And in Closing, We Will Probably Complain...

By Peter Rodman

Though much of it turned out to be a random celebration of rock music, last night's closing ceremonies in London actually helped the 2012 Summer Olympics hit their absolute peak, with a show-stopping moment that totally “gets it” about the games.
But I predict not everyone will be as pleased as the rest of the world was with that moment, here in the “let's-pretend-we're-all-puritan” States.

The 'moment' I speak of would of course be the stunning spectacle of 60,000 people drifting from “Bohemian Rhapsody” into John Lennon’s “Imagine”--the one song nearly everyone in the world knows was custom-made for such an occasion.
I say “nearly” everyone, because you can almost hear the Mike Huckabees and Rush Limbaughs of the world already slamming Britain, for having some sort of anti-Christian agenda (they don’t) and kow-towing to a secular, socialist world agenda (they didn’t).

Back to the Ceremonies: 
First, there were the hundreds of  hearing-impaired kids, assembled to gleefully ‘sign’ the song’s lyrics, as ghostly dancing creatures seemed to converge from around the world to literally assemble John’s face, like a three-dimensional puzzle.

But the real stunner--and the most amazing thing about this song, really--is how immediate the lyrics sounded, when John’s digitally restored image suddenly appeared before the whole world, to speak from the hereafter:

“Imagine there’s no countries,” he began…and you had to think, "Now that's a ballsy call, coming as it does in front of every country!" Especially after each one had displayed--no...flaunted their nationalism, during this past fortnight.

“It isn’t hard to do,” Lennon continued, and I thought “Ya know, that might make things better, if it were only possible.”
“Nothing to kill, or die for…”
Man…that’s the real Olympic spirit, i’n’it??

And then came the kicker--which would never have happened, in America:

“…and no religion, too.”

Like I say, a ballsy call--or at least it would be here.
Let me add that I agree with the whole song-- despite the fact that (perhaps inexplicably in logical terms, but on faith alone) I still count myself a Christian. 

Even 'The Queen' is made of Jelly Babies!
(Photograph by Peter Rodman)

Lennon didn’t attack Christianity, Judaism or Islam...he only spoke the truth, which is that ALL of those religions (and many others) have been at the very heart of why nearly every war has been fought, since time began. Again...it's not the beliefs...not the faith...but the edicts from organized religion that are usually to blame--just as Lennon states.  
And finally: “Imagine all the people, livin' life in peace.” 
Last night it became very clear, John Lennon was not ‘the only one’ imagining that.  

To the rest of the world, I am quite sure this was a controversy-free moment...and I believe any viewer could easily sense this, watching the ceremony.
But here in America, we are stuck in the midst of a tyrannical tar-pit right now, which I believe will one day be looked back on as having virtually crippled us, during a curiously anti-progressive era.

I guess the whole point of this column is to say how refreshing it might be not to have to worry about "offending" the Blue Meanies, here in the States...but in truth, you just can't avoid it anymore. (Sadly, not much has changed, since 1966. Check out this video: Beatle 'Record Burnings,' 1966 )

No other nation on the planet batted an eyelash on Sunday night, over the selection of John Lennon's words...and that's a good thing.
We are alone in the world in nit-picking such things...but rest assured, if we can...we will. (And if it doesn't happen, I promise to rescind this entire blog post.) 

...your intrepid observer, in London.

 But I just can't help believin' that first thing Monday morning, most of my countrymen and women will wake up to the usual indignant tirades on hate-talk radio, or 'Fox & Friends.'

Just you watch:  
Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity and Fox will fire up their Outrage Machine to tell us all we’re all going to hell-in-a-hand-basket (made in China, of course)...and you know why?
Because THE REST OF THE WORLD ARE ALL DIRTY ROTTEN SECULAR SOCIALISTS, TRYING TO  RUIN THE GREATEST COUNTRY ON EARTH!
(That'd be us.  Follow along, People!)

Remember of course, these are the same folks who got their knickers in a twist (like that Brit-reference?) simply because a 16 year old Gold Medal-Winning American gymnast's pretty little pink uniform wasn't red, white, and blue enough.

So much for taking unabashed pride in our very best athletes. (One can't help but wonder what other color was 'off' in their minds.)

That, my friends, is where we are in this country right now.  Trapped by zealots, who talk about "principles"--but in reality, seem principle-free; they are simply addicted to outrage. 
More accurately, they'd like us to be--and all too often, we take the bait. 

The better to trick you with, eh?
These same people, if they could get away with it, would tell you Jesus himself was a capitalist~and that he would take from the poor, to give to the rich!

And how do we know this?
Well, one way we know this is because the Limbaugh/Beck/Huckabee crowd recently got nabbed selling Thomas Jefferson as some sort of gung-ho, Christian anti-slavery guy--over a period of nearly the whole last year--before conservative fact-checkers finally caught up with 'em! (Jefferson was nothing if not a secularist--and oh, by the way: He. Owned. Slaves.) 
Even the Nashville-based Bible publisher (Thomas Nelson) who put out the book they love to cite has finally withdrawn it (<<click link)--on the recommendation of several conservative Christian authorities.*

So like I say, the talk machine will be workin’ overtime Monday, to remind us good ‘muricans’ that John Lennon was a junkie/hippie/radical/atheist/socialist nut, who represented everything Amur'ca isn‘t about.
Just like all those annoying foreign countries we beat the pants off.
Yeah, man.
France, Greece, China, Spain, Russia, Sudan, Egypt, you name it...we have a long list of folks we love to hate. 
Not all of us, mind you...but enough to stir up faux-controversies daily, stoke the radio ratings, and maybe even get you angry that the sky is blue...or that John Lennon's “Imagine” got proudly sung by the whole planet last night, despite those dangerous lines about "religion" and "countries." 

Buy it, if you will. 
But if you'll buy that--and I don’t mean to insult anybody here--you might even buy (gulp)...‘Romney for President.’



___________________________
Copyright 2012 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.
________________________________
*Thanks to Craig Havighurst, for calling my attention to the linked story. 
_______________________________
Possibly Relevant Song/Video Links:
"Always Look on The Bright Side of Life" by Monty Pythion (Eric Idle)
"Imagine" (rare 'take one') by John Lennon
"Colours" by Donovan

My Friend, Howard

By Peter Rodman

I’ve met a lot of people in my time. People with big lives. The famous and the infamous, and then some. Heroes…and yes, villains.
But there are people you meet along this journey who've never made headlines, or had a fan club, or been on television, and they're just as monumental in their quiet way as anybody on Earth--because the truth is, this life isn’t about all that other stuff anyway.

Howard Evans, I am so proud to tell you, was one of the dearest souls I’ve ever met--and despite our 27-year age difference, one of my closest friends.
I first met him in the fall of ’04, when I was nervously navigating the rigors of home ownership as a buying 'virgin,' at the tender age of...53!
I live on the corner, and Howard’s house was right behind mine, on the side street. 
At first we’d just wave as we cut the lawn, or trimmed the bushes--swapping tips about droughts, and storm drainage and such--but eventually, our personal stories surfaced.
He listened politely to my truncated tales of past media glory…but more importantly, he accepted that I was simply looking forward to these quieter years, in a way many of my longtime friends and relatives couldn’t accept or believe. 
Howard took me at face value.
He knew I wanted time, for a more reflective era, both to celebrate and separate myself from all the commotion. There is still a lot of noise in my head, and I simply needed less of the hoo-hah my life had included, up ’til then.

As soft spoken as he was, eventually his own story began to emerge.  One day, as I was delivering a few movies for him to watch, he invited me in. “You know,” he said in an almost-whispered tone, as if it were the one secret he couldn't hold in anymore...
“I’m recently widowed.”

Of course other people knew that--but what he was really sharing was that it had been 18 months, and he just was not getting past his grief yet. 
The 'confidential' part was that he was still in mourning, despite the face he had been putting on for others. I felt priviledged that he would share such a personal thing with me, a recently new neighbor.
His eyes filled with tears, and he eagerly brought me into the various rooms in their small home of more than 40 years, and introduced me to Dotty. 
Everywhere I looked, there were framed pictures of a life obviously well-lived. 
Sometimes he’d burst out laughing as he recalled some cute remark she'd made, or some memorable event they'd shared.
“I really miss her,” he said. 
He was secure enough to share that grief openly--obviously, for the first time in a long time--and it made me feel pretty darn special.
We hugged, and I told him he needed to know that from then on, I’d always be there for him.
Ours was unlike almost any adult relationship you'll usually find.
We treated each other very...carefully. 
Like something precious, you would never want to hurt. 
This may sound strange to say, but it felt like we were babies, almost--sharing with awe and wonder, all that we had been through and seen, as adults. 

Like my own Dad, Howard was a World War II veteran who’d seen action in ‘the European theatre,’ as they called it back then. But unlike my Dad--who’d flown dozens of missions over Germany as a B-17 Captain--Howard had been on special assignment as the personal driver to Generals and Base Commanders and more.  So while my Dad was dropping bombs from overhead, Howard would often be dodging them, to rush some orders or battle plans back and forth, on the back-country roads of Europe!
He regaled me with stories of high-tailin’ it outta trouble along narrow hair-pin turns, ferrying “V.I.P.s” far more important than any rock star or athlete I ever interviewed.  We were like father and son, in those moments.
While 'the Greatest Generation' was busy saving the world, Howard Evans was quite literally ‘at the wheel’--driving the highest higher-ups imaginable to their strategy sessions and secret rendezvous. 
And it was all because of who he was: A trusted, quiet, unassuming, reliable, no-nonsense, humble man...more than able to keep a secret.
We seldom shared our politics, but always seemed to roll our eyes together in dismay, at the mindless sharp-right turn our country has taken.  In truth, I'm sure Howard was a mighty rare jewel among aging WWII veterans below the Mason-Dixon line, in his relatively 'liberal' world-view.  
But this was a well-read man, and even though I'd occasionally have to 'clean out' his computer for him, he stayed 'up' on pretty much everything, including technology.  He was a man determined to take a nice, big bite out of life's apple.     

Just as often, what we shared were the more mundane details of yard work. “I see you’re planting those three trees!" he'd say, by way of greeting me from his own backyard, "Trying to soak up all that water, eh?”
Bingo!

We shared our mutual love of all kinds of music--I made him CD mixes of old standards, or any specific requests he had, and he gave me a whole bunch of his vinyl records--in perfect condition, of course--as he’d long since transitioned away from using a turntable.
He could talk about books, movies, music, philosophy, just anything--and you'd be hard pressed to find a better-informed, more logical mind. 
Back then (the mid-zeroes), I’d be traveling two or three times a month to Asia. It got to where I was gone almost 50% of the time--I'd actually taken an apartment in Beijing for a few years--and Howard would watch my house while I was gone--maybe pick up the mail, you know, and just keep an eye out for me. 
But an interesting thing happened, as he worked through his grief over Dottie. Howard began ‘seizing the day’ in ways that made me feel (quite literally) like the older man, of the two!
Here was this short, dapper, polite fellow--now in his ‘80s, and fit as a fiddle--obviously anxious to make the most out of each and every day of his remaining years.
His interest as a parishioner in the Vine Street Church grew to where he was eventually named Treasurer.
He golfed! He walked! He worked out!
He even out-did me at travel...enough to where I began picking up his mail, as often as he was mine!

Always, he remained as natty a dresser as you’d ever see--as handsome in his neatly pressed short-sleeved shirts and slacks as any other guy might be in a three-piece suit.
We’d haunt the local Chinese lunch buffet every week or two, and once or twice he persuaded me to go golfin’ with him across town.
I brought him home a ‘Big Bertha’ driver he seemed to like, and his game improved...so I eventually got a whole set of lefty clubs myself!  (Those, you will find safely stored under the brown-recluse webs, in my garage.)
We talked for hours of Chet Atkins, and Tony Bennett, Ed Ames, and more.
In short, he was the best neighbor you could ever have.

Pretty soon, he was sharing something even more special: Howard Evans was falling in love again!
He’d gone head-over-heels for a spark-plug of a woman named Eva, and when I finally met her, I could absolutely understand why they were perfect for each other.
She exudes the kind of happy, upbeat 'live-for-today' spirit that’s just so contagious you can’t help but smile, whenever she’s around.
Eventually, there came a day when Howard told me he’d actually popped the question.  "You ol' devil!" I said. (Eva was over ten years his junior!) He said he definitely wanted me to be there when they got married, and I was very excited to go.

Maybe I’d played a song or two of mine for Howard somewhere along the way, but I don’t really remember that too much. (Most of what I found interesting was his life, so maybe that's why I can't remember when or how many I ever played him. Maybe a couple; I'm shy about that, and only that!)
Still...I don’t know what got into me...but the next thing I knew, a whole new song popped out of me, perfectly describing both our relationship and theirs.
Howard sat on my couch one afternoon, and I surprised him with it.  I don’t think I’ve ever reached an audience any better than I did that day.
By the end of it, we were both crying!
I knew he’d be movin’ across town, and this was partly like a sad 'going-away' present, as I saw it...but also a celebration of the best couple I knew.  
He asked if I’d sing it at the wedding, and I did.
He asked me to do it again at the reception, and I did.
He had me bring my guitar over to their place, a few months later when we were having dinner, and play it again. 
Each time, Howard unabashedly let his eyes well up with love, hearing the story he'd actually lived. For their wedding gift, I eventually assembled a whole bunch of pictures I’d taken of them, and got one of those scrolling picture frames (they were kinda new back then), adding the song as the background.
“The sound on that thing’s not so good,” he confided. (He was right!  You could always count on Howard's honest appraisal.)
Soon enough, I recorded a version on CD for them so he'd have one forever, and I brought it over during one of Eva’s terrific home-cooked dinners.  This was his story, and I never felt I owned the song at all.  I don't even know where it came from. 
To me, it'll always belong to Howard Evans: 　
 

“Sometimes, when life goes wrong

Every song seems sad;

Two lifelong loves…gone--

So long, to all they had.

Two old friends, found again,

Taking time to heal;

God works in wond'rous ways

To give them something real…”

[Click HERE, to hear: "HE KNEW" *]

Anyway, I think I’ll stop right there.

Eva called tonight, to give me the sad news. 
I had no idea he was sick. 
Howard died last Friday, July 6th...exactly 46 years to the day, after my own Dad. 

He was 87--and as we giggled on the phone, the way people sometimes do even in these moments, Eva and I agreed that nobody would ever have guessed his age. 
"We really had a good time," she added...just as upbeat as ever.
As for me, I'm kinda heartsick to have missed his last call, a couple weeks back--but hopeful that he got to hear my return message, in which I told him I loved him. 
"Oh, I'm sure he did," she said. (I knew she meant that in the larger sense.)
Nope, I’m not sure he ever heard that particular message--but like the song says...“He Knew.”

I’ll miss you, my friend.

_____________________________________
Copyright 2012 by Peter Rodman. All Rights Reserved.
_____________________________________
*Words & Music Copyright 2006/2012 by Peter Rodman.

Eva and Howard Evans, on their wedding day.
Vine Street Church, Nashville, Tennessee
August 12, 2006

When Howard found Eva, he knew
All would be well in the world, again
He could just tell it would never end
Love isn’t often so true
When Howard found Eva,
And Eva found Howard...
When Howard found Eva, he knew.*

The Rescue Dog

By Peter Rodman

When you get a pet these days, here’s the first question your friends ask you:
“Is it a rescue dog (or cat)?”
Your answer had better be “yes,” unless you want a stern lecture from your friends.
And that’s probably a good thing.
Peer pressure plays a very important part in saving the animals already out there. We all know it helps discourage the needless proliferation of countless more puppy (or kitty) mills.
But here’s the greatest 'animal rescue' story I’ve ever personally witnessed...and it happened just this afternoon--right here, on a busy street in Nashville, Tennessee.

As those of you here in town already know, Thursday was (by far) the hottest day of the year. (So far. Friday is expected to be even worse.)
Anyway, the ACTUAL temperature hit 104...so when my friends invited me out for a cool beverage or two at Nashville’s storied Sunset Grill, I was only too happy to oblige.
I arrived at around 6 o’clock, when the temperature was holding steady at 102.
The heat was impactful (to say the least) as I exited my 1990 freon-powered, 4-door Honda Meat Locker DX. (Note:  The Meat Locker is a rare model that very much resembles an Accord, with a few strategically ignored dents. In other words, I like to keep the AC up kinda high.)
And I have no idea what was goin’ on in Hillsboro Village, but it’s been a long time since parking places were so hard to find, at such an early hour.
The place was packed.

Anyway, I was pleased to find my friends Joe and Donna at the bar, so I plunked myself down next to them and ordered a drink. Four or five of their other friends were there, too.
I was sorta late to the party, you might say. 

Two of them went outside for a cigarette, and next thing I knew, there was a lot of animated commotion.
Apparently someone had spotted a small puppy alone in a sweltering car, across the street from the restaurant.
Although the windows of the car were open, the animal was lethargic, near-delirious, and very, very hot.
Normally, dogs don’t really “sweat”--but this beautiful little shepherd mix was soaked, scared, and pretty much trapped.

Within a few minutes, the bar patrons had literally rescued the dog--she probably wouldn't have lasted more than a few more minutes.  They brought her across the street, provided some much-needed water on a patio area (still mighty hot, but way better than a 150 degree car) and petted and nurtured her, tag-team style, as each of them canvassed the circuit of local establishments, to  try to find the owner. 
A discussion arose as to whether or not somebody should simply “abscond” with the dog before the jerks returned, and we all agreed we'd deny any knowledge of it ("Dog? What dog?") if that happened.
That’s where Joe and Donna come in.
These two, I know.
They’re some of the most solid human beings you’ll ever find, and though they’re an ‘item,’ each has their own place--and each of them happens to already have three dogs.
Soon enough, Donna had made up her mind to just take the little girl home. 
Then someone else at the bar began to offer to adopt her, and the ensuing discussion delayed things long enough that ‘guess who’ showed up.

That’s right: The idiots who already owned this poor pup.
Turned out to be three kids, around 19 or so, all of whom had been drinking somewhere in the area.
The girl who claimed to be the owner of this frightened and dehydrated animal defended herself thusly:
“We were only gone twenty minutes! I should call the police! You can’t break into my car and just take my dog. I rescued her!”
Where to begin…where to begin…
I watched from afar, as several friends tried to explain to this knucklehead that even five minutes on this record-setting 104 degree day in Nashville could be potentially fatal.
The yelling got fairly intense, until my old friend Joe intervened, in his even-tempered but highly persuasive manner.

“Listen,” he began calmly. “Let me explain something to you: You aren’t leaving with this dog. Call the police, if you like. But if you don’t, I will. And trust me: You will be stopped, on your way home.” 
I decided to leave the patio and return to the bar, as nobody needed another voice in this situation.
My guess was that the police might come, cite the kids for endangering the animal, and return the dog to their (questionable) care. 

But here’s the most amazing part:
A couple minutes later, it was all over.
The know-nothing jerks who’d left the dog in their car (for nearly an hour, it turns out) had suddenly decided, based upon Joe’s advice, to relinquish the dog altogether!!!
Just left.  Gave up.  Split.  Game Over.
It was (literally!) the best possible outcome for all concerned.
But it made me wonder...
What kind of person has so little concern for their pet, that they not only jeopardize its life, but then…just give it away, rather than face the consequences of their actions!?
Obviously, this person had established no emotional no bond with the animal in their care whatsoever.
On the plus side, it was a truly unbelievable result.
I mean, this particular ‘rescue-dog story’ will stay with Joe, Donna, myself, and whomever else witnessed it-- probably for the rest of our living days.  I know I'll never think of the phrase "rescue dog" in quite the same way again.
But, for the dumbass dopes who did this?
It’ll probably fade from their youthful memory completely, within a day or two.


For a suffering little puppy, life began anew
at around seven o’clock this evening, outside a treasured local gathering place called the Sunset Grill in Nashville, Tennessee.  And as they held her up for my camera, I couldn’t help but ask Joe and Donna, “What are you gonna call her?”
They answered in unison:
“Sunset!” 
Well, duuuuh!
God, I love a happy ending.
___________________________

Copyright 2012 by Peter Rodman. All Rights Reserved.

"Dear World:" (A Dispatch from the Cat Battlefield)

By Peter Rodman

Dear World,

As it turns out, ALL cat owners are liars.  To a man (well, mostly women) they told me, "Oh, no!  Cats won't eat wires!  Don't worry about it, you'll be fine!!!"
So eight days ago, I went ahead and got the kitty.
Now, I'm not saying I was manipulated at the adoption place or anything, but when they said 'Ethan' was crying because his sister 'Emily' had been adopted earlier in the day and they'd never see each other again, and then he looked at me like that...well, is this fair at all? 
Come on. 

And when I repeatedly asked about that "wire concern" of mine, my cat "friends" were unanimous about it.
"You're over-thinking this! Cats don't want wires. 
Do it!!!" 



Really?  Are you serious??
Because this kitty likes nothing better than to seek out and find the darkest recesses of my house and ATTACK anything that might send us up in flames.
But I am mightily determined to win this cat-and-man battle, so I've come up with one "solution" after another. (Total cost...you don't wanna know.) 
     First there was the "gutter" solution (hereafter referred to
as Solution #1), wherein Randy, a rather large but amiable guy at Home Depot, kindly spent an hour custom-cutting roof gutters, to help me conceal the tasty wiring, under PC #2.
(Illustrated below)
  

'Solution #1'

Then there was my own (ingenius, I thought...) Solution #2, crafted out of a piece of brown sheet-metal I found in the garage, bent around the opening under the equally massive corner desk (and attendant wiring) under/behind the unit I still like to call "The Mainframe."  (Which is old enough to actually deserve that title, thankyouvery much.)   
(Illustrated below) 



'Solution #2'
My incredible brown sheet-metal innovation!
...Biggest failure of 'em all.

  


 




Problem #3:
The classic (I thought) TV table,
with daintily concealed wiring behind
a custom-tailored Chinese silk curtain, cut-to-specs in Beijing.
No good.

  






'Solution #3'
Th new, fully-enclosed cabinetry.
Whether or not remote controls will
penetrate its glass...unknown.

 

And last night, they delivered my new 'cat proof' TV console, >>>
at no small expense,which amounts to Solution #3.
(So far.)

The score, so far?
Solution #1 ...sorta succeeded, by more or less boring him to death. 
Solution #3?  Not hooked up yet.
(Jury's still out.)

But the BIGGEST FAILURE of them all was Solution #2 (that curvy metal thing, pictured somewhere way above and to the left) as I discovered this morning.  (Ingenius, I thought...)

After locking my 'attack kitty' out of the bedroom last night (so I could finally get some sleep without ambush face-attacks, after a week), I awoke and simply could not find 'Ethan Buttafuocco' at all.
Now, this is a small house...believe me.
But nowhere was there a peep.

Not even from the forbidden places...or so I thought.
Because the hateful little bastard--okay, wait...did I say that?  I'm sorry...I meant, "my beautiful little boo-boo." 



Aerial view of the corner behind 'The Mainframe,'
where Ethan Buttafuocco remained trapped overnight. 



Because Kitty Boy the Terror, let's call him--managed to make an unprecedented overnight climb atop the Mainframe, then parachute in behind my bent-metal barrier, effectively trapping himself inside an orgasmic bed of 120 volt pasta...shorting-out stereos, computers, modems, cables, and everything else, all in one glorious fell swoop.
Unbeknownst to he, there'd be no escape.
The sheer six-foot Berlin Wall hadn't kept him out...but had kept him IN!
So here we are.
Stalemate.

I haven't even tried Solution #3 yet, but I'm skeptical, because already he's foiled every element of my 'Acme Anti-Kitty Security System.'
What to do?

All I know is, I'm writing you from the battlefront, just in case he finds a way to trap me.
If I should disappear forever, let this serve as my written notice to law enforcement that you have your suspect right here at Casa de Rodmano--and his name is 'Buttafuocco.' 

What's that you say?
...you need some sort of description?
Fine:
He is grey. He is furry.
...and he is formidable. 

   .
 

Yours in Abject Fear,

The Long Island Lolita


______________________________Copyright 2012 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.

Feting Davy in Paradise

                                                                                                                              By Peter Rodman

It didn't matter at all that Micky, not Davy, sang Neil Diamond's "I'm a Believer."
The hand-claps and Davy Jones's tambourine part cut through the night air like a magnet on Wednesday, pulling in passersby from Japan, Australia, California, and who-knows-where-else, until they had formed a huge impromptu circle, right there on the sidewalk.

Oh sure, it was a cheap ploy--this airbrush artist, wearing a triple gas mask, was clapping, dancing and spray-painting his way through a huge mural of Diamond Head, creating kitsch-art that had nothing whatsoever to do with The Monkees, except that they too once embodied all things kitsch. 
People hurried over across the street as if summoned by a dog whistle, from down (and completely around) the block, suddenly happy to let whatever else they were doing simply wait, while they figured out what sort of tribute was going on tonight.
And after a short while, when the Monkees' music finally ended, a truly remarkable thing happened.
The crowd--which had been silently tapping their feet, smiling, nodding toward each other, and bouncing babies on their shoulders--broke into spontaneous, robust applause. Not for the spray-paint guy at all...but for the music and memories they had just shared. 
It was as if they'd each been specially selected as a representative sampling of humanity, to send their earthly thanks to the diminutive Mr. Jones, wherever he might be in spirit. 

And they weren't just  applauding for what was shared on this street corner tonight. No, this was about what was shared in every corner of the world--wherever they'd all grown up, beginning over 40 years ago.

Nobody here had ever heard of Don Kirschner, who assembled the Monkees from a series of TV auditions, resulting in their cynical nickname, 'The Pre-Fab Four.' (A take-off on the Beatles having been called 'The Fab Four.')

Nobody here could name Mike Nesmith or Peter Tork anymore, either.  
Micky they kinda knew, but Davy Jones...?
They'd never forgotten; that's what drew this mish-mash of the species toward the music that wafted among the palms and honking cars, on this Waikiki evening.

All the news stories said he'd suffered a sudden, massive heart attack, and some newscasters shook their heads and said, "He was only 66."  

But the shock wasn't even so much his death, for some of us.  

It was that....wait a second...Davy Jones was 66??

Many of us remember the mock 'studio chatter' at the top of Davy's signature single, "Daydream Believer." 

Chip (a recording engineer): "7 A."

Davy: "What number is this, Chip?"

The Rest of Them: "SEV-EN A!"

Davy (sounding stoned): "Okay I don't mean it...don't get excited, man...just 'cause I'm short,  I know..."

It was a perfect pop confection, and even this bit of obviously contrived banter--grafted onto the beginning of the 45 after the fact--added another dimension still: 

You could actually fake 'credibility!' 

If Herman's Hermits could exploit Peter Noone's British accent ("Mrs. Brown," "Henry the Eighth"), so could the Monkees showcase Davy's. 
If the Beatles could use an alarm clock sound-effect in a song ("A Day in the Life"), so could The Monkees!
 
"Don't believe everything you hear," it seemed to say, or maybe it was just the opposite:
DO believe everything you hear! --and that message suited the 'AM' (read: Republican) crowd just fine, as they were already tiring of the so-called 'Generation Gap.' 

Just give us the music, and keep your 'credibility' to yourself.

The social and cultural divisions have always been that way.  Today, we actually call them what they are:  Culture Wars.

Hawks and Doves.  Left and Right.  Stoners and straights. Greasers and collegiates. AM and FM.

The Fox News gab fest Red Eye giddily riffed on it late Wednesday night, with host Greg Gutfeld snarkily observing that the Beatles had been copying the Monkees all along. In a strange way, he's right about it not mattering anymore, because none of it does.

Who sang what, who came first, what was 'real', what wasn't...
John Mellencamp came up with one of the great album titles, back in the '80s: Nothin' Matters...And What if It Did?

Time has a way of blurring the lines anyway, softening all the edges and schmooshing everything together into a highlight reel, so that it hardly matters whom you liked or didn't like, way back when.  It only matters that this music always reminds you of...well...way back when.

We give special credence to those who've taken care of themselves over time, and aged gracefully before us. For every Davy Jones, there's another rock hero somewhere who hasn't fared so well in keeping our dreams intact. There's nothing worse than a pot-bellied, balding rock star, insulting all that is pure about memory.
Davy took care of himself, and aged exactly as we would have wanted him to.

So here's to you, Davy.

Ever harmless, ever charming, and ever content to entertain without ever challenging us at all. 

Me, I preferred the Beatles.

But I've gotta hand it to ya, you never put us through any of the crap they did, in the name of 'art'! 

Nobody cared less about your personal life. 
There were no Yokos, no drug busts, no primal screams, and no albums full of electronic noises. In fact there was nothing weird--not even a beard.

Quite frankly, we knew very little about you.

Your story could have ended in 1967 and the obituaries would have been nearly identical to how they are 45 years later.

You gave us no angst at all; just a three-minute escape from the roiling, dyspeptic waters of life.  In fact, it could almost be said that you were the musical equivalent of Pepto-Bismol.

While 'Eleanor Rigby' haunted the graveyards of Liverpool, and 'Ruby Tuesday' confounded Stones and men alike, 'Sleepy Jean' had no such complications.

As we scratch our heads and wonder where all the time went, nothing gains our respect on the 'back nine' of life, more than simplicity. 

Peter Tork and Peter Rodman backstage
at Forest Hills Tennis Stadium, July, 1966.
My grandparents let me go, on the condition
that I wear a tie (like any member of 
The West Side Tennis Club would)
 and remain safely backstage at all times--far
away from the 15,000 screaming Monkees fans, out-front.
Jimi Hendrix opened the show...but that story,
and those pictures, I'm saving for my book.

The other Monkees have all attempted to grab more 'street cred' over the decades, from Micky's dinner theater forays to Peter's blues bands, to Nesmith's look-at-me-not-participating-in-mere-Monkee-reunions posturing. (Hey, he could afford it: Mike's Mom invented White-Out--the inheritance from which financed his multi-million dollar investment in early 'music video' technology.)

Simplicity was Davy's gift to humanity, and he seemed to like it that way.

John Stewart's lyric for "Daydream Believer' could not have fit Davy any better.

You once thought of me as a White Knight on a steed

Now you know how happy I can be;

Oh, and our good times start and end

Without 'dollar one' to spend;

But how much, baby, do we really need?

The promise of uncomplicated love set to a 'Penny Lane' like beat was a much easier pill to swallow than Paul McCartney's acid daydream about "nurses selling poppies from a tray" or "the fireman rushing in."

While we seemed to spend hours dissecting those trippy Beatle lyrics, here was Davy, taking his female friend aside, to calmly urge her not to worry her pretty little head about any of it:

Cheer up, Sleepy Jean

Oh, what can it mean,

to a daydream believer,

and a homecoming queen?

Translation: Who gives a crap about deeeper meanings!
What's any of that stuff mean to you, Regular Person? 

Back then, I'd have argued the point. 
I'd have insisted that life is complicated, and we'd all better dig deeper into the meanings and mysteries thereof. 
They used to call it "examining your navel," when such pretensions overtook your day-to-day life, and they were right. These days I'll take shallow, thankyouverymuch.

Mike Nesmith has always alternated between saying the Monkees were "not a real band at all" (whenever they got slammed by the critics) and that they were "truly innovative," as if somehow a sitcom of 'pretend Beatles' presaged MTV. 

He's right about one thing: It never takes long to hear the word 'Beatles,' once the word 'Monkees' is in the air.

Nesmith's convenient assessments surfaced again after Davy passed away this week, in his decidedly 'Beatley sounding' tribute on The Michael Nesmith Facebook Fan Page:

All the lovely people

Where do they all come from?

He continued:

But let's not get ahead of ourselves here.

While it is jarring, and sometimes seems unjust, or strange, this transition we call dying and death is a constant in the mortal experience that we know almost nothing about. I am of the mind that it is a transition and I carry with me a certainty of the continuity of existence.

John Lennon once famously described death as "getting out of one car, and stepping into another."
Apparently Mike remembered the quote.

That David has stepped beyond my view causes me the same sadness that it does many of you.

You might have guessed it would affect a band member even more than it has any mere fan, but in recent years things had seemed frosty between them, with Davy relegated to constant touring in oldies "package tours" (along with Peter Noone and others) as the 'Big Bucks Monkees Reunion Tour' eluded them all, without Mike onboard for the ultimate (financial) ride.

I will think of him as existing within the animating life that insures existence.

Note that he said "animating," not animated--even though the Monkees were widely viewed as a cartoon version of the Beatles back then. 

In newspaper parlance, Nesmith more or less 'buries the lead,' in his online tribute. After all the Lennonesque gobbledegook about death-as-transition, he finally offers up a half-hearted apology of sorts, either to Davy or his family, or both:  

I will think of him and his family with that gentle regard in spite of all the contrary appearances on the mortal plane.

Evidentally things were not so rosy on this mortal plane, when it came to interMonkee relations.  And gee, Mike...we'd never even have known that, except for your own words and actions--'cause we'd certainly never got so much as a whiff of negativity out of Davy.

I was kinda sorry I couldn't White-Out Nesmith's aloof punchline, too:

I have fond memories. I wish him safe travels.


Bleh.

So back to Wednesday night in Honolulu, where the throng who'd never even met Davy Jones seemed far less aloof than his wooly-capped 'bandmate.'

Their spontaneous, heartfelt applause for Davy took place over 6,000 miles away from where he'd been found by his driver, just after arriving at the ranch where he boarded his horses in Florida. It came from a group of complete strangers of all ages and backgrounds--none of whom had any idea he'd once been a professional jockey, and essentially ended up where he began.

But they had all somehow converged on this sidewalk in 'paradise,' just one day after he stopped breathing--and halfway around the world tonight, they gave Davy Jones a darn good send-off, right outside the Princess Kaiulani Burger King.

________________________________

Copyright 2012 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.