Believer

It’s been a hard week, y’all.

Maybe you’ve heard by now, and maybe you haven’t.  Davy Jones died.  Davy Jones, as in, The Monkees.  As in, the person that five-year-old me planned to marry.  Davy Jones, my first crush, ever.  I’ve taken it kind of hard.  There have been a lot of musical crushes over the years.  But Davy was the first.

If my memory is accurate, when I was little, I was allowed half an hour of tv a day.  I would come home from kindergarten, and Mom would make me a snack, and I always chose to watch The Monkees.  For the record, I looked it up, and the show was long out of production before I was five.  I guess by then they were syndicated, and pop stars, and showing up on the Brady Bunch, and so forth.  They were living the dream.

My next crush, I think, was on Sean Cassidy.  I had a yellow t-shirt with this picture on it:

Eventually the age of videos rolled in.  I remember thinking David Lee Roth was crazy.  But I had a crush on him anyway, because look at these moves:

and I remember thinking Rod had the most beautiful eyes, and I would totally understand him and keep him company, if he would let me.

This one’s not a heartthrob, exactly,

but what teenage girl wouldn’t love Peter Cetera?  I sure did.

It took Pearl Jam to take my music crushes to a different level.  The night I saw Pearl Jam live, at a football stadium in Charlotte for a Rock-the-Vote benefit, when they brought out Gloria Steinem to do a plug and then closed with Yellow Ledbetter, is a memory I will take into my golden years.  The hair.  My gracious merciful heavens, the hair.

I know I had a lot of musical crushes in the intervening years, but it was definitely Jemaine Clement I fell in love with during grad school, mainly because of his geek chick-ness.  And because you have to be really, really smart to be this funny:

I dream sometimes that I’ll run into him at a party, and he’ll sing this to me.

I’m still carrying a torch for Rhett Miller, despite the fact that I wish him and his lovely wife and children all kinds of domestic happiness, because he does that pinwheel thing with his arm when he gets himself all worked up.  And, again, the hair.  The Hair.

Like I said, though, it all starts with Davy.  I’ve been wondering this week, in kind of a serious way, if everything I think I know about love and romance comes from that first crush.  The whole “Daydream Believer” thing.  The whole “I’m in love, now I’m a believer” thing.  The whole “girl-next-door-Marcia-Brady-can-take-her-rock-star-crush-to-the-prom” thing.  The whole “if you really want it badly enough, you know it will happen one day” thing.

It’s possible that all of that is just silly.  And that a grown woman should have slightly more evolved notions of romance than her five-year-old self.  But ask anyone who’s had to listen to an after-the-fact story about my latest Handsome Cowboy sighting, and they’ll confirm that I am still five at heart: still carrying torches for musicians, still blushing and looking at my feet when I should be doing something (anything!) more productive than that, still believing that Davy Jones will take me to the prom, still believing in fairy tales.

I think Davy would want it that way.  Don’t you?

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