Saturday Song Selection: Good Morning Good Morning – The Beatles and Micky Dolenz

“I’ve got nothing to say, but it’s okay.”– Lennon/McCartney

"The Monkees are still finding out who they are, and they seem to be improving as performers each time I see them. When they've got it all sorted out, they may be the greatest."- George Harrison

"I think you're the greatest comic talents since the Marx Brothers. I've never missed one of your programs."- John Lennon 

"I like their music a lot...and you know, their personalities. I watch their TV show and it is good."- Paul McCartney

Imagine, if you will, this nightmarish scenario, as if from the dark imagination of a Rod Serling teleplay (“That's not fair! That's not fair at all! There was time now. There was all the time I needed...”) You’re a blogger. You love blogging. As a matter of fact, there is so very little in your life of equal or comparable worth to the freedom and creative release enjoyed and unleashed - good, bad, or mediocre - when you put electronic quill to digital papyrus.

"Well, at least I still have my books. And the best thing is, there's time now... all the time I need"

Every rule, every tenet, every decree, every mildly suggestive hint pertaining to the success of maintaining an active, working and popular or even demi-popular blog is to post, as we vote, early and often.  As with, “Fred Garvin: Male Prostitute” frequency and dependability are the hallmarks of achievement in the blogosphere.  And a blog without readership is but a knobcone pine falling in Yosemite without a soul about to hear it; a gripping and grieving emotional howl of expression trapped within a vacuum, as hollow and empty and wasted as the cumulative grey matter of the entire Tea Party Nation,  and as soulless and vacuous as the pandering punditry and politicians at CPAC and the platform presented at the Republican National Convention (Winner 2013 Blogger Award for Most Over-Stated, Over-Dramatic, Over-Written Sentence Ever.)

"I'm Fred Garvin, male prostitute."

And you, essayist of politics and pop-culture peccadillos, have hit a wall as hard as the head of an avowed Palinista. Benghazi is too complicated, at once both a tragedy and, as audaciously and excruciatingly exploited by the partisan pismires of the GOP, a farce.  And the other supposed scandals just furnish further reminders as to the pathetic level this shameless, shamming and perishing political party is willing to stoop; the muck, mire and slime in which they choose to tread, in their continuing desperate attempt to destroy a good man whose pigmentation does not suit their myopic vision of appropriate presidential material. After three years and more than 100 posts, you've got nothing to say, but it's okay - good morning.  And then, like Phil Spector to a Ronette, it hits you.

In commemoration, celebration, recognition and astonished amazement of recently surpassing 200,000 views (moving substantially above and beyond the good will and good graces of friends, family, loved ones and courtesan-like, purchased participants, "... and several butcher's aprons" proudly presents an historic event, decades in the making, and so reminiscent of the time travel saga that allowed the Jetsons and the Flintstones to gather together in animated harmony. Today, the Beatles meet the Monkees (or a Monkee, anyway) on a double “Saturday Song Selection” featuring one classic song and two distinctly different interpretations.

The Fab Four and their made for television doppelgangers who, despite their unusual origins, quickly developed into a superior and legitimate pop/rock group, did in reality, convene in London in 1967 at the gracious invitation of the Liverpudlians. Mike Nesmith sat in on the “Day in the Life” sessions, having been a lucky man who made the grade (although, the news was rather sad) and Peter Tork contributed to George Harrison’s solo project, “Wonderwall.” The Mickey Dolenz composition, “Randy Scouse Git” was also an artistic outcome of this sojourn across the pond. And by all accounts, a good time was had by all.

Peter recalls, “Micky and I are meeting the Beatles at a London club called the Speakeasy, and in comes George and John singing to the tune of "Hare Krishna" "Micky Dolenz, Micky Dolenz, Dolenz, Dolenz, Micky, Micky." And Paul is with Jane Asher, and the other guys didn't bring anybody, and I had just done some STP which was an LSD-type psychedelic drug. I mentioned it to John and he said, "We heard that's no good. Mama Cass told us not to take it." But he said, "Okay". So I went back to the hotel and I got some. Popped one down his throat. I guess he was alright because he seemed to survive. I don't think I'm responsible for "Strawberry Fields" though."

Six Degrees of nycityman

And now we’ve arrived at that section of every post that battles the boredom barometer and tests the egotism tolerance of you fine readers – uninteresting, accidental anecdotes of personal encounters between author and subject. Of course, like millions of others I have garnered valuable miles (kilometers?} on the Virgin Airlines Amex card purchasing ducats of musical memories and unforgettable evenings spent in concert halls and clubs enjoying the incomparable work of many members of both of these famed and fabled foursomes. I've experienced Mr. Starkey and his traveling road show at Jones Beach, Sir Paul at the world's most famous arena, Madison Square Garden and Mickey and his cavorting crew (both with and without the dear departed Davy, and Elephant Parted Michael) in venues too numerous to mention. Nycityman's background appearance in a decades old MTV Christmas video featuring all four of the television band mates best remain a saga for another day. But additionally, as is commonality when one is fortunate enough to reside in the planet's most vital and glamorous cosmopolitan, I have encountered Messrs.’ Dolenz and McCartney on the often walked streets where I live. At the time Micky was appearing in the Broadway production of Aida, and best I can tell, Paul was aimlessly wandering the thoroughfares of Hell's Kitchen, perhaps in search of a satisfying, yet meatless Sabrette.  The unspoken New York law, when happenstance plops you in the presence of admired luminaries, it to do and say nothing, and so I acquiesced.  But as the seconds ticked away on the "Don't Walk" sign at the corner that Micky and I shared, my mind did race in desperate search for clever repartee, but as is needless to tell you, no such cleverness was forthcoming and we each went our separate ways, Dolenz better off for narrowly escaping my dull-wittedness. 

Now, as at some early juncture, this piece was intended to be about, “Good Morning Good Morning” here are the two takes of the tune. First, the original Beatles classic, from “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” followed by a bit mellower, more acoustic, very enjoyable and intelligent, reinterpretated cover version by the former Circus Boy, himself, Micky Dolenz from his fine 2012 release, “Remember.”  Then, as an added attraction, take a listen to Micky’s Monkee track (not the Smokey Robinson number) previously alluded to, “Randy Scouse Git.”

Have any comments, questions, criticisms, compliments, candid confessions, cash contributions? Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com.