I wasn't planning on going to see The (three quarter) Monkees on a hot, sticky summer Burgh night, but a good friend who has been woefully absent from our social circle offered me his extra ticket and I thought, Sure! What the heck. At the very least I get to spend an evening with Mike who has on more than one occasion willingly been my proxy husband at public events.
|Hey Hey yo'self|
Mike is adorable! He's artistic, hilarious, handsome... and single. I have no idea how that is possible. He's such a great catch. Sometimes life is a puzzle. Of course he has a tendency to date way younger breeder stock, so maybe that has something to do with his current marital(less) state.
Anywho, in case any of you have no idea about whom I speak (just stab me in the heart now), The Monkees were a band of four mop-topped lads who sang, eventually wrote their own material and had a very popular, off-the-cuff sketch sitcom held together by a thinly-veiled story line. It was wacky and zany and had a dreamy English boy (Davey Jones) in it with longer silky hair, straight white teeth and big Paul McCartney eyes. The fact that he was a short shit did nothing to dissuade the female populace from swooning over his diminutive frame. Yours truly included.
But I digress...
I had no idea Mike was such a huge Monkees fan in general and Mickey Dolenz follower in particular. Mike claims Mickey is the reason he plays drums. I had no idea he played drums. Another surprising tidbit I didn't know about our friend. Hmmmmm... what else is he keeping under his hat?
Thanks to the power of VIP tickets, we got in early and were able to belly right up against center stage. When Mickey, Peter Tork and Davy finally took the stage, Mike was positively giddy.
|Mikey luvs Mickey|
My Old 97's friend, Noreen joined us up front. The three of us, along with a gaggle of 20 year-old girls beside us sang the words to almost the entire 40 song setlist.
|how many 2 minute songs can you fit into an evening?|
hey, my shadow looks like a giraffe
I'm always amazed how lyrics of songs from my pre-teen years effortlessly gush from my brain, but I can't remember why I woke up on the dining room floor, covered in blood, holding a dripping knife.
Oh wait... I do remember. That lifeless body's a dead give away. I told him I wanted vodka, not rum. Oh, Menopause. You're the perfect alibi.
It was the living room.
Aaaaaanywho... For someone who initially turned her protuberant proboscis up at the idea of attending a Monkess concert, I had a really fun time. The Stage AE party patio was packed with happy, happy campers, oldsters and youngsters alike.
|the mixed masses|
Those Seniors busted their collective butts in front of a big screen playing footage of their much younger selves. And nobody broke a hip. Impressive. Although I felt their humiliation when they were forced to awkwardly do the patented Monkees walk off the stage.
|Peter sporting the grooviest pants on stage|
|Davey dancing with his younger self|
without wiping out
|still has the best dimples|
|Seriously. Are these not the grooviest pants?|
He's like, 70?!
|with the tiny former heartthrob|
One of my all-time favorite Mike Nesmith song. Peter does it pretty good justice.
My only complaint: between the stifling 110% humidity and my own personal summer, I truly believed I was melting right there in front 60s Television icons. All in all an extremely enjoyable evening... except for the poor slobs standing downwind of me.