Mickey made noises like VROOOM and WHOOSH and SKREEEEE for fifteen minutes or so until people realized he had a race-car game cued up in there; the lecture ended early.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: mickey hart (Page 31 of 71)
Hey, Mickey. Whatcha doing?
“I’m playing a box!”
Were you asked to do that?
“Wasn’t told not to.”
How much the box cost?
“Four grand.”
Sounds right.
It’s Mickey Day here in honor of Veterans Day, as Mickey was the only Grateful Dead in the armed forces.
Wait, wasn’t–
Shh.
—Garcia in the–
Stop. We don’t talk about that.
—Army and then he…oh, knock it off. He got a General Discharge which, while not the Honorable Discharge one might hope for, was really the best possible outcome. I mean: the Army wasn’t better off with Garcia in it.
Oh, God, no.
His contribution would not have won us the war for hearts and minds in Southeast Asia.
Also, he did poorly in that type of climate.
Bobby and Phil would have gotten Dishonorable Discharges.
Almost certainly.
Billy would have been shot after drunkenly stealing a tank.
Probably.
Pigpen?
Pigpen would not have been allowed into the military in the first place.
No.
This brings us back to Mickey, who did his bit in the Air Force from 61-64 and was stationed in California and Spain. While in Spain, he was in a rock and roll combo called Joe and the Jaguars; they put out a couple singles, which you can hear and read about here. This is both a picture of the band, and the worst picture ever taken of humans:
Mickey was allowed to be in a rock band while also serving in the Air Force because the Air Force is the most casual of the Armed Forces. Plus, Mickey was in the Air Force band which–even though it was an early-sixties military marching band–was still a band and therefore full of weirdo musicians. Mickey may or may not have ever come in contact with a plane he was not flying on in the Air Force.
(Air Force is the choice branch for my life’s “I’m joining the ____ and getting my shit together” moments; it’s the only one I could even halfway fake my through. The Navy is just wet math, and the thought of being on one of those floating nuclear reactors is frightening; joining the Coast Guard significantly raises your chances of being thrown out of a helicopter into the stormy sea; the Army is an organization dedicating to finding the shittiest climate and terrain on the planet, then going there to get shot at. I do not have what it takes to be a Marine; this admission will not come as a shock.)
My grandfathers were in The Second World War Two, of course. Like Mickey, they saw no direct action – neither left the country, although my Poppy Jack did have a good story about a particularly rickety bridge he needed to cross at a base in Florida. My dad had a high draft number and then they got rid of the service requirement and that was that for my family and the military.
But it is a big world that is ugly when it chooses to be; to keep one’s place in it, there must be men and women willing to strap a pistol to their hips and get a little mud on their dicks.
Happy Veterans Day.
AN AIR FORCE BASE IN THE EARLY SIXTIES
“Airman Hart!”
“Yes, Sargent?”
“What did you do to your uniform?”
…
“Do you mean the crotch horns?”
“I do. I do mean the crotch horns, Airman.”
“They’re musical instruments, Sarge.”
“Fine, but you’ve been wearing them for three days: some of the officers have noticed and I’ve been getting phone calls. Also, you keep blasting them off in the mess hall. Plus, and I don’t think I’ve properly underlined this particular concept enough with you, this is the military. We all wear the same thing. 90% of being the military is wearing the same thing, waking up early, and posture.”
“I have excellent posture.”
“You do, Airman Hart. And you wake up early. All we have to master are uniforms.”
“Can I wear the night uniform?”
“There is no night uniform.”
“T-shirt and boxers issued by Uncle Sam. Everybody wears it sleep. Sounds like a uniform to me.”
“That’s not a uniform, Airman.”
“You’re not a uniform!”
…
“KP, Sarge?”
“Don’t get potato peel on your crotch horns.”
- The Beast.
- The Beam.
- All other drums, no matter how unwashed or foreign.
- Each wife.
- Most stone-cold teen foxes.
- Some backstage tugger-skanks.
- Lollipops.
- The Sagrada Familia (1964.)
- The Sagrada Familia (1981.)
- The Sagrada Familia (1990.)
- Once, Mickey got down on all four and drank his milk up just like a kitty, but he was high as fuck, so I don’t know if it should count.
- Half-dead nine-volt batteries.
- The insides of many, many baggies.
AN AIR FORCE BASE IN THE EARLY SIXTIES
“Airman Hart, what’s in that duffel bag?”
“Furious raccoons, Sargent.”
“And where are going with that duffel bag?”
“Band practice, Sargent.”
“Is this like the cricket thing?” We couldn’t get those little bastards out of the mess hall for weeks.”
“No, Sarge. The crickets were for playing.”
“And what are the raccoons for?”
“The saxophone section keeps dragging.”
…
“Where did you even get raccoons from?”
“PX.”
“Okay.”
AN AIR FORCE BASE IN THE EARLY SIXTIES
“Airman Hart!”
“Yes, Sargent?”
“Why are you sitting at this airman’s desk with him helping him do paperwork?”
“Much more interesting when two people do it.”
“Paperwork is a one-man job.”
“I disagree, Sarge.”
“Go to the motor pool.”
“Should I help Jenkin change the oil on the plane?”
“No. Again: one-man job, Airman Hart.”
“Sure, Sarge, but think of all the possibilities that arise when two people do it.”
“All I see is downside, Airman.”
“We’ll just have to agree to disagree, Sarge.”
“That is not an option in the armed forces.”
“I had noticed. This whole scene is very hierarchical, man.”
…
“KP again, Sarge?”
“We agree on that, Airman.”
“How many drums are we taking on this tour, Mickey?”
“How many drums are there?”
“In the warehouse?”
“No. In existence.”
“A lot.”
“That many.”
“Gotcha, boss.”
“Precarious?”
“Sure?”
“Also bring anything even remotely drum-like.”
“Drum-like, gotcha.”
“And then fashion some objects that had not been drums, into drums.”
“Fashion, check.”
“And polish my crotch-horns.”
“Crotch. On it.”
Hey, Mickey. Is the drumstick–
“IT’S MY DONG!”
–your dong? Goddammit, Mickey: stop being weird.
“I’m happy!”
Well, that’s good. Tour is going well?
“I’m working twenty minutes a night and getting these enormous checks.”
That’s a “yes,” I take it.
“Hell, yeah. Rhythm Devils are back, baby. Know what me and Billy did the other night?”
Murdered someone?
“Not last night, the other night.”
No.
“We double-teamed a fox!”
Ew.
“Like the old days, man. We gave her a Holland Tunnel.”
…
“Gave her a Holland Tunnel.”
…
“Gave–
What’s a Holland Tunnel, Mickey?
“One side’s a lot smellier.”
We’re done.
I posted the photo of this the other day, so obviously all I’d like to discuss is Alex’s comment; here’s the best thing about it: that John Mayer is a cheesedick is not in question, just the size of his cheesedickery. It’s like he’s writing a mathematical proof and gave his axioms upfront.
Also: “L?” Is that acid? That’s a terrible name: L is a letter without any panache to it. X is percussive and sibilant and dangerous; H has a breathy cool to it. L just don’t make it. Plus, if you were an acid dealer and only called it L and wished to sell your product to folks from Japan, that drug deal would be racist.
Also also, were you aware that T dropped yo ass? I was not, but now am.
Also also also, does Young John Mayer love that van that much? Over a guitar, or a replica of one of his many watches? Wow.
Also also also also, that van has herpes.
Also etc., if you Photoshop the table and cakes out, then Bobby and John Mayer are karate-bowing to each other and about to karate-kick one another.
© 2026 Thoughts On The Dead
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments