Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: mickey hart (Page 6 of 71)

Final Four

December 31, 2018 / / 0 Comments

“I think we forgot to wear our Christmas outfits, Bill.”

“Mickey, my friend, Christmas is all about forgiving. No one will hold it against us, just let their aggravation flow from them like liquid mercury. Do you know we don’t use liquid mercury in thermometers any more? Poisonous as all get-out. We shouldn’t have been sticking it in our mouths and anuses. Bad societal decision, but we learn and progress.”

“Still, I feel bad. Maybe we could make it up to the team with a conciliatory drum circle?”

“Good idea. Absolutely. We had a regular circle when I played for Portland. Me, Maurice Lucas, Corky Calhoun, all the guys. We’d get into a groove with one another, and bring that groove out onto the court. Those were heady times in the Rose City.”

…

“Mickey, put the jersey back.”

“I yoinked it fair and square!”

“For the last time, the locker room is not a merch table.”

He’s Adopted

December 28, 2018 / / 1 Comment

“Now, Luke, how has the government shutdown affected the Lakers?”

“Not at all, Uncle Mickey.”

“That’s not why LeBron is sitting out?”

“No. He’s hurt. He strained his groin.”

“Oh, I used to do that all the time. Here’s the trick: you gotta pull the chick closer to you.”

“Gotcha.”

“OUTSTANDING!”

“Speaking of which, do the Laker Girls still have to sleep with Arsenio Hall?”

“I don’t know if they ever ‘had to,’ Uncle Mick.”

“Well, no one would want to. Guy had a head shaped like a rhombus.”

“Okay.”

“He was no Bobby.”

“FANTASTIC!”

“What about the Magic Circle?”

“The what?”

“Where the players circle up and pass the ball to each other in humorous ways.”

“That’s the Globetrotters, Uncle Mick.”

“You should get the Generals on your schedule. That’s a guaranteed win right there.”

“BOMBASTIC!”

“Is your dad just gonna keep yelling positive words?”

“Yeah. He gets caught in what he calls an ‘Enthusiasm Cycle.’ Sometimes it lasts a couple hours.”

“SUPERB!”

Jingle Ballers

December 25, 2018 / / 1 Comment

“Now, none of these men–”

“No one that you’re looking at is Branford Marsalis, Mick.”

“Okay.”

“These beautiful athletes before you are the cream of the crop, in terms of raw talent, work ethic, and Instagram followers. There’s a reason they call basketball the Sport of Kings. Also, one of the teams is named the Kings.”

“Gotcha. When’s the drum solo? Between the third and fourth quarters?”

“There is no multi-instrumentalist exploration into the fantastic world of rhythm that stretches back to our roots as humans, but there is a guy with a tee-shirt cannon.”

“Did you say free tee-shirts?”

“Mick, I’ll buy you any shirt you want.”

“I already yoinked the one I wanted! You made me put it back.”

“I did, yeah, because we were in the locker room and the shirt you yoinked was LeBron’s game jersey. Even if your kid’s the coach, you get tossed from the building for that kind of crap.”

“I liked that shirt. Anyway, who are these stripey fellows?”

“Those are the officials.”

“What do they do?”

“They officiate.”

“Which team are they on?”

“Whoever you’re rooting for, they’re on the other team.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“Basketball is both mind-meltingly complex and infantile in its simplicity. Much like the song Dark Star, the sport of basketball allows for an almost infinite amount of variation stemming from a limited set of rules.”

“Huh.”

“It’s a brain-fucker.”

“Sure. Do you see the Courvoisier guy?”

“There is no Courvoisier guy, Mick.”

“I thought you said we had good seats.”

Seven In 77

December 19, 2018 / / 8 Comments

Going generally counter-clockwise, but retaining the option to call an audible and double-back or skip around:

  • Is Keith staring Death in the eyes?
  • That’s the only explanation for that expression.
  • And he is about to spill his Fanta.
  • Keith Godchaux loved Fanta.
  • Mrs. Donna Jean, as always, has the best hair; if she were a collie, you would think her owner had been mixing raw eggs in with her kibble.
  • I bet Mrs. Donna Jean had all sorts of rules and schedules and protocols regarding her hair and its upkeep.
  • Shampoo once every this many days, and condition once every that many, and various calibers of comb and brush.
  • Plus assorted scarfs and babushkas for bad hair days.
  • Deadheads over the years have spread vile rumors about Mrs. Donna Jean regarding supposed assignations that were extramarital but intrabandial, and I find this low gossip intolerable and cruel.
  • But she definitely wasn’t banging Phil.
  • That is some rough body language there.
  • The longer you look, the more they hate each other.
  • The hips are the giveaway, but Mrs. Donna Jean’s lean–as if she’s italicizing herself–is the clincher; one will also note Phil’s posture, which can be described only as “surly.”
  • Everyone in the top row is happy not to be in the bottom row, because the bottom row is weird and unfun and Keith might have just pooped himself.
  • OF IMPORTANCE: Each of the non-Billy men in the top row has taken caution in re: getting their dicks punched, and punched hard.
  • Bobby’s elected to go all-in with the knee, while Mickey and Garcia have not only positioned their shoulders in front of Billy’s, relieving him of any leverage, but also have their free hands in dick-adjacent readiness.
  • The non-Billy men have done this unconsciously, by sheer muscle memory, as they have been in a band with Billy for 12 years now.
  • You live, you learn.
  • Speaking of Billy, this–long hair and mustache–was his best look.
  • Coming back from the Hiatus to ’77, I think.
  • He looked like a dog-track habitue.
  • Owned a dozen laundromats on the black side of town, racist as fuck, good tipper, got divorced more than he got married.
  • Had an Airedale terrier named Chico.
  • And finally: Being a Rock Star is a hoot most of the time, but you’re still gonna spend a lot of afternoons in rooms with folding chairs and bare lightbulbs.

They Is Who They Is

November 1, 2018 / / 8 Comments

Hey, guys. I had an idea. Why don’t you cover an album by a fictitious band? Like, you write a whole record’s worth of new material and pretend it came from another band. Maybe a comically foreign band, I don’t know. And then you seed the internet with information about the fictitious band to further the ruse. How about that?

“That sounds like a lotta work, man.”

“What are we, fuckin’ nerds?”

“Hmm. Interesting.”

“Tell me more about the drums.”

“I’m happy with whatever the decision is.”

“Look how handsome I am.”

You do look handsome, Bobby, but what do you think about the idea?

“Of being handsome? Thought quite a bit of it. Then, uh, I ran with it.”

Mickey Art

October 21, 2018 / / 3 Comments

Because of course I did, I went digging around in the innertubes to learn more about Mickey’s art hobby/scheme; what I found will astound you, if you’re not familiar with the well-worn trope of the Aging Rock Star. The ARS has taken up a habit other than, but just as pricey as drugs. The precise nature of the habit is variable. Too many to name chose golf. Some went with flying. Daltrey is obsessed with fishing. Phil Collins got really into the Alamo. (Not kidding.) And painting. Aging Rock Stars love to paint, and there’s always the same arc: interview in which the new interest is mentioned, article focused on the artwork, partnership with the Wentworth Gallery.

I’ll let the Wentworth Gallery explain itself:

No need to polish your glasses in an over-exaggerated and comic fashion: Yes, Virginia, the Wentworth Gallery just “also”-ed Picasso and Chagall.  Just look at this press release:

“The Wentworth Gallery is pleased to present such luminaries as Tony Curtis, John Wayne, John Wayne Bobbit, and the late Loretta Swit. We are also honored to feature the sculptures of Mr. Puttin’ On The Ritz himself, Taco, and have recently acquired a portrait of Soupy Sales, done in pencil, by Lita Ford. And there might be a Monet in back somewhere. Or is a Manet? One of those. French guy, dead, who gives a shit. Oh, we can also arrange for Bruce Dickinson to come to your home and paint a giant mural. Small caveat: Bruce gets to decide the topic, so it’s going to be about some battle that happened a billion years ago. Art!”

I’m just quoting. That formatting is called a “block-quote,” so therefore anything in there must be a quotation. They said that shit.

Stop it. That’s libel.

You’re awful fucking mouthy tonight, y’know that?

Wow.

Let a man do his work.

Jackass.

Anyway, the Wentworth Gallery is the upscale version of the store in the mall that sold the Leroy Nieman prints; their clientele is orthodontists who still rock, but they have to keep up their art world pretensions.–they can charge more if they’re snooty–and not list any of the prices on their site.

I was not to be so easily stymied.

So I googled it and found this site, but it didn’t have the prices, either, and I allowed myself to be stymied. But you haven’t seen the important part of this page.

Maybe you missed it.

I have so many questions.

  • Do Bobby and Garcia own an art gallery?
  • Why was I not informed of this?
  • Can you own an art gallery if you died in 1995?
  • Wouldn’t that be an impediment to small-business ownership?
  • Is Bobby painting now, too?
  • Bobby doesn’t do anything but play shows.
  • He has no outside interests.
  • He’s No Hobby Bobby.

Those last few weren’t questions.

I TOLD YOU TO FUCK OFF, FUCKFACE!

We’re going back to couples therapy.

Eat a goat’s grundle.

So: I leave it up to you, Enthusiasts. What the fuck is the Garcia Weir Gallery, and how much do Mickey’s paintings cost? I would look further, but am forbidden by the holy tenets of Without Research. You, however, are not; please do my homework for me. Thank you and buy American.

Mickelangelo

October 20, 2018 / / 1 Comment

Hey, Mickey.

“Where were you? I thought you would be at my clusterfuck.”

I drove by. You brought in a big crowd.

“It was spectacular. Met some randos. Talked about drums.”

You love that.

“I do. My favorite subject. And I sold six paintings.”

Good for you.

“Like this one.”

I see. Very nice.

“The one I’m gesturing towards.”

I am aware to what you refer.

“Would you like a short lecture on the history of the tympani?”

God, no. Hey, how much does your art cost?

“Depends on the size. The big things are more expensive than the small stuff. Although, I guess it works that way with everything. Except modelling. Your plus-size gals get paid less than the skinny bitches. Otherwise, price scales with mass.”

Uh-huh. What does the piece you’re gesturing at cost?

“Whatever you want it to cost. Above the reserve, of course.”

And what is the reserve?

“That depends on your budget. Have we discussed your budget?”

TELL ME HOW MUCH YOUR DRUMHEAD DOODLE IS!

“TELL ME WHAT YOU’RE WILLING TO PAY FOR IT!”

…

“It’s like you don’t understand the art world, man.”

I guess I don’t.

I Met Mickey!

October 20, 2018 / / 7 Comments

Look how happy Mickey looks to meet me! He said, “You’re TotD, whom the New Yorker called a genius,” and I said “Guilty as charged,” and Mickey said,” What?” because he’s deaf, and I said, “GUILTY–

Stop this immediately.

–AS CHARGED!” Dude, could you not interrupt in the middle of a quotation? I get all confused about how to punctuate the line breaks.

Your failure to pay attention in school is not my problem. That is not us.

No. It’s Mickey.

The other guy.

Oh. Yes, it is.

It’s totally not. We are not that ethnicity. And we’re six inches taller than that gentleman. And he’s wearing white jeans.

…

…

…

It me.

Shut the fuck up. Tell the nice people what happened.

I got there 45 minutes late.

Because you were busy?

I was napping.

Tell the nice people how long you napped for.

Solid 2.5 hours. The nap was so long that there was a bathroom break.

You’re a winner. You’re a driver.

Sure. So, like I said, I got there 45 minutes late. Y’know what’s lovely about Dead-related events? There’s always a guy outside having a smoke who’s delighted to play Help Desk. You see the guy, he’s wearing the shirt, you give him the nod, he nods back, and then he’ll tell you what’s going down. Just lovely.

Are you getting to a point?

Well, the guy told me it was crowded. And then I went in, and he was not lying.

So I bought a pair of Sperrys and went home.

You’re joking.

Of course. I’d rather chop off my feet than wear those preppy shoes.

You just went home?

I took several pictures first. I circumambulated–

Not a word.

–the line a few times. I tried to find a bench to stand on and get a good shot, but there were none with the right line of sight.

And then you went home? 

I’m not waiting in line to meet Mickey.

…

I can’t find a hole in that argument.

Right? I mean, I’m not waiting in line to meet anyone, but certainly not Mickey.

Again: no counter. Queuing up to pay obeisance to another human is a ritual only performed out of necessity.

There you go.

Anything interesting happen?

Axl and Slash were there.

Slash has put on weight in a rather gendered fashion.

Time hates the beautiful most of all.

The whole night was a bust, huh?

Big time.

The Pros And Cons Of Harthiking

October 18, 2018 / / 4 Comments

IN THE AFFIRMATIVE

Convenient Every town in South Florida is the same: massive east/west avenues radiating off I-95. They’re six and eight lanes wide and go from Ocean Drive to about ten miles inland, and then no humans live past there (mostly). The Boca mall is off the second giant avenue south of me. Plus, I could choose between the Turnpike, which is quick, or the surface streets, which contain Dunkin’ Donuts. I could even split the difference and take 441, a semi-highway–it has lights, but they’re spaced awfully far apart–that sounds familiar because Tom Petty mentions it in American Girl. There can be no argument made that the commute would be overwhelming.

Free One would assume. The price would be mentioned were there an entrance fee.

Free As in me. I am free tomorrow evening. I could try to high-karate you with some bullshit, but we both know I was gonna sit here fucking around.

Chick-fil-A Town Center of Boca Raton has a Chick-fil-A in their food court and each time I visit I tell myself, “TotD, be an ally. Have principles,” and then I tell the immaculately friendly cashier, “I would like a chicken sammitch and some o’ them fries what make my nipples go ping.” BUT I only ever go to the one at Town Center; I won’t stop the car if I drive by one. This is called morality, Enthusiasts.

(Town Center of Boca Raton is never called “the Boca mall.” Its fine selection of high-end goods and services–plus The Container Store–is solely referred to as Town Center. It’s the kind of mall where you can buy a Tesla, and there’s no Israeli guys hocking you to buy phone cases. My mall situation currently mirrors my childhood: the one in my town used to be nice, but now it’s just Macy’s and gang fights; the one two towns over is for rich assholes; and 45 minutes away is a flea market packed with mutants and merchandise from alternate dimensions. Needless to say, I like the flea market the best. Remind me to tell you about it; the place is Little Aleppo-adjacent.)

Mallwalk I don’t go to malls often, but when I do I like to get real high and put in my earphones and pretend I’m in the opening credits of a movie. Bitches Brew is rather effective, or heavy German classical. I used to live in the Back Bay of Boston. I was off Newbury and a girl I was dating lived by the South End T station; in between us was Copley Place, where the fancy fuckers shopped. They kept the thoroughfare open late at night during the winter so people could get out of the cold, but didn’t want anyone lingering so they also pumped titanically Teutonic tunes at high volume. Music to surf this beach to; music to kill wabbits by. I remember the trips to her apartment, but I can’t recall her name.

Mickey I have to put “meeting Mickey” in the positive column, right? We could–and I understand that this is an unlikely scenario–become best friends. Mickey could invite me to his campaign in Hispania and ask me about drums, and life, and how drumming is life, and I would impress hium with my keen mind and grasp of Roman politics, and then Mickey could posthumously make me his heir and leave everything to me, throwing the city into chaos and yet another civil war.

You’re talking about Caesar and Octavian. You need to stop watching terrible documentaries about the Roman Empire.

You will pry Mary Beard out of my cold, dead asshole.

Just continue.

Mickey and me would be bros. The end.

TO THE DEROGATIVE

Mickey We all know Mickey. He’s a squirrelly dude. Might go left, could go right, no wait he’s caused a flood. What if Mickey bites me? I’m not accusing him of being a biter; there are no stories I know of offhand of him chomping on, say, waitresses who bring him white toast instead of rye. But life is a series of premieres. And what if Mickey picks tomorrow to initiate the new phase in his journey: munching randos. Don’t forget that, to Mickey, I am a rando. He does not have to afford me the courtesies of xenia, and offer me fine cuts of meat and wine-laden bowls. I will not be anointed with oils by his slaves. There will be no friendship gifts at all.

And Ancient Greece. You need to stop watching terrible documentaries about the entire classical world.

You’re not the Teevee Police.

Don’t capitalize like that.

I’m continuing.

House To attend this event, I would need to leave the house. The word “trauma” gets thrown around these days, but it’s applicable here.

Circle It’s Mickey. There’s gonna be a fucking drum circle. No border collie in the world can herd people into a circle as fast as Mickey with a boxful of bongos. Some of you may enjoy encirclating; TotD does not, possibly due to being an anti-social asshole.

I should go, right?

You should go.

You should blow a duck.

Shut up.

Go suck a duck’s rocket-propelled, corkscrew nightmare of a dick.

No one likes you.

I know.

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