Peter By His Coffee Table
Magazine: Monkee Spec. #4
Author: Sahli Stevenson
Editor: Ralph Benner
Publisher: New Asbury Ltd. Publishing Co.
PETER… As Seen Through The Eyes Of His Coffee Table
Since everyone would like to know what a typical day in the life of Peter Tork at home is like, I managed to dig my way out from under the piles of mail we get in this office and grab a few friends of mine and Peter’s to help me tell you all about it.
Each of us was able to cover a different part of Peter’s home routine and, naturally, we changed our identities to protect guilty us from Peter’s curious mind. The first thing we had to do was find a phony identity and, since everything happens around Peter’s coffee table, we decided to let the coffee table, “Me”, take the blame for this story.
The only two guiltless people in this spy adventure are Steve Stills and Joey Richardson. Joey is an old friend of Peter’s from Greenwich Village days. He arrived out here not too long ago and is living with Peter because Peter asked him to. Joey will probably be there until he can find a place of his own.
Steve Stills, of the Buffalo Springfield, already has his own place. His only problem is that he can’t move into it yet. Peter being the generous guy he is, invited Steve to stay with him. As you’ve probably read in TiGER BEAT, Steve knew Peter and played in a band with him back in the “Village”. Most important, if it hadn’t been for Steve, Peter wouldn’t be a Monkee today, because it was at Steve’s suggestion that Peter tried out for the Monkees. Now the three of them are a very happy trio living in a groovy pad high in the Hollywood Hills.
To all the rest of you who helped… Thanks, Salhi Stevenson
Hi! I’m “Me”. I haven’t got any other name so just call me “Me”. I’m long and lean and very tan. I’m also extremely dependable and very sturdy. I mean, you just have to be sturdy and dependable to be a coffee table. Don’t laugh, you read me right. I’m a coffee table and I’ve got one of the most outasite owners in existence—Peter Tork. We live high up in the hills overlooking Hollywood and I’m going to tell you something about my life with Peter and his two sidekicks, Singing Steve and Jumbo Joe.
The big three
First I’ll tell you a little about them. Peter is one of the sweetest guys who ever lived. He’d do anything to make you happy and see that you’re comfortable. He loves music and plays his guitar any chance he gets. He also digs deep discussions about life and other serious topics. He also tries to keep me neat and clean. He’s usually fighting a losing battle there.
The winner in the battle for “Keeping ‘Me’ Messy” is Joe. Joe is a guy with an unbelievable sense of humor and an enormous appetite. All his dirty dishes land on top of my head… (Table top to you). He digs sleeping and also talks in his sleep. He’s funny.
The perfectionist of the trio is Steve, and he’ll slave for hours to get just one note right. He’s a friendly person and digs pretty much the same things Peter does. In all, they’re an outasite group to live with.
The mad house usually starts around here at about dawn. That’s when Peter finally decides that he must slide out of his comfortable bed onto the cold floor and gallop off to the studio. He bangs around and naturally wakes me up, which I can assure you I don’t appreciate because I get far too little sleep as it is and even coffee tables need their snooze! Peter slips into some clothes, grabs a glass of orange juice, deposits the empty glass on the nearest object—“Me” of course and is off in a gust of musty dust! (Joe forgets to dust things around here sometimes.) I can now settle down to a bit of peaceful mumbling until Steve wakes up about 12 o’clock, so I guess I’ll tell you what I can see in this house.
The day rolls on
Steve hasn’t anywhere to go today, so out comes his guitar, paper, pencils and cigarettes. They all land on me with the exception of the guitar, he’s playing that. He will continue to do so throughout the rest of the day. (Important Note: If you are wondering where Joe is, he is asleep and will remain so for the duration of the year. His main hobby is sleep.)
It is now five o’clock and Pete comes crashing through the door. It has been a very peaceful day. We have had only 52 girls clanging our doorbell and asking for Peter. Also, Steve is furious because he can’t work out a note in one of his new masterpieces. Joe is still snoring—no, Joe is not snoring. He just shot up like a struck whale. “Food!”, he groans and stumbles into the kitchen. Havoc begins as the doorbell rings and a group of humans invades our domain.
Naturally Peter puts himself out to make them as comfortable as possible, and the boob tube springs to life along with guitar, courtesy of Steve who is still trying to get that note. (Important Note #2: Peter is an excellent host and has been running around feeding everyone Chinese food.)
Throughout the evening, more people arrive and I can’t see old stick-in-the-mud or his view anymore. As a matter of note, I can’t see anything because I have now become the proud possessor of tons of assorted plates, over-flowing ashtrays, record album jackets, a birthday card for Peter that’s at least two months older than two months ago, a bottle of orange juice next to the apple cider—turning vinegar, several empty cigarette packs, someone’s coat in front of my left eye, a scarf in front of my right peeper and a jar of peanut butter to crown the whole monstrous mess! Everyone is comfortable with the possible exception of me and I can barely breathe! It’s a comfort to know that I have a chance of being cleared off later, meanwhile everyone here is groovy and that’s cool, I suppose.
Since it’s Friday night, Peter doesn’t have to hit bed early and so a full scale discussion (battle!) of what’s happening in the world gets going to the accompaniment of Steve’s guitar and Joe’s jokes. Forget the jokes—Joe just crashed and is snoring loudlyest! Everyone keeps yakking and playing the guitar because nothing will arouse Joe from slumber. Peter has now joined Steve with his guitar and the two of them start singing folk songs at the top of their lungs. I’d kind of like to get a snooze.
The final polish
Oh, Noooo! I am just settling into my third dream when someone decides it’s time to clean me up and polish me to bits. Oh, it’s Peter. I can see and all the visiting two-footed types have vanished. As Peter finishes polishing my top, he gives me a last goodnight rub and stumbles off to bed. I stretch and yawn a bit and to the sounds of Joe’s booming snores I fall asleep. Thus, another day in the life of Peter and “Me” has faded into yesterday.
Roaring guitar speakers
The first thing you spot as you come in here is a note on the bannister that tells Peter to open his beautiful eyes. The second thing or thingys are two huge amps (guitar speakers) who rumble and then roar. They usually jolt me out of my dreams just as I hit the floor. If you could see all the stuff I collect, you’d see what I mean about hit the floor. At this moment, I’m just at the sagging slowly stage. Anywhat, the amps are always having some funny wires stuck into them and that’s when they really start to gran. I guess they don’t like it, but they aren’t very talkative so I really don’t know. I think they’re a bit stuck up. That’s all right though because I’m a pretty patient type and don’t like to rush into anything either.
Stick-in-the-muds with view
Just past the amps we have two old stick-in-the-muds. They always stay right where they were put and don’t even change a little. They always have the same old variations in their picture. During the day they display a kind of grayish city and at night the lights in their picture twinkle a lot [sic]. They’re two gigantic see-through thingies that Peter calls picture windows. I still think they ought to change their picture. They’ve been running this one for at least the last nine months and I get bored easily.
The flashing color machine
When I really get bored I switch to Peter’s flashing color machine. Joe dubbed it a television set but it doesn’t act like one. You all know that a TV set gives a nice sharp picture. This one just gives you streaks, dots and flashes of all sorts of weird colors. Steve refers to it as his private light show. I won’t tell you what I call it. The only time it clears up is when the Monkees are on and the rest of the time it’s a bummer! Right now it’s asleep, and old stick-in-the-mud won’t change his picture. He says that if it’s good enough for Peter it certainly ought to satisfy me. Ho-hum!
Those pillows that are scattered all over the floor, just laughed. They think it’s funny! They really get their chuckles when someone slips on them and goes sailing into my leg. This does not help me to keep a balanced mind, but with those window goodies and a freaky TV who has a chance for sanity anyroad!
An arm to lean on
Talk about freaky, you should see Peter’s walls! He’s got Barbra Streisand hanging over the kitchen door, psychedelic posters adorning the walls and a great big “I Love You” slapped on in Davy Jones stamps. I know I’d lose my mind if I didn’t have my old friend “Comfy” around. She’s a lounge chair or lounging chair or something like that and whenever I have a complaint (which is rarely) she’s always got an arm for me to cry on—that is, if I have the strength to crawl over there.
You see, everything that can possibly be moved like dishes and record albums ends up on top of me and weighs me down. This happens everyday [sic]. If I’m lucky and I say IF—I have two candles arid a couple of record albums sitting on me. That’s right after Peter cleans me up. Now, you can add one orange juice glass. Oops! Make that another glass and a jug of apple cider—Steve just woke up.