Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: mickey hart (page 1 of 70)

This One’s In B

One must assume that Mickey only brought underwear and socks on tour, and each day wandered–bare-chested and half-cocked–by the merch table to yoink himself a fetching top.


If Mrs. Donna Jean had balls, they’d fall out of those shorts. Balls are always looking for a way out; they’re like Papillon.


What the hell is Bobby playing? It’s an Ibanez, but it’s not Cowboy Fancy. Anyone?

The Beam, The Beast, And…


That’s called a Mr. Belvedere.


Both of ’em?



A Lovely View Of Oakland, But I’d Rather Be With You

Hey, Mickey. Whatcha doing?

“I’m on Godzilla Duty.”

What now?

“Someone’s gotta watch out for that rice-eating son of a bitch. He’s a bridge-fucker.”

Not that bridge. No monster has ever taken out the Oakland Bay Bridge.

“Is that not the Golden Gate?”


“How can you tell?”

By looking at it.

“Agree to disagree.”

Whatever. What the fuck are you wearing? Is that a toppermost?

“Oh, wow, no. I don’t have that kind of money. This is just a toppermore.”

Christ, this site is dumb.

“Guess how many bottles of Drambuie I got in here.”



I dunno, Mickey. Four?

“Yeah. Four. How’d you figure that out?”

Just a good guesser.

“About to be three, though.”


Godchaux, I Said Godchaux

Hey, Keith. Whatcha doing?

“Hurmphle drup. Blaaaaah. Glunth.”

Uh-huh. You all right, pal?


Okay, then.



Keith collapsed.

“Yeah, he does that.”

Why was he set up out front, anyway?

“Makes it easier to get to him when he collapses.”


Always A Dead Connection: High-G Maneuver Edition

The Expanse.

I see what you did there.



Some of the Enthusiasts are dipshits and need jokes explained for them.

Don’t insult your readers.

Why? They got nowhere else to go; the internet sucks now.



Back Where He Belongs

“Holy shit, Walton. What happened to you?”

“I’m not Bill Walton, Mickey. I’ve told you four times already.”

“Then where is he?”

“I have no idea.”

“What day is it?”


“Shit. I lost three days.”

“Wow. Does that happen a lot?”

“I don’t know.”

“Figures you wouldn’t, right?”

“Sure. You look nice, though. And I like your little hat. We can be friends.”

“We’ve known each other for 30 years, Mickey.”

“Marjorie Jumpinbump.”

“You think my name is ‘Marjorie Jumpinbump?’ You got literally everything wrong. Gender, ethnicity, general vibe. All wrong.”

“I didn’t want to use a Latin name. Assuming things is racist now.”

“I have a Latin name, Mick.”

“Jose Taco.”

That‘s racist. That shit was racist shit.”

“See!? You don’t know where the line is any more!”

“What’s my name, man?”

“Primrose Bombardier.”


“Johnny Fongool.”

“You’re clearly just making up silly names. I’m getting insulted.”


“I’m leaving.”


(EDITOR’S NOTE: That man’s name is Giovanni Hidalgo, and he has played with Sammy Hagar.)


“What really pickles my plums is the Kings’ basketballetics. What I like to call ‘undefinable fundamentals.’ It’s that ‘nothing’ that exists at the heart of all ‘somethings,’ the promise of annihilation that all matter makes. And their passing game.”

“What about Gritty?”

“Gritty is not associated with the Sacramento Kings, Mick.”

“I like that guy a lot.”

“His capering speaks to what I like to call ‘the choatic inchoate.'”

“You are awful smart tonight, Bill.”

“It’s 90% the shrooms talking. How are your eyeballs synchronized?”

“They’re as together as me and Billy.”

“In the 70’s or 80’s?”



“Bill Walton speaking.”

“Bill, I got lost.”

“Mickey, where are you?”

“I heard drumming.”

“That explains it.”

“And I followed it. We should add some bucket drummers to Dead & Company. How many is the right amount?”

“Generally, the proper size for buckets is a brigade’s worth.”

“Wonderful. Hey, Bill? Would you say that Sacramento looked exactly like Manhattan?”

“I would not say that at all. The two locations could never be mistaken for one another.”

“Uh-huh. I’m really lost.”

Lee’s Tower


I didn’t call for you, Precarious.

“You were gonna.”

Yeah. I was just stunned into silence. Dude, what the fuck?

“Be more specific.”

I cannot. The lack of aesthetics and basic safety requirements is all-pervasive. The stage looks like a Radio Shack, but not a good one; the Radio Shack in the bad mall, where the knife fights break out every so often. The bad mall wasn’t always the bad mall, but the economy and demographics and all that. Used to be a place that sold fancy popcorn. Flavored, seasoned, nice packaging. Now there’s nine stores that sell baseball caps. Time will do her marching, Precarious.

“You got a question?”

I asked it: What the fuck?

“Their choice of apparel and instrument is on them.”

Granted. Do you remember why Garcia was wearing his going-to-court jacket on stage?

“I do not.”

Did the road crew make fun of Bobby’s pink guitar?


Was there any thought whatsoever given towards purchasing a tie-dyed scrim to hide some of the more unattractive geegaws and wedged monitors?

“Obviously not.”

Why not?

“This way is easiest for us.”

A performance stage shouldn’t be set according to the laziness of the road crew.

“Not lazy. Efficient.”

What about the tower of speakers behind band?

“Yeah, maybe that was a little lazy. We probably should have set up the rigging.”

Wooden palettes and a forklift, right?

“How else would you do that?”

Holy shit, those cabinets at the top aren’t even strapped down, are they?

“I don’t recall anyone dying, so we must have done it right.”

That’s not how that works.

Walton & Hart: Sweatshirt Buddies

“I feel like I could have done some more yoinking.”

“Nothing else yoinkable, Mick. Be grateful for the sweatshirt. 100% cotton, but it’s been pre-shrunk. The pouch in front will bear your hands, or stash, or secrets. You could maybe keep a dream journal in there, I dunno, something positive and creative. And the hood, Mick! For thousands of years, only the wealthiest and most powerful men had hoods. You had to be a king, or French, or whatever to get a hood. Nowadays, sweatshirts just come with ’em. That’s progress. The gradual democratization of fashion is the secret history of the world.”

“Yeah, okay, but I wanna yoink some rum.”

“That’s not yoinking. That’s stealing.”

“No, no, no. The booze-yoink. That’s when I stand in a bar until someone recognizes me and pays for my drinks.”

“Mickey, we ate a lot of mushrooms. Don’t put rum on top of that.”

“Why not? It sounds delicious.”

“I agree. The scents would entice your nostrils into making love to your taste buds. Full-on face orgy.”

“Are we really early, or did the game end an hour ago?”

“We’re early, Mick.”

“Okay. I thought so, but I wanted your take on it.”

Luke, I Am Your Father, And Your Uncle Mickey

“Luke, my son, you are the glory of my loins, and you give me proper praise, like Telemachus unto Odysseus. You honor me, boy. You honor me.”

“Uh-huh. How long you and Uncle Mickey been hanging out, Dad?”

“Since 1974. And also all day.”

“All day?”

“It’s Mushroom Monday, Lukey. We’ve been pounding boomers since dawn. We snacked on that shit!”


“Chowed down like it was Chinatown. Throwing that yunka back like popcorn.”


“I go hard on Tour, Lukey.”

“I gotta go coach my team.”

“You make me proud to be an American. I mean, many things do that, but you’re one of them.”

“Is Uncle Mickey okay?”

“He will be!”

“See you after the game, Dad.”

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