Tell You Thursday: The Monkees Gave Me Head

November 20, 1968.
46 years ago.

The United States and their breadth of screaming teeny-boppers were not prepared for what would be unleashed upon them.

Head.  The psychotropic movie starring The Monkees, who at the time were tripping with the likes of The Beatles and Frank Zappa.  Head.  The movie difficult to describe by normal standards.
Head.  The movie where the bodies of The Monkees die, sing, trip, solve, and die once again.

It certainly fits the space of free love / experimental / turned-on 1960s.  However, at that time the majority of The Monkees audience was anything but open.

I discovered it watching TV late one night, because a movie called Head is gonna catch your eye.  I had seconds when they showed Psyche-Out.  dude.  Both have hippie Jack Nicholson.  Both should be seen.

But this entry isn't about the movies, it's about the most basic of personality questions, "Who is my favorite band."  Asked by friends and Travis, and for the last 18 years, the answer has been The Monkees.  And here are the responses I get.

1. They didn't even play their own instruments.
      - Ah mon frare, they weren't allowed on the first album, but did on everything else.
2. Didn't that one guys' mom invent White-out?
     - yep.
3. Why do you like The Monkees (sarcastic tone implied?)
     - don't know, just do.
4. no response, just face confusion.
    - lame on you.

Last Tell You Thursday I wrote a story involving music and my tattoo artist.  I realized then that psychedelic music has always lived in me, I just didn't know it for the first 14 years of my life.  And traditionally, The Monkees aren't considered part of that scene, say like Jefferson Airplane or The 13th Floor Elevators.  But they were deeply ingrained and relevant, despite the clean image the record companies wanted.  They were eventually given the freedom to make the music they wanted, play & arrange how they saw best, and collaborate with friends like Carol King and Neil Diamond.  They rule something fierce.

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In high school, I received an offer from Columbia House: 12 CDs for the price of one.  I scanned a paper mailer for the ones I wanted.  I have no idea what else I got, but their Greatest Hits album struck me.  I remember siting at my desk, sunlight pouring through the window, when I thought "I used to watch their TV show and kinda like that one song, I'll give it a shot."

That was it - I was hooked from the moment the mailer ripped open.  Nothing had musically impacted me like that before and I kinda didn't know what to do.  I replayed it over and over again, figuring out how to save my allowance to buy another album.  I searched thrift store album shelves, hoping for a lucky score.  And to this day, I honestly don't know why it fucking spoke everything to me.   It just did.  I quickly trashed their radio hits for the off-album tunes that helped shape my mind.  The Monkees led my path down a phycadelia rabbit hole, up to the 70s, into the gutter of punk, down the street to rap, and a sky full of a bajillion other songs I never realized I was missing.  It was like getting a continual fix, one CD or LP at a time.

I urge you if you've never given them a second thought past Daydream Believer, please check out some of my top songs, in both experimental and just awesomely supreme: Porpoise Song, As We Go Along, Goin' Down, and The Mike Nesmith songs.

This is my thing and some of the reasons why I answer why I do.  There's others, but they're mine.  I just hope everyone gets a moment like that at least once in their life.

It's a beautiful trip, where ever you go.

Tell You Thursday: A Drawing For Your Thoughts

C'mon, you can tell me.  We all have at least one, so don't pretend you're oblivious to what I'm talking about.

there, there... it's ok.  it stops me too...

Music is all around us and it's fucking beautiful.  Birds, cars, water, tunes, chewing, walking, showers, crickets,book page turning - all sounds that can, to someone, be invigorating.  And because of it, on more than one occasion, I've stopped breathing by the flood of memories that overtook me.  It's that powerful.  That's when music finally talks back.

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It was an early Saturday morning in August this past year; I was driving back from Las Vegas.  The sky was cloudy & windy, allowing the windows a break from their thanksless job.  The air blowing past my face and muh hand, dangling through an atmosphere where very few cars could disturb me.  I was on the road a couple hours when the two Pandora stations that had been streaming since yesterday, were played out: The Misfits & The Shirelles.  Both are fantastic, but I'd had enough head-banging & head-bopping for the morning.  I scrolled through my other presets and perked up when I found the Psychedelic Garage station I created months ago.  I forgot what songs rotated through, but greens were The Byrds and it was perfect.  I absentmindedly sang the words I knew and mumbled the ones I didn't, laughing.

A couple more songs and a commercial played before The Doors, The End inched up in volume.  Without fail, it happens every time.  That's when I played the role of driver while my mind reenacted one night 15 seasons in my past.

I saw Palmdale through 19 or 20 year old eyes, driving to my tattoo artists' home around 8pm.  He was at least 10 years my senior, cute and just me knowing him made all the bitches jealous.  But it wasn't just his face, he was nice and artistic and liked me.  The kind of dude that said the right things and for the people that mattered, was never insincere.  The type of dude that would always be too cool for the Antelope Valley.  He just was and his home complimented that.  It was always dark inside, even in the scorching desert sun.  I never knew whether that was because the windows were covered with paper or the curtains were permanently stained with cig smoke & whiskey.  I'm sure on any given day it could be either.

I stood, a kid, facing his door when it opened with a smile and a 90s button up flannel.  A hazy waft of hippie incense levitated around him.  At every turn, twisted drawings, posters, prints, books, crows, a thousand things all strewn in a perfectly messed way.  Yellowed stacks of paper & tattoo magazines his friends were in, should have screamed hoarder.  But it didn't, which is bananas.  I can't explain it.

There was never any funny business between us as we never explored that path.  But I felt so grown up around him.  Like he and I were having real conversations, not just gossip about the weekend.  Maybe that was me being 20, but maybe not.  I do know he was one of only a few fellas, besides Travis, to ever made me think.  I only realize that now by writing this entry.

So we're hanging out & junk when he asked whether I minded some music.  Duh... I told him to pick whatever.  I dig many genres, but have always held a gigantor fascination for the 60s, especially psychedelia.  My favorite band is The Monkees, with about a 1000 others right below.  He could have chosen anything from punk to psychobilly to classical to jazz, so how stoked was I when he picked The Doors, The Doors.  He commented how you have to be in the right mood for it.  I agreed, but confessed to never having heard the entire album before.  He laughed and triumphantly declared with his wiry body then it was the perfect night to experience it!  He bent over the old player, carefully placing the needle at track one.  I remember thinking what precision for such a crappy player & scratched up record.  He grabbed a cigarette and lit numerous candles with his smoke.

The record blew through side 1 before I realized just how free our conversation was.  It was playing but background noise.  At the beginning of side 2, he asked if I was up for something.  Unless it's boning, yes, I was up for something.  He asked if he could draw a freehand design against my back piece because most people (erm I'm sure ladies) told him no.  It had only been about 6 months since he finished two large dragons and the ink addiction was still fresh.  I said absolutely!  How cool was this gonna be!  I have always been a dudes chick, especially then; In my mind it was nothing to be topless in my non-boyfriends home.

He grabbed his script of choice, a sharpie, and I took off my tshirt & bra.  I was facing away from him the whole time, but stood there momentarily not knowing what I should do.  I didn't want him to touch me sexy like, but I knew he had to touch me in some way.  He gently took my shoulders and angled me against the candlelight.  As if scripted, the last song of side 2 started as he began.  The End.  I had never heard it before, I mean really heard it, so I closed my eyes and let the beginning notes dance.  I stood there vulnerable, while Jim began his declarations and dude drew his imaginations.  The underlying lull of the organ keeping me upright.

He'd pause occasionally to evaluate the vision.  The End continued.  I was able to follow every movement of the pen, up and down my back, through my shoulders, entwined into my neck.  I knew he'd make something singularly incredible.  The guitars continued; the Oedipus moaned.  He worked swiftly as the song jabbered on through the rise and fall of Jim's emotions, eventually stalling the needle.  In fact, it was the only song I heard in the entire 45 minutes span.  I'd never taken part of something so supreme.  And snap like that, it was over.  We dare not move in the hopes of savoring what we'd just experienced. No more drawing, no more music, no more atmosphere.  I suddenly became aware of how cold I was.  In the same way the soft crescendo swelled, it pulled out even faster.  I looked around knowing nothing had changed, yet everything seemed ordinary.

And while I only briefly saw the end illusion, and can recall no part of it today, it will remain perfectly imprisoned in my skin forever.

That was the last night I ever spent with him and I'm glad.  I walked back to my car a fucking lady.

Aren't memories glorious.

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I don't like cliches yet I think about "I'll never forget that night."  That certainly holds true for now, which is partly why I write this journal.  I was scared for so long to fail against some unmeasurable bar, but honestly I just want to remember.  Remember my life, remember all the fun & heartache, friends & donuts - before we all become someone else's memory.

Our Gentle Acquaintance

I have never written a short type story like this, nor have I typed my words without stopping, let alone without editing before posting.  But these are my words as the rain sings.


Around midnight, Halloween's night, the rain plummeted down upon the soil.  It struck suddenly, without word, long after the children's screams and feet have been laid to rest.  A few lucky souls are out amongst the heathens, at parties or somesuch, but I am home, alone, with only a puppy and an acquaintance as my friend.

I've opened the door to scathe sounds of water dropping amongst the earth, trees, roofopts, yet hopefully not through mine above.  To a town as parched as ours, you welcome this long distance friend into your home.  Even splashed across your laptop, as I see him now.

I stepped outside to really test how fierce he'd come.  Pretty heavily, I murmured. awesome.  I watched in silence, hugging puppy Leroy.  Both of us alone. waiting for it to stop, like so many times before.  When suddenly we heard a clatter.  A racket, coming from next door.  Low, angried barks from one spouse to another.  I struggled to hear what they were fixing.  Heads bobbing, desperately trying to sort the issue our friend sprang upon them.

my tea is ready.  my puppy is curious.

I nervously look upon our ceiling once more.  "Was that spot there?"  yes, it's ok.  "Did that mark preceed our friends arrival?"  Hopefully...

I silence anything else around us.  The heater warms my back, while the cool hands of our friend gently pat my face.  I take a sip of tea, happy I rushed to make it.

I stare out into the yard, dim lights from the other house faintly glows into my eyes.  I think about Travis, knowing how sad he'll be he's missed this.  The old women behind us is stirring.  I imagine her hair in soft curlers, dirty silk nightgown, cursing in Polish.  She always forgets we've met, but I'm sad to see her move.  I think about my car and it's charger, fighting our friend for electricity.  I hope it's ok; he's never been alone with them before.

I understand why people buy expensive sleep machines to capture this moment.  The lull, the appeal, is quite dramatically soothing.

I don't want it to end.  I don't want it to end.  I don't want it to end.