Davy Jones died yesterday. He was 66.
Whether you loved the Monkees or not, if you were alive in the 60's you knew who they were. I saw a clip on the news where Davy said the Monkees would live on for a very long time. That people underestimated the impact the band would have on people's lives. It would be easy to accuse him of believing the daydream a tad too much, but history has proven him right. For better or worse, the Monkees are woven indelibly into the fabric of pop culture and the hearts of the millions who loved them.
As for Davy, he kept the daydream going. Although the made-for-TV band was often accused of having no real talent, he built a career on singing the songs that fans knew by heart. Belting them out with joy and passion. By all accounts, he stayed cute until the end. And died while indulging in his other lifelong passion: tending to his racehorses.
Today is my birthday. I'm 58.
Just as I was a bit shocked to realize that Davy was 66, I'm not quite sure how I got to be this age, this fast. And I have a tough time sticking to my guns when it comes to indulging in my passions. But I do know this: his death is a reminder that I may not have all the time in the world to live out my daydreams. He died doing what he loved. Will I be able to say the same?