We played it for weekends at a time. Quite possibly one entire summer.
I was Davy’s girlfriend, and God knows why, my girlfriend name was “Dolly.” We packed suitcases for the concert tours, warded off crazy backstage fans, went on dates in planes and trains and fancy cars, and surfed on a plank between two chairs in my bedroom while our famous, visible-only-to-true believers, boyfriends surfed behind us.
Of course, Davy was a good pick, arguably the cutest, the most popular and got the most vocals, but the real truth? My friend Melinda picked first.
Had she not called Peter Tork before I had the chance, I would have picked Peter. He was taller, a little goofier and had a dimple that looked a lot like mine. I never told Melinda, but I thought we were a better match. Plus, though we were only 12 or 13, but I already had a good four inches on Melinda, so it would have been a simple, natural, sensible trade.
Davy’s gone. Now Peter. Oh, I could hide ‘neath the wings, Of the bluebird as she sings, The six-o’clock alarm would never ring.
Thanks for the memories, adorable Peter Tork. And for the goofy Saturday morning ventures, singable lyrics and songs that sounded especially spectacular when singing into the industrial-sized propeller fan in Melinda’s basement. And give Davy my regards. He’ll probably remember me by my frosted pink Max Factor lipstick “borrowed” from my mother and my Heaven Sent cologne.