,' and also danced childlike. In Cuddy Toy, he was given a child-like sounding song," she reflects.

Performing Daddy's Song in Head. Fans related to his sweet "child-like" qualities.

Those trademark cherubic lips and perfect shining mop of hair continue to attract fans of all ages. "Those lucky enough to see Davy's screen test (in episode #10 of the Monkees) see how natural he is," notes April. "The camera loves him. He's quick-witted. He could recite poetry and not come across as a nerd. And, he's funny. Davy made me laugh when he swooned. I remember the episode where he's romancing an Arab princess: 'I love your eyes, I love your hair, I love your neck...'He's ready to put on the wig or the Tarzan and scuba diving outfit. Young girls always like a guy who can make them laugh."

April recently attended a live Davy solo performance in New York. In between crooning the old ditties and shaking his tambourine, Davy donned an English bobby cap and "Peter Tork" ears. He led the crowd in a rendition of the Brady Bunch theme song, pretended to pull a bird out of a hat, and told a couple of tasteless, outdated and un-Davy-like John Bobbitt jokes, sprinkled with profanity.

The fans began calling out, "Shut up and sing, Davy!"

Yet, at a time when Mick Jagger was emerging, Davy was a non-threatening male image. He was young and small like a lot of girls. They were not afraid of him.

"When we did the Monkees, I had a lot of guy fans, too," Davy recalls. "They wanted to be like Davy Jones. It was almost like a brotherly thing. For young girls, I never felt like a sex symbol. I was their heartthrob. Because of my height and stature, I was never an aggressive sexual threat. I never related to the fans like I wanted to drag them in here. That's never what our image was all about. I wasn't lustfully looking at the fans. I think they felt that, and their parents, too.

"I was always attracted to older women, having grown up in New York when I was 15, 16 or 17, hanging out at the theatrical haunts. Broadway was filled with Tony Newley and Dudley Moore, Elizabeth Taylor and Judy Garland. I lunched with her many days and Georgia Brown at the Russian Tea Room night times and weekends at Fire Island. I didn't know what was going on. I just knew I liked to be around older people.

"It was kind of a kick to be Davy the Monkee because it was a relief in a sense. It enabled me to sort of hold on to my youth, because I was growing up very, very fast. I wasn't sexually active until I was about 18. It was only because I was around it all my life. Walking into the girls' dressing room and they're all sitting there with their knickers off and topless. I got three sisters, all older, so I was used to the female form."

Getting ready to hit the Broadway stage with Georgia Brown in Oliver!

 Fans still embrace those sweet old pop ditties tighter than a favorite childhood teddy bear. Even though most Davy and Monkee tunes were innocent and upbeat, they still existed in a most turbulent time in history. Young men taking the last train to Clarksville were marching off to the killing field of Vietnam.

In April 1968 when the Monkees were finishing up their second TV season, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assasinated and our nation was plagued with social and civil unrest. Perhaps we tend to romanticize a tumultuous era through the Monkees and other popular culture icons from that era.

At a Beatles Expo in Connecticut last November, not only were fans surrounded by $500 moptop lunchboxes and Flip Your Wig board games, but hundreds of Davy Jones devotees stood in line for over an hour, clutching photos, posters and album covers, waiting to meet the cute Englishman. Many on hand were not even born when the Monkees first debuted in September 1966.

Fourteen-year old Megan Harper discovered Davy when her friend showed her a Monkees video. "It was January 28, 1995 and my tongue hung out." At the Beatles Expo, Megan had her picture snapped with Davy and got his autograph. But she does have one regret. "I wanted to give him a hug," she notes. "But I was too dazed."

Megan now owns a lot of Monkees goodies, and papers the walls in her room with some 60-plus pictures of Davy and the Monkees. "Davy and I have a lot in common," Megan says. "We're both shot and have an attitude. I read in Micky (Dolenz') book that Davy used to throw a lot of tantrums."

she writes to Davy frequently, not only bestowing endless praise but also sharing details of her own "romantic predicaments." (She has yet to receive a personal response). "I once wrote that 'I wish I was old enough to marry you.' but my mom made me change it."

Megan's mom is a former Monkees fan club member, but unlike her daughter, she was not a Davy devotee. "He was too short and too conceited," she says.

Getting Davy Jones (From Television Collector Magazine, Fall 1997) Part 2

Davy sings Girl on the Brady Bunch and overhears Marcia pleading to the soundman to have a word with Davy. She gets the boot but we know what happens next!!!

(Continuing my 1997 interview with former teen idol, Davy Jones. This appeared in a small television nostalgia magazine. In this section, we talk about being a pop culture icon and my own interest in the Monkees and how I use the group's songs to teach important life lessons. A couple of students even share their perspectives).

The act. Davy has long been the good will ambassador of the Monkees and for the Monkees. So many stars of old TV shows and bands seem to want to distance themselves from the past and their roots. Not Davy, who basically sings only the oldies at his solo concerts and embraces his Monkee, Brady and yes, even cartoon days.

"The other morning, I left the TV on," Davy recalls. "At three a.m., I heard my voice and I looked up at the TV. I didn't recognize what was going on. But it was a program called Scooby Doo Meets Davy Jones. It was scary. I had done that in the early '70's. And all of a sudden, there was my voice coming out of a character that looked a little bit like me, in a tight top and bell bottoms, walking along with Scooby Doo!"

Well, you can take the guy out of the polyester decade, plop him into the 90's and you still have Marcia Brady's favorite prom date.

"When people see it (Getting Davy Jones), they immediately identify with that image that they're seeing," Davy notes. "So although years have gone by, you're still Dr. Kildare or Ben Casey. That image is still there no matter what. I'm 50 years old now; (recently) at the Melody Tent in Cape Cod, I had nine year old girls come up to me after the show at the autograph session. They threw their arms around me.

"One girl said, 'I just wanted to hug you.' They don't see the lines on my face. They don't see anything but the image they want to see.

"When you become a celebrity and have been in the public eye through television or media, all of a sudden you become more intelligent, better looking, and more opinionated whether you are or not. If you look back through history at people who are revered, you get someone like Eric Clapton, who for the last number of years has been like the flavor of the month.

"Well, the guy in the mid-70's, was lying in the gutter with a needle in his arm. So, that's forgiven and no one remembers that. So just as strong is the clean, wholesome image people have of me that they want to hold on to.

"It doesn't affect their existence now. It doesn't make their husbands jealous. They say to me, 'I always thought I was going to marry you. but now I'm married and I got four kids."

An early 70's Davy solo effort. (Probably around the time of Getting Davy Jones).

Even my own students who appreciated Getting Davy Jones' social messages seemed more fascinated with the adorable British fellow who was the object of Marcia's affection. "How do I feel about Davy Jones?" Jing Jing H. ponders. "He's cute and tender, especially when he sings songs like It's Nice to Be with You. I read he helped an old lady cross a street and he visited a girl after she was in a car accident. A real Prince charming, I'll say!"

I rediscovered the Monkees last year when Micky appeared in a Grease revival on Broadway and when he and Davy gave a free summer concert at the World Trade Center. It was then that I began to listen closely to their song lyrics and began to appreciate the guys for being truly talented musicians.

Then, there I was one of hundreds in line at the Beatles Expo last fall waiting for an autograph and picture with Davy. A "Star Collector?" Not really. I never waited for anyone's autograph before. There was something magical in that brief minute or two spent with Davy. Perhaps it was special to personally encounter an icon from what I have long regarded as a magical time, at least in terms of music and television.

This past year, I brought the most poignant Monkees songs to school to share with my students. We studied the lyrics and shared our reactions. the songs served as launching pads for many creative writing assignments and research projects.

Monkees tunes (including Shades of Gray) teach important life lessons.

 Here are some ten and eleven year old children's reactions to Shades of Gray, a song that reiterates the need to accept others and their different points of view:

"There are always three sides of a disagreement--the two stories and the truth--the gray."

"When blacks and white people clash, they make gray. I think the Monkees are sending a message that since people are discriminating against each other, they can't see anything clearly now."

"It is about people being unable to compromise anymore." You don't know what is going on when you are younger. If your parents tell you to be prejudiced against a certain race, you will do what your parents say."

"Through the eyes of the Monkees we learn that if we compromise, maybe we can work things out. I love the Monkees. When I grow up, I want to look like Davy Jones."