The small apartment that Alvin and I shared slowly turned into a typical bachelor pad. And I don't mean the swinging hotspot with a waterbed and a parade of women coming and going. I mean the messy neglected dump that parents always worry that their kids' first apartment will be. And I have to take some of the blame for that. After all, I was the type of chipmunk to leave the dishes in the sink until I ran out of clean ones - still am, to be honest.

But then there was Alvin.

Mrs. Gorman had always had a tough time keeping Alvin in line. Only after a lot of trial and error did she develop an unsteady balance of praise, shaming, nagging and punishment. And that combination more or less kept Alvin on top of doing his chores. But once it was just me and him...well, I never managed to learn that magic combination. And because of that, Alvin almost never lifted a paw to keep the place in order. The household chore list was divided into two halves - stuff that I did (usually a bit later than I should've), and stuff that didn't get done at all. At least, until I couldn't stand it anymore and did his chores for him.

"I visited your shared apartment on exactly one occasion," says Simon with a shudder. "That was more than enough."

"I wasn't trying to be mean," explains Alvin with a crooked grin. "And it's not like I enjoyed living in squalor. But a running theme in my life story has been my major lack of personal responsibility. And this was the early and mid-sixties, which was absolute prime AL-VIN time. It was just - AL-VIN doesn't want to clean the bathroom right now, so AL-VIN is not going to clean the bathroom right now. And of course, AL-VIN didn't want to clean the bathroom later, either. So the bathroom never got cleaned."

Unfortunately, Alvin was the same way with money. When rent was due, or it was time for him to pay for his share of the groceries, either he was "a little short of cash right now", or he wasn't anywhere to be found. So it seemed like when I wasn't nagging him about not doing his chores, I was nagging him for money that he owed me.

It wasn't long before our relationship began to show the strain. When Alvin was home, I tended to hole up in my tiny bedroom with my science fiction magazines and record collection, just so I wouldn't get into yet another argument with him. I also started buying just enough food for myself, especially stuff that Alvin didn't like, so I wouldn't have to try to get him to pay for his share. And the drive to the gigs and recording sessions, usually a time of chatter and laughter, had grown silent. The gigs themselves were still fun, but things had gotten tense between us when we weren't on stage.

"Neither of you discussed it, but the tension between you two was readily apparent," admits Simon. "I believe even Mr. Seville was aware that something was amiss, and he was not known for being keenly attuned to our moods and feelings."

There was one bright spot about me fighting with Alvin. It finally got me off my tail to go out and audition for other groups. I realized that only being available early in the week was going to be a major handicap - not to mention, you know, the whole chipmunk-playing-drums thing. Still, I figured it was worth a try. At that point, anything that would get me out of the apartment more often was probably going to be a good idea.

But before I did, I decided to take a cue from Simon. He had successfully divorced himself from the cartoon "Simon" by picking a new name to use, and I decided that it would probably be a good idea for me to do the same thing. People were going to have enough trouble viewing me as a serious musician without thinking of me as being that clueless chump from the cartoon. So I shortened my first name to TD, and added "Henderson" after my favorite ice cream parlor. Professionally, I was now (un)officially "TD Henderson".

With my new name in place, I put ads on some bulletin boards, and answered a bunch of others. "Rock And Roll Drummer Needed", "Jazz Combo Seeks Drummer" - anything with the word "Drummer" in it, really. And for almost three months, I didn't get anywhere. Some refusals were polite - "we need someone available on Saturdays" - and others were less so - "no vermin". Finally, near the end of February of 1962, I managed to secure a gig backing up a vocalist at the Seven Palms. But in retrospect, it was a gig that I probably should have passed on.

The singer's name was Glenda Fox. She was tall, blonde and kind of a knockout. She performed every Monday night singing popular hits, although she also dabbled in jazz and sultry torch songs. Glenda was a pretty good singer, but her real talent was getting the crowd (especially the men) to fall under her spell. Unfortunately, she worked on her band in much the same way.

After each gig, Glenda would sort of strut around backstage while we sat in the dressing room. If she ignored you, that was a sign that you had done extremely well...and that didn't happen very often. Glenda usually found something negative to say to each of us. She never yelled or shouted. It was always smooth as honey, but sharp as a razor. She might lean down towards me, give me a sort of sad sympathetic look, and say, "And TD! My poor little TD. He tries so hard to play those drums just like a real drummer! And I know, TD. The breakdown in the last number is very difficult. Maybe you can practice that part a little bit this week? For me? That's what real drummers do, you know."

I shouldn't have put up with this. I was a real drummer. I was playing rock and roll every weekend for money, in front of appreciative crowds. Hell, I had played drums on a chart record! But there I was every Monday night, wearing an ugly and uncomfortable red suit that I had to have custom made. I'd gently tap and brush my drums behind Glenda as she sang "At Last", hoping I wouldn't be belittled by the singer after the set. And I put up with this treatment for almost a full year.

Why? A bunch of reasons, really. Despite the karate lessons, I was still very much an insecure chipmunk. It didn't take much to make me feel uncomfortable, and Glenda was something of a master at making people feel that way. Also, it was my first band experience outside of playing with my brothers. When The Chipmunks or Nutty Squirrels played together, we'd just make polite suggestions - "maybe you could come in a bit earlier on that solo". I figured other bands would have a different dynamic, and do things differently. I managed to convince myself that Glenda was just a perfectionist, and this was her way of pushing us to be the best we could be.

Had I still been on good terms with Alvin, he probably would have convinced me to quit. Or Simon might have, had I ever talked to him about it. Instead, I just suffered in silence, convincing myself that putting up with this crap was somehow improving my drumming. Thankfully, somebody else came to my rescue.

The Seven Palms featured a different band, and a slightly different sound, every night of the week. Joan Castro was the singer on Tuesdays, and at the tail end of 1962, she was about to lose her drummer. That drummer sat through Glenda's set one Monday in November, and liked what he saw enough to suggest me to Joan. One quick audition later, I had joined Joan's backing group.

Joan wasn't the knockout that Glenda was, but she was attractive in her own way. Her repertoire was more along the lines of gutbucket numbers, Connie Francis hits, and novelty songs. She may not have been as good a singer as Glenda was from a technical standpoint, but her sets were a lot of fun - for the audiences and the band. It wasn't uncommon for all of us to show up early and stay late, just to chat and hang out with each other.

A few weeks after I started drumming for Joan, a couple of us were sitting around a table after our set. I said something to the effect of how much more fun it was playing on Tuesday nights than Mondays. Joan asked why that was, and I told her about Glenda's post-gig ritual of dressing us down.

Joan nodded sympathetically. "Sounds like Glenda's a piece of work, all right."

"She pay you good?" asked Harry, Glenda's piano player. "Just need the dough?"

"No, not really."

"Then why do you stay with her?" Glenda asked.

I started to answer, then stopped to think. "You know what? I don't really know."

"Maybe you should quit."

I mulled it over a bit. "Glenda wouldn't be very happy."

Joan looked at me steadily. "TD, right now, you're not very happy."

Harry said, "Look, TD, you're young...I think." I nodded, and he went on. "So let me give you a bit of advice. Play for fun, or play for cash. Not enough fun, not enough cash?" He made a gesture with his hand. "Don't play."

I smiled and nodded, then gave it some more thought. "I think you guys are right. I really should quit. It's just...I've never left a band before. Do I just...go tell her I quit?"

"Why don't you play one more Monday, then quit right afterwards?" Joan suggested, and that's what I decided to do. Joan and Harry both came to Glenda's gig the next Monday, at my request. I was worried that I'd sort of fall back under Glenda's sway, and chicken out. So when we finished the last set, I handed my truck keys to Joan, and she and Harry carried my drum set out to my truck while I went to the back to face Glenda one more time.

She was in fine form that night, too. After belittling everybody else in the band, she finally turned to me. "And my little TD. Still slapping the drums like a child. Honestly, TD, I despair of ever making a drummer out of you."

I couldn't have asked for a better set-up line than that. I stood up and tried to look as sad as I could. I sighed and said, "Yeah, I guess you're right. You should probably find somebody else to play drums for you." I waved to the other guys and said, "Nice playing with you guys!" then scurried out the door before anybody could say anything. I never saw Glenda again. It meant not getting paid for that last night, but it was worth a night's pay to be free of her.

I was very grateful to Joan and Harry for nudging me into quitting, and for helping me follow through on it. The next night, I bought them a bottle of champagne, and we drank a toast to "new beginnings" before the gig.

After the toast, I looked at Joan and Harry. "I probably should tell you guys something."

Joan looked alarmed. "You're not planning on leaving our band, too, are you?"

I shook my head and grinned. "Nah, I love playing with you guys. It's...well, it's my name. TD Henderson is just my stage name."

"Really? What's your real name?"

"Theodore Chipmunk."

Harry smiled and nodded. "Oh, I get it. Then that annoying Christmas song came out with a chipmunk using that same name."

I looked embarrassed. "Actually, I am the chipmunk on that annoying Christmas song."

"No!" said Joan. "And in the cartoon and everything? And your brothers in the Little Rocks are...?" I nodded, and Joan said, "But that's wonderful."

"Well, maybe, but I can't perform as Theodore. They sort of own the rights..."

"You can't even perform as yourself?" asked Harry. "That seems unfair."

I shrugged. "Hey, I can at least perform. And I'd much rather play with you guys than be stuck playing 'Alvin's Harmonica' every night."

Joan laughed. "Well, I'll take that as a compliment. And don't worry - we'll keep quiet about your little side gig."

Later that night, Joan suggest we add a torch song rendition of "Christmas Don't Be Late" to the repertoire in December. I readily agreed, and they even convinced me to sing Alvin's "me, I want a hula hoop" line. I can't say I liked the song any better, but I did enjoy performing it with Joan.

You may have noticed that I haven't talked much about The Chipmunks for awhile. That's because, for much of 1962, there simply isn't much to tell. The TV series lasted until the summer, but we already knew it wasn't coming back, so there were no new episodes to record dialogue for. We seemed to be selling well in the toy section of the shops, but that was about it. Liberty tried putting out an Alvin Show LP, plus another album full of songs from the show, but neither one sold very well. We also recorded a few extra commercials for Jello. But all told, it sort of looked like The Chipmunks were rapidly becoming yesterday's news - has-beens at age nineteen.

Somebody at Liberty finally noticed that two of our biggest-selling singles were Christmas songs. So in September of 1962, they announced we'd be doing a Christmas album. They decided to steer clear of anything religious, so we were given secular holiday songs like "Silver Bells" and "Over the River and Through the Woods" to sing. We didn't make any suggestions, but honestly, none were needed. The song selections were fine, the arrangements were fairly good, and we enjoyed singing them. There were a few "Al-vin!" moments scattered throughout, but thankfully for the most part, we were allowed to simply sing.

"It was our vocal performance at a Christmas pageant that original piqued Mr. Seville's interest," points out Simon. "And then, seven years later, we were recording Christmas songs for an album release. I was under the misconception that our recording career was nearing completion, and I felt that this album would be a fitting and pleasant conclusion to it."

The album paired ten newly-recorded holiday numbers with "Rudolph" and "Christmas Don't Be Late". It featured one of the few LP covers that I liked - Simon and me looking longingly at our presents under the tree, as Alvin tears his present open...on December 21st. Naturally enough, the album was released in late November 1962, and it moseyed up to number eighty-four on the album chart. It was our first charting album since "Sing Again", but not exactly the huge hit that Liberty was hoping for.

But what the album lacked in chart performance, it made up for in longevity. The label dutifully trotted the album out to the record bins every December, and every year, more people snapped it up. Eventually, it earned a platinum award, which means at least a million people bought a copy. The eventual success of the album probably bought the Chipmunks a few more years at Liberty Records. Whether that's a good thing or a bad thing probably depends on who you ask.