Performer: The Monkees
Songwriter: Michael Nesmith
Original Release: A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You single
Year: 1967
Definitive Version: None
It wasn’t until I compiled
the data for this here blog that I learned that this song was written by Mike
Nesmith. I always assumed that it was Goffin & King or Boyce & Hart or
another of The Monkees’ regular writers. I knew Nesmith wrote a few of the
band’s songs, but this song doesn’t sound like his sound.
Nesmith is an interesting
dude. One of my favorite Steve & Garry tapes is the one from 1987 or so
when they interviewed Nesmith in the studio for an hour. Aside from his mother
inventing Liquid Paper, which made him rich, and The Monkees, which is
interesting in and of itself, he’s done some pretty cool stuff.
He was a music-video pioneer
and developed the show that turned into MTV. He cast Hulk Hogan before he
became Hulk Hogan in one of his videos and produced Repo Man and Tapheads.
And of course, he signed off
on creating likely the most mismatched tour of all-time, although it was Mickey
who suggested having The Jimi Hendrix Experience warm-up for The Monkees.
Nesmith told several fascinating Hendrix stories and Beatles stories, and it
was cool that even though they were The Monkees—the oft-derided fake
group—those guys definitely were connected to the cutting edge.
Of course, I was a Monkees
fan when I was a kid. I had the 45s of Last Train to Clarksville and Pleasant
Valley Sunday and a few others, I think. I knew this song back then, but I didn’t
really start to get into it until some three decades later as a result of its
inclusion on one of Jin’s What-I’m-Listening-To-Now tapes.
At about the same time—1998
or 1999—an associate of Debbie’s was throwing a holiday party at his home in
Bexley, which is largely the Jewish Upper Arlington—upper middle class to
straight out upper class. The style of houses and the tree-lined streets are
nearly identical.
Anyway, it was a decent
shindig, complete with really good food—and a ton of it—and good wine. I’d
never had pate before; I knew what it was and wasn’t interested, but this one
wasn’t liver but a mushroom-duck combo, and if I had one bite, I had half the
ball. That and some cheese with a cabernet? Yes, please.
But what stood out from that
night happened toward the end of the evening. I can’t remember how it happened,
but Debbie and I ended up talking with another woman, who was married, probably
in her late 30s, early 40s and attractive. That wasn’t the problem; the problem
was that she was sitting next to me (Debbie was on the other side of me), had a
little too much to drink and almost every other sentence began to put her hand
on my thigh.
I noticed—I’m a guy—and
while it was obviously a little too familiar and probably flirtatious, I didn’t
say anything, because nothing was going to happen. I suppose if she were
putting her hand somewhere else, I would have had to say something, like,
“don’t stop.” I’m kidding, of course. I just ignored it.
Debbie most definitely
noticed it, and I could sense the smoke coming out of her ears. At about the
moment when I envisioned the entire plate of pate ending up on this woman’s
face, Debbie announced that—oh, look at the time—we had to be on our way.
I don’t recall that she read
me the riot act on the way home. Rather, we ended up joking about the incident,
so she’s the “girl” I knew somewhere.
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