From Jesus to Micky Dolenz

By Michelle Patterson

In the winter of 1986, I was in the fourth grade, and being raised in a strict Evangelical Christian household. Cable television was off limits, especially the sinful offerings on MTV. Mostly, this was HBO’s fault. HBO, in its early days, was all T & A movies and raunchy comedy specials. One could tune in at any time of the day and see a naked pair of practically any body part.

When our family first got cable, my parents were not aware of this titillating fact, so when my mother walked into the dining room one afternoon to find me, my brother, and our friends all giggling at a topless woman dancing and bouncing around, everything except The Kids Network, the three major networks, and PBS were ruled out. (She didn’t know that The Kids Network was owned by MTV or things could have been different.) The Fox Network was ruled out a year later thanks to Married With Children and the foul mouths on Cops.

Obviously many other secular pleasures, like the radio, were eliminated as well. Before this particular winter in 1986, my favorite artists were Amy Grant, Nancy Honeytree (a Christian “rock” musician), and Psalty, a singing psalm book. Yes, popularity wasn’t anywhere near my grasp after I told a lot of my classmates Jesus was one of my best friends and that I rocked out to the tunes sung by a bright blue book full of psalms. So when a certain mop-topped foursome appeared on Nickelodeon I became fascinated and obsessed with The Monkees. You thought I was going to say The Beatles? Exactly.

My Monkees fixation didn’t lead to a sudden surge in popularity, though. I was still the Number One Jesus Dork in school. In the fourth grade, you weren’t admired for the music you listened to or if you admitted that a singing Psalm book was your best friend. (Well, maybe it partly had to do with the latter.) What made Jeff D. ask you to go steady or got you invited to slumber parties was being really good at kickball or getting the lead in the school play.

As for The Monkees, I could have been gaga over the pretty Davy Jones, but felt he was too obvious and on the boring side. Peter Tork was classically handsome, yet he reminded me of the princes in the Masterpiece Theatre episodes on PBS. And he was even dumber than Davy. Mike Nesmith seemed way too distant and ironic for me and most importantly, I hated his hat.

I needed someone incredibly obnoxious and goofy. Therefore, Micky Dolenz was the perfect Monkee. I didn’t fully appreciate the fact that this show had been on two decades previous. This proved the romance between Micky and I to be one of exceptionally May-December caliber. No, I would be marrying Micky in my very near future.

Ah, Micky. His crooked smile and corny impressions warmed my heart and sparked my first overwhelming crush. I wrote his name on notebooks and book covers; I dreamt about him all the time; I wrote stories in my diary about us going on dates to the roller skating rink or the bowling alley. My parents let me buy as many Monkees’ audiocassette tapes as I could afford, and when my birthday arrived that year, I got a two different Monkees T-shirts, Monkees buttons, even more Monkees tapes, and a giant Monkees poster that I placed immediately above my bed.

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