Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: mickey hart (page 1 of 70)

Traveling

“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?”

“Yes.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“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

“Yo.”

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?

“Obviously.”

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!”

“Dad.”

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

“Dad.”

“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.”

Somewhat-Less-Than Hallowed Eve

Hey, Josh. Love your costume.

“I’m not wearing a costume.”

No? I thought you were Guy With Terrible Friends.

“I didn’t miss talking to you.”

Well, you’re back on tour with the Dead (Or What’s Left Of ‘Em) and so now we have to chat more regularly. Does Jimmy Fallon smell like scotch?

“No.”

Tequila?

“Yeah.”

Figured.

“Hey, man: alcoholism is not funny.”

Makes it perfect for Jimmy, then.

“Are you this relentlessly negative about everyone?”

I’m nice to your friends that don’t suck. Which in this group, ironically, is the gay guy.

“Stop it.”

I’m pretty sure all your Santa has in his bag is herpes.

“He’s not a Santa.”

He looks like if a yoga studio were homeless. Andy Cohen tripping? Those people love their drugs.

“What? That’s just homophobic, man.”

I didn’t mean gays love drugs. I meant “rich Hollywood Jews at Dead shows” love their drugs.

“Oh.”

Although, throwing “gay” in there doesn’t make it less true. He candyflipping?

“I don’t know what that is.”

Hobodosing?

“Hobodosing?”

It’s like Robodosing, but you have a homeless guy buy the cough syrup.

“He’s not doing that.”

Roofie-boofing?

“No.”

Andy Cohen boofing the roofs?

“You’re making these things up.”

Some toot for his snoot?

“Stop it with your rhyming lies!”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Oh, thank God. Wait. This isn’t Kim Jong-Un, is it? I know he’s been calling around lately.”

It’s not Kim Jong-Un.

“Promise.”

Yeah. It’s much more annoying.

“Fuck.”

“You’re on with John.”

“Josh, how do you like your kebab?”

“Mickey, for the ninth time: I do not want kebabs from a truck.”

“I’m here! It’s kebab time!”

“Pass. Pass on the street food, Mick.”

“Ask Johnny Carson and Paul Lynde.”

“Their names are Jimmy Fallon and Andy Cohen, and neither of them want kebabs.”

“What about bibimbap? The guy also does Korean.”

“Do not bring me ethnic food from a rando in a van, Mickey.”

“I’ll buy some extra churros.”

Peel Your Face Right Off Your Head

Oh, God. Who gave you a monkey?

“Hey, Thoughts on my Ass! Meet Pinball.”

I don’t wanna meet Pinball. Why is there a chimpanzee around the Grateful Dead?

“The question is: Why HASN’T there been until now!? This fucker’s a hoot! Literally: he fucks and he hoots.

Who is he fucking?

“Bobby’s leftovers, same as the rest of us.”

This is not all right.

“He’s a show biz monkey, too. Knows all kinds of tricks. Watch this. Pinball! Card!”

CHIMP PRODUCING A NINE OF DIAMONDS NOISE

“Was this your card?”

Holy shit, it was.

“Rides a unicycle, juggles, everything. He’s a triple threat.”

Is he toilet-trained?

“Quadruple threat. The poop is the fourth threat.”

Those animals are dangerous.

“So are me and Mickey.”

He should be in a jungle.

“And I should be in skank. But the world isn’t fair, and so we’re both on tour. Besides, it’s not like he’s got nothing to do. Mickey’s teaching him how to play the timbales.”

How’s that going?

“Not well. He fucks ’em. Oh, and–”

Mickey keeps dosing him?

“–Mickey keeps dosing him.”

Jesus.

OR

Hey, Mickey.

“MONKEY!”

Uh-huh.

OR

That would be Mr, Jiggs, who was indeed a show biz monkey; he performed in between sets of the Dead’s 8/4/76 show at Roosevelt Stadium in Jersey City. There is easily-found video of the poor animal’s minstrelry, and it is unbearably sad. Don’t search for it. The past was terrible.

Mickey & The Hartbeats: The New Batch

Hey, Mickey. You have any idea who these people are?

“I think the tall one is Phil’s kid.”

No.

“He could be!”

There’s a slight resemblance.

“And this is my daughter, Raylene.”

It is not. And your daughter’s name is Raya.

“Y’don’t say. Is she my niece?”

I don’t think so.

“Oh, good. I’m gonna make a run at her.”

Don’t.

“Gonna.”

Whatever.

“And the cue ball told me he was a deejay. Is he Scott Muni?”

Not that kind of deejay, Mickey.

“A dick jerker?”

Not that kind of deejay, either. That is Moby. You don’t listen to techno?

“Nobody listens to techno.”

True.

Beat Me Out In The Street

Hey, Mickey. Whatcha doing?

“Squatting.”

I see that.

“Great for the hammies. Most people think that the quads are the money muscles, leg-wise. Bullshit. Hammies are where it’s at.”

Stop saying “hammies.”

“They’re the bicep of the thigh!”

I’m aware. Why are you on the street with a drum?

“Street-drumming.”

Sure

Why Are These Men Smiling?

“Whatever happens, Mickey, don’t let Ashton Kutcher play me in a movie.”

“I’m not really in charge of that, St–”

“SWEAR TO ME!”

“Okay, okay.”

OR

Ear.

OR

I’m personally shocked that Steve Jobs wore a wedding ring.

OR

“Whatever happens, Mickey, don’t let them remove the headphone jack from the iPhone.

“Again, Steve: I have no sway over these types of dec–”

“SWEAR IT, JEWBOY!”

“Fine, whatever.”

Today, We Remember…

…this Wang Dang Doodle. (Trust me.)

…Mickey’s birthday. (Get him a drum.)

…Salvador Allende, who committed suicide by shooting himself in the back of the head nine times .

…I know I’m missing something.

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