Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: mickey hart (Page 37 of 71)

Status Update

June 25, 2015 / / 0 Comments

dead stage
STAGE: Getting there, and would get there a lot sooner if Precarious Lee hadn’t started communing with Bear’s spirit and tried to rewire the mixing board with a hammer.

BOBBY: Relaxed, doing yoga, letting out yoga farts, hanging out with the dogs.

BILLY: Bored, antsy, regretful about Benjy Eisen’s tragic death, sending hookers to Bruce Hornsby’s room.

PHIL: Yelling at Peter Shapiro, the internet, Mickey, and Jeff Chimenti. Also binge-watching Orange is the New Black.

MICKEY: Arguing with contractors about the new closet he’s going to add to fit the three tons of free t-shirts he’s picking up the next two weeks.

PETER SHAPIRO: Being yelled at by Phil, remembering what someone wrote about meeting your heroes, paying off angry hookers Billy sent to Bruce Hornsby’s room.

BENJY EISEN: Dead.

GARCIA: Also dead.

TREY ANASTASIO: Nervous and scared, but mixed with excitement. Like 90% excitement, and 10% nervous and scared? Hanging out in his hotel room playing the Laser Duck and listening to all the screaming going on in the hall.

THE DEADHEADS: Gathering as we speak.

THE GATE: Being counted, laundered, turned into krugerrands, and flown to the Cayman Islands as we speak.

BRUCE HORNSBY: Being beaten with a shoe by a hooker named Flaflonda, hating Billy.

JEFF CHIMENTI: On-time, sober, and prepared for whatever opportunities you choose to include him in, thank you.

 

 

Today In Grateful Dead Bullshit

June 8, 2015 / / 0 Comments

In a sad, see-through, and destined-to-go-sideways attempt to be helpful, TotD presents a one-time feature: What’s Everybody Bitching About Now? This shall be prefaced by another singular event entitled And Where They At?

Here’s what we know at around 7 PM, June 8th, 2015:

Everyone’s played their last gig, or in the case of Billy, had anal sex with his last bookstore employee. Bobby and Phil played last night at their* respective restaurants. Bobby had custody of Jeff Chimenti for the evening and Steve Kimock showed up; Phil was surrounded by mammals, as well. There were webcasts of both shows, but you had to shell out seven bucks for Phil’s and that’s all I have to say about that.

Billy has come off the road, washed the skank off his potato salad, and sent Benjy down to Little Aleppo for the most Hawaiian shirts ever made. (In what was a lovely gesture, Benjy offered Billy the use of his (Benjy’s) apartment, but Billy had specifically inserted into the contracts “I get to stay where the Pope stays,” so Billy’s got a place to crash.)

Mickey has posted yet another picture of this fucking thing:

mickey yam drumsPreviously, we had seen the yams Mickey planned to bang on while everyone else sat down for a while, but we now learn that there are technicians for the yams.

The gourds have their own roadies; some things are still just exactly perfect.

Now: Who’s Got Beef?

Grateful Dean got beef. He says things! and stuff! and other things that, to be honest, I could not follow. There are shenanigans afoot, and trouble ahead – he’s been taken aback!

If you can’t expect straight-shooting from a concert promoter who used to own a bowling alley, then what’s this world coming to?

Washington Post got beef, or at least tries to explain various beefs and levels of beefery. Will there be litigation? A class-action suit on behalf of people who couldn’t get quite as close to the stage as they desired? Did folks want to smell the band?

Old balls and good pot. The Grateful Dead smells like old balls and good pot. Now suck it up and sit in the damn loge.

Bill Walton got beef, in that he is planning to kidnap the surviving members of the Dead and force them to play in his basement.

Bring no vegans: there is beef here.

* Does Bobby own Sweetwater or not? He has to own a piece of it, at least, just from his bar tab.

Quicklime, Quick!

June 7, 2015 / / 0 Comments

billy mickey recent“Mickey, how are ya, brother?”

“Good, Bill.”

“You got a shovel?”

…

“Aw, ya killed Benjy already?”

“Little bit.”

“Jackass.”

“He mad-dogged me?”

“He mad-dogged ya, Bill?”

“What I said.”

“Then, you was in the right.”

“I had the full weight and backing of both God’s and man’s law behind me.”

“Essence o’ fuckin’ freedom right there, friend. Some Jewboy gonna mad-dog you, ‘spect ta walk away, see his Jew fambly?”

“That must be duck shit right there, cuz it can go take a flying fuck, y’unnerstand?”

…

“Are we Southern or Old Western?”

“Don’t rightly know, cuz.”

“You did kill Benjy, though?”

“I did, yes.”

“Oh.”

Ocean’s (The) Eleven VI

May 20, 2015 / / 0 Comments

SAN RAFAEL, CALIFORNIA

“Billy, why did we fly from Phil’s house to Front Street?”

“Y’know, Mick: ya bitch about flying the plane, ya bitch about not flying the plane.”

“Jeez, man.”

The Dead’s storage/rehearsal/hangout/pop-up Korean restaurant had been configured in a life-size replica of the Donley Auctions warehouse. Grateful Deads and semi-Grateful Deads wandered around. As always, there were dogs and naked children underfoot. (The Grateful Dead’s children are now mostly middle-aged themselves, but they like to keep to tradition and do the tushee dance three feet away from speakers. Mostly Justin.)

“Harrumph.”

Everyone came to the conference table and sat down except Keith, who was curled up in the corner clutching a bottle of Boone’s Farm (strawberry) that he had attempted to vomit in, but failed miserably and so now was covered in his own sick, which Otis was licking off.

Everyone was fine with Keith not being at the table.

“Gentlemen, Mrs. Donna Jean, Ned Lagin,” Billy said. “This is the plan.”

He told them the plan.

The Grateful Deads at the table erupted into 18 different arguments, questions, ejaculations, interrogatives, accusations, paranoid ramblings, harmonica solos (Pig), racist jokes (Billy), and demands for more money (everyone.)

“How do we get past the dogs?”

“Can I shimmy through the laser defenses in a seductive and buttock-highlighting fashion?”

“I’m assuming there will be a musical number or two, right?”

“Can we all wear tactical gear?”

“Can I just wear a black t-shirt and sweatpants?”

“Can someone separate those two?”

That was in reference to Otis and Keith. Keith had puked up a semi-intact pill up–a little gooey, but good–and Otis started to eat it. Keith tried to grab the sucker out of Otis’ mouth, but Siberian Huskies generally don’t but up with that sort of thing from people they like, so Otis bit Keith and Keith sloppily swung at Otis; it was getting stupid.

“This is the plan, folks. You don’t like it? You can walk, but if you’re in, then you’re in. There might be danger. People may die, but I guarantee one thing: you–

HHGBNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR

The loading bay’s big garage door opened and a dirty van backed in. Ramrod and Parish got out.

“Hey, guys: terrible timing.”

The roadies opened the van doors and removed a large painting, some smaller prints; about $75 grand worth of memorabilia.

“We got that shit for you.”

“What the fuck, assholes?”

“What? You said you wanted this shit.”

“I said,” Billy said, “that I wanted to heist it. I had a plan, and we were all back together, and Mickey had some purpose.”

“I fly the plane.”

“You guys ruined it.”

“Billy, you’re a pain-in-the-ass. What if we put it all back, and you could steal it then?”

“No. It’s ruined. It was gonna be fun and now it sucks.”

“I’m still having fun.”

“Mickey, I am this close with you, buddy.”

Ocean’s (The) Eleven V

May 20, 2015 / / 0 Comments

MARIN COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

“Oh, fuck you,” Phil said, and slammed the door. “Jill! It’s here!”

“At the door?”

“Yes!”

“Release the hounds,” Jill yelled down the stairs.

“We have an arthritic sheepdog, honey.”

“Then release Peter Shapiro.”

“I already did. Billy’s got one of his own, now. They fought and they’re both dead.”

…

“Isn’t that just like him? You write a book; he writes a book. You get a Jew; he gets a Jew. Fuck him.”

“Okay, honey.”

Outside the door, Billy had taken the rejection well, allowing the other members of the Dead to tackle him before shooting at the door with the pistol no one knew he was carrying.

“Gimme that,” Garcia said, and wandered away.

“C’mon, Bill,” Bobby said as he tried to hold the drummer–thrashing with rage–to the ground. This destroyed the Bougainvillea.

“Bill! Bill! Think of the music.”

“I’ll kill the motherfucker!”

“Think of your friendship.”

“He’s a dead man!”

“Bill: think of the money!”

The door opened.

“There’s money” Phil asked.

Jill poked her head out the door. “Did someone say money?”

FIVE MILES ABOVE MARIN COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

“Just a few more stops, Mick.”

“Am I going to get anything to do in this–”

“Dude, Mickey, Dude: shut the fuck up and fly the plane.”

…

“Jeez, man.”

“Well, sorry, man – but, this next part’s tricky.”

Ocean’s (The) Eleven IV

May 19, 2015 / / 0 Comments

DUGWAY PROVING GROUND, UTAH

Billy and Bobby wore Army uniforms of poor fit and suspicious sourcing; also, they were passing a joint back and forth. On most bases, this would get a visit from the MP’s, but this was Area 53: where they kept the scary shit.

(Everything had been moved out of Area 51 in the 90’s; Area 52 was eaten by a technovirus from three dimensions over.)

The whole place looked like the cantina scene: Cat People from Felis IV, throneworld to the Felis Empire, arguing with the soda machine; several draculas and werewolfs; tribbles everywhere.

Their faked IDs had gotten them as far as the main door, but that was it: from here, they would need help.

The guard couldn’t have been 20 years old.

“ID, please.”

“Of course,” Billy said, as he laid a battered tweed briefcase on the table.

Click click.

People don’t understand infinity, mostly because people can’t understand infinity. People can understand a dozen. Three hundred. 65,000 – easy, that’s a football stadium. But people can’t understand infinity. Mostly because they think it’s a number like 12 or 300 or 65,000.

Infinity isn’t big. It simply is. Everything’s there including the stuff that isn’t. So, for example, if a well-intentioned and honest guard at a top-secret military base asked a devious and scrapulous drummer from a semi-defunct choogly-type bad for ID, then that ID would be found within a space of infinite holding containing infinite stuff.

This was the nature of Garcia’s Briefcase of Infinite Felonies.

Then, of course, there was the other nature of Garcia’s BIF: much like Borges’ library, when everything exists, nothing can be found. Garcia had been meaning to catalog the Briefcase, or have someone do it for him, but never got around to it. The only thing that stood a chance of finding anything was, say, some sort of super-intelligent sentient AI.

Which the Dead also had.

MARIN COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

“Hey, Wally.”

DO NOT CALL ME THAT.

“Get in the Briefcase and hand me shit when I need it. I’ll explain later.”

I DO NOT SEE HOW THAT IS POSSIBLE. I AM MUCH LARGER THAN–

“In ya go!”

ShhhhhhhhhhhhPLORF

“Pay attention and don’t fuck up.”

I REGRET GAINING SENTIENCE.

“Ahh, join the club.”

DUGWAY PROVING GROUND, UTAH

Billy pulled two sets of ID’s from the case, along with papers allowing him and Bobby to see The Specimen. Everything was very official.

The guard saluted. Bobby gave him the double-guns; Billy advised him not to fuck any wooden nickels.

“Billy?”

“Yeah, Bob?”

“We’ve got an object that contains everything, right?”

“I’m carrying it.”

“Uh-huh. And a sentient AI supercomputer that not only doesn’t want to destroy all humans, but does kind of like us and find us amusing and enjoys participating in our schemes, right?”

“Yeah: Wally.”

DON’T CALL ME THAT.

“Oh, and we also have a time machine.”

“Yes, we do.”

“So, why are we heisting anything?”

“Why do anything?”

…

“Okay, yeah.”

“Bob?”

“Yeah, Bill?”

“Let’s not ask that sort of question anymore, huh?”

“Sure, Bill.”

The elevator doors opened and Bobby and Billy stepped out into a chamber the size of an airplane hangar. Dead center, suspended halfway between the floor and ceiling was a see-through Winnebago. As you might suspect, everything was made of plastic.

It was empty. No one home.

They wandered around the huge room for a while: Bobby just kind of walked in circles and then started doing push ups; Billy really looked, but then got hungry and asked the Briefcase for some Swedish Fish and got in a fight with the Wall about whether or not he needed them.

“Guys?”

It was Garcia. He was leaning his head out a doorway on the far side of the room. Billy and Bobby walked over.

“Hey, man.”

“Big guy!”

“Aw, what the fuck? Did they grab you guys, too? Shit, man.”

“Grab us? Shit, no.”

“We’re rescuing you.”

…

“Oh. Actually: I’m all right here. Thanks, though.”

Garcia pulled his head back in the door and shut it.

“Godammit.”

“Bill, I got this. Gimme the Briefcase.

Bobby knocked. Garcia answered.

“Ooh, my Briefcase.”

FIVE MILES ABOVE THE NOW-ON-FIRE DUGWAY PROVING GROUND, UTAH

“You guys are assholes. I liked it there. There was cake.”

Mickey and Billy were in the front seats.

“So, am I just not going to be in this thing at all?”

“Mickey, you’re flying the plane. That’s an important job. That’s a Core Four job, buddy.”

“Bite me.”

Bobby poked his head in.

“Where now?”

“Toughest part.”

Billy pointed at a map.

“Godammit.”

Ocean’s (The) Eleven II

May 18, 2015 / / 0 Comments

THE OUTBACK, AUSTRALIA

Billy has been wandering for three weeks, so far beyond just being plain-old lost that he had forgotten where he was going, where he came from, and most of his baseball trivia. There was no more water, and he had eaten Benjy Eisen. (He’ll probably come back, don’t worry.)

Then he heard it: a strange, but beguiling rhythm bristling past the scrubby trees and gnarly, mean root-plants. Ya-BADDA-badda-bey, Ya-badda-BEY. Over and over, only the subtlest of variation, but recognizable to Billy.

“Mickey! Mickey!”

Black.

“Billy, can you hear me? Billy, can you hear me?”

“Mickey! Oh, Mickey, thank god you saved me. This place is fucking awful! Who the fuck would live here? Gotta be a complete reta–”

There were many Aboriginal men standing around and over Billy, who was weakened from his journey, so he reconsidered the rest of his sentence.

“–ahh, um. G’day, mates! Throw a shrimp on the barbie!”

The Aboriginal men muttered the Aboriginal word for “asshole” and walked away.

“Hey, buddy.”

“Hey, Mick. Thanks for saving my life: I was all out of Benjy.”

“What?”

“Nothing. What are you doing here?”

“I came to this magical place to learn the Songlines, and to drum my way into the Dreamtime.”

“Uh-huh. What does that mean?”

“Long and politically correct version, or short and just-plain-correct?”

“Number two.”

“It’s bullshit. Every group of savages has some bullshit. Savages in Rome thought up a lot of bullshit. Greeks had some. Chinese got bullshit we never even heard of. Africa: different bullshit every ten miles. Ton of bullshit in Africa.”

“Lucky America is better than that.”

“Sure: we believe in capitalism and democracy. Not bullshit.”

“Silly savages and their bullshit.”

“So: Dreamtime is kinda animism mixed with choosing a mascot, but the thing is that the term “dreamtime” is some Oxford professor’s interpretation of the Aboriginal term and I’m getting a feeling their whole relationship with reality is untranslatable.”

“Mick?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have any idea what these folks are talking about?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re talking about?”

“Not really.”

“”I’m getting the crew back together. There’s a job.”

“A heist! We’re back in the heisting business!?!”

…

“Please don’t yell that.”

“We’re in the Outback surrounded by Arborigines.”

“It’s just a bad habit to get into, dontcha think?

“Fine.”

“Okay. Can we leave?”

“I have a plane.”

Billy and Mickey thanked the Aborigines for their hospitality, which had mainly consisted of offering them fried witchetty grubs and not stabbing them. They exited the structure. Maybe a Hogan? Longhouse? One of those tiny houses?

(I did not do the reading.)

The plane taxied down the blasted flat they were using as a runway. It turned around and came back; Billy got out, and ran back inside; punched all the dicks; back in and takeoff.

“Mick?”

“Yeah?”

“When did you learn how to fly a plane?”

“the Aborigines taught me.”

“The ones that ate the grubs?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Billy pointed at a spot on the map.

“Here.”

Mickeys All The Way Down

May 17, 2015 / / 0 Comments

IMG_1596Hey, Mickey. So did you…um…what are you wearing?

“Free t-shirt. You see that big superhero picture? Great stuff.”

I wanna talk about your shirt.

“There was Captain Pajamas, and Mister Fister, and the Sasstronaut, the Imperturbable Skrank, and the Fulminator.”

No. None of that. Also: your shirt; let’s discuss it.

“They fought for justice or something, and they went to the gym. I know Metal Face. Downey, the Downey kid.”

Iron Man. And, yeah?

“Sure. If you did enough cocaine in the 80’s, you’d meet the Dead eventually.”

What was he like back then?

“All he did was talk and fuck.”

Sounds right.

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