Thanks for the fantasies, Davy

Many of my contemporaries are remembering Davy Jones today. No doubt more than one of us is recalling how cute Jones was, how sweet and adorable he looked as he sang about his Daydream Believer. His face seemed to hold an incorruptible innocence which was (and is) pretty much the antithesis of the rock and roll image. Now I seriously doubt that Jones was an innocent (in show business? No way.) but that was the appearance he projected.

The “safe-to-take-me-home-to-meet-Mom” Jones of Daydream Believer never did it for me. I wasn’t interested in Sleepy Jean or homecoming queens. Nope. I was instead interested in the Davy Jones persona I heard in the song, Look Out (Here Comes Tomorrow). Yeah, I know it was cheesy but bear with me.

Written by Neil Diamond, Look Out is the story of a guy with a problem–he’s in love with two different girls. The song begins with some simple but catchy guitar chords before Jones jumps in to confide his troubles.

 

Look out, here comes tomorrow

That’s when I’ll have to choose

How I wish I could borrow

Someone else’s shoes

 

To my young ears (I’m not going to tell you how young because I don’t want to remember how old I am now) this was an unusual and unexplored dilemma. How can you be in love with two different people at once? Jones describes how-

 

Mary, oh what a sweet girl

Lips like strawberry pie

Sandra, the long hair and pig tails,

Can’t make up my mind

 

Now, to a kid, this wasn’t just a tad naughty, it was downright kinky. One minute Davy (at least in my imagination) is making out with Mary and then doing God knows what with a tomboy in pig tails!

 

Jones expresses his special kind of angst in the chorus–

 

I see all kinds of sorrow

Wish I only loved one

Look out, here comes tomorrow

Oh how I wish tomorrow would never come

 

Listening to these lyrics and the way Jones breathlessly delivered them in his earnest British accent, well, let’s just say my prepubescent hormones were nudged a little bit closer to full-out, right-on puberty.

 

Last verse–

 

Told them both that I loved them

Said it, and it was true

But I can’t have both of them

Don’t know what to do

 

Oh my God, Jones sounds so forlorn, so desperate, so…passionate as he repeats the chorus. And before I even know what makeup sex is, I imagine the argument, the tears as he tells Mary (and then Sandra and OMG, Mary again) that he is choosing the other girl.

In reality, these were the 1960s and famous as he was, Davy Jones could have had as many girls as he wanted. But my immature mind didn’t yet understand all of the complexities and impossible reconciliations the era would usher in. I just knew that I wanted the passion I heard in Jones voice.

It’s a unique sadness we feel when we say goodbye to a wished-for icon of our coming of age years. When Whitney Houston died, I felt sorrow but it wasn’t tinged, at least not for me, with the memories of newness and possibility that only childhood can bring. We may leave our childhood icons behind as we age, but when they die, we remember what they inspired in us and what we did or did not achieve.

 

Here’s the song (click through to You Tube). Thanks, Davy.

Futzing around with Dr. Phartz

When I go to see a doctor, I expect to be treated with respect. Good luck with that these days. Now I’ve learned to be prepared for the unexpected.

Take yesterday, for example. I went to see a specialist whom I’ve seen before. Now it’s well known that this guy is a prima donna. I’ve accepted that. Still, there is no excuse for a doctor taking his bad mood out on you.

The scenario went something like this:

I arrive at the office of Dr. Phartz. A nurse who has clearly been on her feet too long ushers me to the treatment room. After waiting for half an hour (not bad) the doc, a put-upon look on his face, walks in.

“Hi Pat. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Now usually when a physician says it’s been a while since he/she has seen you, that’s a good thing, right? I mean unless you’ve been avoiding doctor’s orders, it usually implies you are feeling fine. But the way Dr. Phartz  said it, it sounded like I had committed some medical ethics crime.

“No, I’ve been feeling pretty good but a—“

“Well, then why are you here?”

Dr. Phartz had a bad habit of interrupting.

“Because a couple of weeks ago my stomach started bothering me,” and I went on to describe my ailment. Or I should say I tried to describe my ailment. I didn’t get very far when Dr. Phartz butt in.

“Do YOU have a hernia?”

Huh? How would I know? I mean, isn’t he the guy who would tell me?

“Uh, not that I know of.”

“You’re a runner, yes?

“Yes. I am.”

“Well then are you sure you aren’t gulping air while you run?”

He’s kidding, right?

“I doubt it. I’ve run for years and never had a problem “gulping air.”

“All right. Get up on the table.” (A command. Not a suggestion.)

After poking and pushing on my stomach, Dr. Phartz rolled his stool away from the examination table, removed his glasses, and dropped his voice to a serious whisper. “You need a CT scan.”

“Really? What do you think the problem is?

Dr. Phartz rolled further away, stood up and let forth his theory.

“Beats me.”

Excuse me?

“Get the scan,” he said handing me the test orders. “We’ll call you with the results.”

And with that, Dr. Phartz strolled out of the room and shut the door.

“Beats me?” That’s all he had to say?

On the way out of the office the receptionist called to me.

“Yes?”

“I think you forgot something, dear,” she said.

“I don’t think so. I have my purse. Wait a minute, did I leave my cell—“

“No, dear. We need your co-payment,” the receptionist smiled.

I wasn’t sure what I was paying for exactly. I supposed the authorization for a CT scan. I handed her my VISA card.

“Uh-oh,” said the receptionist. “There’s a problem with the credit card machine. It’s not working. Could you pay by check, dear?”

“Sorry but I don’t have my check book with me.”

It was at that point the genteel receptionist dropped her gentility.

“Look ma’am. We have a very strict policy.” She pointed at a sign—one we’ve all seen innumerable times in doctors offices—that read, “Payment must be received the same day services are rendered.”

“I understand but your credit card machine isn’t working and I don’t have my check book.”

“Payment must be received the same day services are rendered,” Ms. Camp Follower reiterated.

I thought for a moment. “Services rendered.” But what services? I’d gone to the doctor to get some kind of idea about what might be causing my stomach ache. But all I’d really gotten was a befuddled, “beats me.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have a check and it’s not my problem that your machine is down. I can always mail—“

“Well,” Ms. C.F. cut me off, “just WHAT are we supposed to do about your payment?”

I thought another moment then shrugged.

“Beats me,” I said and walked out.

Paradise…not (Part Three)

This is the conclusion to the story of my Hawaiian vacation from hell.   

Ah. An entire afternoon at the beach. Finally. Waikiki was more touristy than I  had imagined but the crowd was sparse and I wasn’t complaining. I had a thick enticing novel, giant towel, sun block, and pair of dark glasses.  I just wanted to read, listen to the waves and doze. I looked over at Sheryl, already sacked out on her lawn chair.

Or so I thought.

“HEY,  I want to talk to you about something.”

I put down my book. “Okay,” I said tentatively and turned to find Sheryl’s face scrunched into a scowl.

(Oh God, what now?)

“I am really disappointed with you for not taking Mark and me out to dinner. You’ve been here, what, a week now? Not once have you even suggested we go out.”

“But  last night we went to that Thai place you recommended. My treat. I—“

“That doesn’t count, “Sheryl informed me. “That was just the two of us. What about Mark?”

“I thought Mark had to work?”

“That’s not the point. “

Apparently not.

“Well, “ Sheryl said, “we’re taking you to the Polynesian Cultural Center tomorrow. You can make up for it then.” She stood and folded up her lawn chair.

“What, we’re leaving? We just got here!”

“I told Sandy we would go to the movies with her,” Sheryl informed me.

“Oh. What movie?”

“Sophie’s Choice.”

“That’s a great film!”

“You mean you have already seen it”?”

“Yeah. About two weeks ago.” (Gee, was that okay?) “But please go ahead and go. I’d rather read anyway.”

“Well, why can’t you just see it again?”

Hmmm. Well, maybe because I don’t want to sit through another two and a half hours watching Nazis torture people no matter how wonderful Meryl Streep is in the movie?

“I’d rather not, Sheryl. I just saw it. I don’t mind at all if you go without me.”

“Ya know, I really don’t like your attitude,” said Sheryl, slinging her beach bag over her shoulder.  “What’s with you anyway?”

***

“Mm, this is sooo good.” I took another lick of my macadamia nut ice cream, ignoring Sheryl’s disapproving  glare. At this point, I didn’t care if she thought my butt was as big as her old VW beetle, I was going to enjoy myself.

Sheryl, Mark and I had spent most of the day wandering around the Polynesian Cultural Center, a sort of Hawaiian Epcot, taking in the tiki carving and hula dancing, sampling poi and pineapple (I definitely preferred the latter), and going on a canoe ride.  I’d sprung for the tickets which set me back sixty bucks but I figured I would do just about anything to keep the peace at this point. I was flying home soon and didn’t want my visit with Sheryl to end on a sour note (despite the fact that the entire trip, thus far, had  been downright bitter).

“Hey, look up,” Mark cried as he pointed his camcorder in Sheryl’s and my direction. Mark had just bought the camera and was planning on a making a little movie of our adventures at the Cultural Center. Having gulped a Mai Tai or two before indulging in my ice cream cone, I was feeling little pain as I smiled for the camera. Sheryl even seemed more relaxed. “Let’s stop and buy a couple of bottles of wine for tomorrow night,” she said. “We can get a pizza and watch Mark’s movie.” Sounded good to me.

***

The next night after devouring our pizza, we opened the second bottle of wine and prepared for the show. Mark dimmed the lights, popped the videotape into  the VCR,  and plopped onto the couch. “You’re going to love this,” he assured us. “Pass me my Oscar.”

“You’ll have to settle for this instead,” said Sheryl passing him the wine.” Mark grabbed the bottle, poured a healthy  glass full,  and pressed ”play”  on the remote. The video began with a brief dedication:

 TO MY WIFE, SHERYL, THE BEST LEI IN TOWN

“Get it? Get it? “Mark shouted. “Lei. Lay. Ya know, laid!”

“Oh, Mark, you’re so funny,” Sheryl giggled.

Yeah, he was a real laugh riot.

Mark managed to calm himself as we watched his document of our day at the Poly Center—the hula performances, wood carvers, craft exhibits. Lovely shots of Sheryl. He’d pretty much caught it all. Except…

“Hey Mark, I thought I was in some of these scenes.”

“Oh, I cut you out of those,” he said. “Don’t worry. You’re in one coming up.”

And he was right. Suddenly there I was.  Me and my macadamia nut ice cream cone, all up close and personal.

“You were really chowing down on that thing,” Mark howled.

I wanted this to be over. Mark’s video. This trip. My life.  The camera quickly cut away from me and my melting ice cream to a large hula girl, seen from the back, her hips shaking her grass skirt into a frenzy. But wait—there I was again, my ice cream cone further up my nose before the hula girl’s giant hips jiggled back into view. Each edit was faster than the last until the montage  concluded with the camera’s zoom lens as far up the hula dancer’s skirt as it could go.

“Oh my God,” Mark crowed, “you can see right through that skirt!  Man, what an ass!”

You could say that.

***

Late that night we watched the Monty Python movie, The Meaning of Life. Along with the usual M.P. absurdities is a scene where a vacationing couple visits a resort. As Hawaiian music plays in the background the tourists discover their room is actually a medieval dungeon.

I started laughing.

“I don’t get it,” Sheryl remarked.

A few minutes later, in another sketch, a grotesquely obese man dines in a restaurant. The man, Mr. Creosote, consumes so much food that he must regularly vomit into a bucket next to his table.

‘Guess he’d had enough.

I started laughing harder.

“That’s not funny,” Sheryl said.

No, it wasn’t.

Two days later I boarded a plane for the mainland and headed home.

***

Seven years after my visit to Hawaii, I heard from Sheryl. She called one night to tell me she was in town, would I like to get together? After I recovered from the shock of hearing her voice, I told her, sure, I would see her. She said she would call me at noon on Saturday so we could firm up our plans.

That Saturday I woke and made my usual coffee. I tidied up my apartment, showered, and put on a pair of new jeans with my favorite sweater. When the phone rang at noon, I didn’t answer.