I had intended to sit down and write something about Davy Jones today. But, if my Facebook news feed is any indication, I am not the only one who had a childhood infatuation with Davy and the Monkees. It seems everything that needs to be written about Davy’s passing has already been written, every “Last Train To Clarkesville” pun used up. Would I be worthy of writing about my love for Davy Jones if I told you that, as a middle schooler, I started my own Monkees fan club? Or that I forced my parents to drive me three and a half hours to State College, PA, for a Davy Jones book signing and, while I was waiting in line for hours upon hours for my 30 seconds with Davy, they ran into him at a bar? Or that I talked my parents into letting me fly to Chicago for a Monkees convention, and I slept on a Chicago sidewalk to get a good seat for Davy’s talk? (I was maybe 13 at the time.) No? OK, then.