April 6, 2011
Okay, it's Tuesday and this is the night I write a short story. I've decided to take photos of shapes on the way home and here they are.
Circle.
Squares.
My Favorite Monkee
The Monkees have always been one of my favorite bands. Their whole story is pretty amazing. After extensive interviews and auditions, Michael Nesmith, Mickey Dolenz, Peter Tork and Davy Jones were put together to be The Monkees for a new TV show that was pitched as a weekly, wacky American version of the The Beatles film, “Help.” The show was a smash success and every episode had The Monkees singing a couple of songs back in those pre-MTV days. It was a genius marketing tool and soon the Monkees were as popular as The Beatles. The show would go on to win two Emmy awards.
Some people sniff that they weren’t a real band, but that’s not true at all. Both Michael Nesmith and Peter Tork were accomplished musicians before they became Monkees and Mickey Dolenz and Davy Jones were actors with musical backgrounds. If you want to hear The Monkess as a true band all you have to do is listen to the Headquarters album, outside of the occasional bass (played by producer Chip Douglas) and horns, they played every note and it’s a great album. Michael Nesmith, Peter Tork and Mickey Dolenz all wrote songs that were included on that album.
Michael Nesmith was my favorite Monkee and that got me into trouble when it came time for me to be confirmed in the Catholic Church as a young child.
When I was in the fourth grade the year was 1967 and both my brother Jim and I were huge Monkee fans and never missed their show. We bought their 45’s (with a picture sleeve when available) and were proud, card-carrying members of The Monkees fan club. That year my class was scheduled to be confirmed in the spring. It’s funny, I can’t remember getting confirmed, but I do remember the fuss and furor that my selection of a confirmation name brought about.
The grade school I attended back then was named Holy Trinity. Our family lived in Louisville, Kentucky at the time and my teacher’s name was Sister Jude. In my twelve year run of attending Catholic schools I always divide the nuns up into two categories: “Nice” is the first category and “Batshit Crazy” is the second. Sister Jude fell into the Nice category. She never hit anyone (as opposed to other nuns that would kick the living shit out of you for looking crosseyed at a gnat) and only raised her voice when she was really provoked by a student. I got along with her okay and she was a good teacher. It’s hard for me to guess what her age was, because she always had her black and white nun costume on. Her entire nun body was covered shoulder to toe in black and white robes and she wore a black and white type hood over her head so you couldn’t even see her hair.
I always wondered if nuns were secretly bald and I used to try to imagine them without their hood revealing a shiny bald noggin. The thought and imagining process repulsed me, but like one can’t help looking at a gruesome car crash with burning bodies and severed limbs flying amongst the shattered glass and mangled steel, I couldn’t stop thinking about bald nuns. Even to this day I’ll while away a quarter of an hour imagining bald nuns. It’s one of the many curses that I can’t shake, despite a year of weekly therapy in my early twenties.
Anyway, as it came time to be confirmed, we were assigned a homework assignment to pick a name of a saint for a confirmation name and a reason why you chose that saint. After school that day I went home and found a book about saints in our family bookcase. It was handily shelved next to our Encyclopedia Britannica Set, the old-school version of Google. I took it over to the couch in our family room and flipped through the pages till I found what I was looking for: St. Michael. And St. Michael wasn’t just an ordinary saint, he was a freaking archangel! He was like a general in the angel world, beautiful! As you can guess, I chose the name Michael, not so much for the saintly qualities, but because Michael Nesmith was my favorite Monkee.
That night our family was gathered around our kitchen table eating and talking. Our dinner was meatloaf, mashed potatoes and corn. The table was an oblong wooden table and my mom and dad sat at either end and I sat on one side next to my brother Jim. My brother Tom and sister Terry sat on the other side. I’m the youngest, in case you’re wondering. There was a lull in the conversation, so I chimed in with, “I’ve decided what my confirmation name is going to be.”
“That’s great!” My mom replied. “What name did you choose?”
“Michael!” I excitedly answered. I always liked being the center of attention at the dinner table and the spotlight was shining directly upon me.
“Why’d you pick, Michael?” My brother Tom asked.
“Because Michael Nesmith is my favorite Monkee,” I happily explained.
Both my brothers and my sister broke out laughing and my parents shot confused looks at each other and at me.
“I don’t think you should be picking your confirmation name based on your favorite Monkee,” my mom told me while half-laughing.
“Sister Jude said we could pick our own name and St. Michael is an archangel!” I said in my defense.
“I think it’s a great way to pick a confirmation name,” my brother Jim threw out in my defense. He always looked out for me.
My mom gave my dad a “what are we going to do with him” look. This wasn’t the first time I had seen that look and it sure as shit wasn’t going to be the last time I’d see it in my lifetime.
My dad just shook his head and said, “Michael’s okay for your confirmation name,” and dinner went on as scheduled. I think he just wanted to get it over with so he could have another piece of meatloaf, which was fine by me.
My brother Jim and I shared a room and we would talk into the night long after the lights had gone out about everything from school, to other kids we hated, to music.
“So are you going to tell Sister Jude you picked your confirmation name because of Michael Nesmith?” Jim asked in the darkness of our bedroom while everyone else was asleep in the household.
“Yeah,” I told my brother, while halfway falling asleep.
“Good,” he replied. Soon we were both asleep.
Morning came too soon as it always has in my life and before I knew it I was in the classroom with my other classmates and I was sitting at my desk. I sat in the middle of the room which housed about twenty three of us. Barbara Kramer sat behind me.
I had a huge crush on Barbara Kramer. She was a tiny wisp of a girl with blonde hair and big green eyes. I used to tell her jokes and draw cartoons and give them to her. Usually she’d just roll her eyes at me, but I think she liked the attention.
The morning went by and soon we were eating lunch in the school lunch room where there were long tables and chairs and of course that pungent odor that permeates from all grade school lunchrooms. Kind of a smorgasbord of smells ranging from Lysol, to bad milk, to vomit and back to Lysol again. I don’t remember what we had for lunch, but I’m sure I hated it. I was a picky eater back then and hated most of the lunches and would have to choke them down as you had to eat everything on your plate. My stomach is starting to turn, so let’s move on.
After lunch and a short recess we were back in the classroom seated at our desks and Sister Jude announced that we were to reveal which saint we chose for our confirmation name and why we chose it. She started at the front of the class and would call the person’s name out and the person had to stand up, name the saint and give the reason why they had chosen that particular saint.
As they went down the first row of students, everybody had the same answer, which was, “I chose St. Blahdeblah because he’s the patron saint of Blah.”
Every single kid! How boring. One girl did break out something original. Her name was Cindy Berkman and she said she picked St. Agatha because that was the name of her mother. The whole thing was boring the ever-loving shit out of me and soon I drifted off into a daydream. I was rudely snapped out of it a few minutes later by Sister Jude.
“Marty, I’ve told you not to daydream in class, now stand up and tell us which saint you chose and why,” she ordered out to me in a curt voice.
I came to and looked around and everybody was staring at me. I stood up and looked directly into Sister Jude’s eyes and said, “I chose St. Michael because he’s an archangel and because Michael Nesmith is my favorite Monkee.”
It took about two seconds and all the kids were laughing at me (certainly not with me) and a couple of them were calling me stupid and a jerk. Normally under those circumstances I’d have been embarrassed, but this time I was just pissed off. Their answers sucked, at least mine was original. And speaking of pissed, Sister Jude wasn’t looking too happy with my answer.
She told everyone to quiet down and said to me, “Marty, that’s a not a proper reason to choose your confirmation name.”
“Why not, Sister?” I asked back. I really didn’t get why that couldn’t be a reason and as an adult, I still don’t. In fact it still pisses me off that those assholes didn’t see the originality for the reason of my choice of a confirmation name.
And then she uttered the four words that I hated hearing from an adult when I was a kid. “Because I said so.”
She then told me to go out in the hallway and stand near the coats and think of a better reason as to why I chose St. Michael.
I happily marched out and stood by the coats. I never understood why standing in the hallway by the coats was a form of punishment. Personally, I liked it better out by the coats than inside the classroom. I enjoyed looking at the different brands of coats my classmates wore. It was kind of like window shopping without the window. And there was no pressure to buy anything, which is always a plus.
I was looking at a yellow raincoat when Margaret Smythe came out in the hallway. I hated her, she was the teacher’s pet and always volunteered to do any stupid little chore that Sister Jude needed done. I’m sure she volunteered for this duty. She had bright red fuzzy hair and was covered in freckles, she actually kind of frightened me. She looked like a cross between a troll doll and a bag of Cheetos Corn Puffs.
“Sister says you have to come back in now,” she dutifully announced and walked back in to the classroom.
I hated to leave the tranquility of the coats and the empty hallway, but you gotta do what you gotta do. I walked back in and Sister Jude told me to stand by my desk. I did as I was told.
“Did you think of another reason why you chose, St. Michael, Marty?” Sister Jude asked. She was halfway smiling at me, but it didn’t last long.
“No,” I defiantly said. “I picked St. Michael because Michael Nesmith is my favorite Monkee.”
This time there was no laughter but Tommy King who sat to the left of me looked over and said, “You’re going to hell for saying that!”
“Good,” I said back to him, “that’s where I want to go!”
That little statement shocked him and the rest of the class. Everything got quiet and all the kids were looking at me like I was a little devil-child. I thought it was kind of funny and was pleased with myself for saying it.
Sister Jude broke the silence.
“Okay, both Tommy and Marty are staying after school today,” she announced. “And Marty I want you to apologize to this class for your behavior this afternoon and for that last statement!”
“I apologize for my behavior,” I said. My right arm was behind me and I crossed my fingers behind my back. I was hoping that Barbara Kramer would see it.
Sister told me to sit down and asked Barbara to tell the class who she picked. I don’t remember the saint, but she too went the route of the patron saint routine. That was disappointing to say the least. I decided that maybe I wouldn’t continue to draw cartoons for her anymore.
After the saint fiasco, it was time for English and Sister Jude was writing something on the blackboard.
Barbara tapped my left shoulder and whispered, “Hey.”
I turned around and faced her while Sister Jude was writing on the blackboard and she leaned in and whispered ever-so quietly so the other kids couldn’t hear, “I think you’re the silliest boy I’ve ever known.”
She was smiling at me and I took it as a compliment and I just said one word.
“Thanks.”
Our eyes interlocked and we stared into each other for probably twenty seconds, but in all the times I’ve remembered this, and its been plenty, it seemed like an eternity. Once we both looked away my stomach went into knots and I felt like I was going to throw up. I immediately turned away and stared at my desk and wondered what I was feeling.
Years later I realized that Barbara Kramer was the first girl I ever fell in love with. I often wonder what has happened to her and what she’s doing these days. She’s probably on facebook announcing to her 737 friends that she’s having Mexican food for dinner.
Michael Nesmith is still my favorite Monkee.
Further reading and watching: Video Ranch, UK Mirror, Wikipedia and Michael Nesmith’s Monkee Audtion.
Five Michael Nesmith Solo Albums
The Wichita Train Whistle Sings
Pretty Much Your Standard Ranch Stash
Magnetic South
Loose Salute
From a Radio Engine to The Photon Wing
You and I travel to the beat of a different drum.
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Bonus Photo!
MAD pal, Ruben Sleurink sent in this photo of the Mars Bar all the way from the Netherlands. He found it on James and Karla Murray’s website, check it out here: James and Karla Murray. Thanks Ruben, it reminds me that Easter is almost here, I need to start saving up for pizza!
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Bonus Video!
Jerry Rio sent in a link to a cool New York Documentary he did. You can view it right here: Urban Eye: Part 1.
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