"Bonnie, we're set to go," Barry called out to where Bonnie was conferring with the guys by the lead bus.

The Monkees tour would drive to San Francisco for a one-nighter and fly on from there in the Monkees plane for the rest of the tour. Now waiting in the parking area outside Colgems studio were the musicians' and roadies bus, the costume van (with Genie riding shotgun), a crew bus packed with with as much sound and electrical equipment as could be loaded, and another panel van carrying what was left. The last van, for Barry, Bonnie, Chip and a couple of crew bosses, would bring up the rear. And of course the press was there, to cover the "launch".

"On my way," Bonnie hollered back. "Okay, I got all your crap," she told Mike, Davy and Peter. "And you, Dolenz, nice try as always. And as always... forget it." Davy and Peter laughed at a grumbling Micky as the three of them trooped on board, leaving Mike behind.

"See ya at load in," she told him, and they pulled the same move they always did when the press was waiting breathlessly for the elusive "public display of affection".

"Later, Morris." And Mike raised a hand to slap Bonnie's palm as they both turned away to go their respective ways.

"Hey Bonnie, how about a goodbye kiss for the camera?" suggested one of the tabloid reporters.

Bonnie leaned toward the photographer she knew well from his previous attempts to shoot "the personal side", aka the big bucks Monkees scoop.

"Hey Steve. How about a fat lip for your face?"

Steve lowered his camera and grimaced. "You didn't used to be so mean," he griped.

Mike smirked over his shades as he boarded the bus. "Must be the company she keeps."


"What was the holdup?" Barry asked when Bonnie finally climbed into the van. "Aside from the obvious." Meaning the necessary evil of the press.

"Just the usual." She opened her oversized tapestry shoulder bag and recited, "Spare strings... ten sets each for Nesmith's Gretsch and his fancy ass Gibson. Seven sets for Peter's bass, and five for the Wildwood banjo plus five specials for his gut-strung. Five sets for David's Martin, thank God he only plays for a couple of numbers." She shook the bag and looked deeper inside. "And Nesmith's pick box. And everybody's capos. I think I got twelve of those... because of course Nes needs at least five, I stopped wondering why that's the magic number a long time ago. Micky tries to dump his sticks and brushes on me every time, but they go inside the bass drum box. Boy does that piss off the roadies when they have to open up the kit at the last minute."

"I think maybe I won't ask why you carry all that stuff, when we have a crew to handle the instruments," Barry told her as the other "regulars" present laughed among themselves.

"I think maybe you don't have to," Bonnie replied. "You may not know these guys, but you know musicians... they're more superstitious than baseball players. So I learned not to question after the first tour. At least I know how to sort it all out," she said as she took a last peek inside her bag. "They'd be screwing around all night if they had to do it themselves."


"Can you put the camera down for a minute?" Peter pleaded after they'd been driving for a bit. "This is the only time we have before the whole world is in our face, you dig?"

The documentary crew seemed determined to film every available second, as if they were afraid of missing something.

"Don't you want to share that with the viewers? The quiet time before it all goes into orbit?" the documentary director asked. "I mean, this is supposed to be behind the scenes. You know, special access and all that."

"Maybe you didn't get it," Micky explained. "This is about The Monkees on Tour, not about us trying to live our lives like real people. So it's like... the make believe behind the scenes of the make-believe we do on camera. Get it? It's for the fans, and the fans want to see a little more of what they see already... the Monkees doing their thing, but on tour. So no offense... but shut the goddamn camera off except when we're The Monkees, capital T and M, okay?"

The director motioned his camera man to shut down. "This isn't exactly what I thought we signed up for," he observed.

Mike looked up from the magazine he was reading. "Us neither, man," he drawled. "Ain't life a bitch."