Back when I was still young enough to be entertained by unrequited love, I routinely kissed Peter Tork good night.
It was the summer just before I entered high school, and I kept photos of all four Monkees — Peter, Davy, Micky, Mike — taped to my bedroom wall. Later, as I matured, I would transfer my yearning to Mike, the manliest Monkee, but during that summer, it was Peter who revved my heart.
Peter, with his floppy blond hair. Peter, with the brooding intelligence that I, alone among teeny-boppers, discerned beneath the goofy persona he displayed on TV. Peter, who waited nightly for my tender kiss.
Sweet dreams, my darling!
I would press my lips against the wall.
Until fate brings us together!
That memory blazed in my mind, brighter than yesterday, when my friend Gail asked recently if I wanted to go see Peter Tork at the Old Town School of Folk Music in Chicago.
