Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: mickey hart (Page 7 of 71)

Democracy Inaction

September 16, 2018 / / 1 Comment

You don’t vote.

“I’ve tried! Three or four times a year, I’ll give it a go. I usually get thrown out of the post office.”

Sounds right. How do you decide who you’re going to vote for?

“Whoever reminds me the most of a drum.”

Yup.

“That’s why I went for Gary Johnson last election. Man’s the spitting image of a concert snare.”

And about as smart.

“Can’t be worse than what we’ve for now, right?”

Mickey, you would be better than what we’ve got now and you’re a deaf, drunken maniac who would turn the Treaty Room into a drum circle.

“And I smoke pot.”

Right.

Overture

September 11, 2018 / / 4 Comments

Topics That Will NOT Be Covered This Evening:

  • 9/11. You want 9/11? Buzzfeed has a list of 23 Funniest 9/11 Tweets By Asian Women. I’m not doing it this year.
  • The American-led Pinochet coup of 1973.
  • Norm MacDonald and his slow-talking bullshit.
  • The Avital Ronell sexual harassment case.
  • Wombats and their dodecahedral assholes.

Topics That MAY Be Covered This Evening:

  • The Catalonian independence movement.
  • Mickey’s birthday.
  • How shitty the Egypt shows were and how apoplectic I’ll be if they get re-released instead of shows that, you know, sound good.
  • Bobby’s fascination with, and possibly lust for, Herbie Hancock’s keytar.
  •  The history of Idaho.
  • Sheila and Tiresias’ adventures in Los Angeles.

Topics That WILL Be Covered This Evening:

I Think Stock Would

August 16, 2018 / / 11 Comments

My father said he was at Woodstock, but he also said he was at Game 5 of the ’69 World Series where the Mets beat the Orioles; my dad said a lot of things.

OR

This is one of not-very-many photos of the Dead playing Ol’ Man Yazgur’s farm on this date 49 years ago, and holy shit is next year’s 50th anniversary gonna be annoying. Get ready for a lot of interviews with Country Joe and/or the Fish.

OR

Woodstock wasn’t Curveball. There was no glamping section, as the portmanteau had not yet been invented, nor was there a free-form radio station broadcasting from the site over multiple media. No webcast, ATMs, sculpture gardens, or pop-up general stores. Also, there was no water, food, or medical staff. It was just a fucking field and no one was in charge and it’s astonishing that everyone didn’t die of cholera. The past was terrible.

OR

“Billy.”

OR

The problems began with the stage. The production crew had built a circular contraption; instead of having to strike and reset the gear in between each band, one could play out front with the roadies set up the next group backstage. When it came time to switch acts, the stage would rotate 180 degrees. Repeat until Jimi Hendrix.

Except, of course, the Grateful Dead brought every amplifier in the world and the back half of the round stage sunk two feet into the mud. Which meant the production crew had to strike and reset the gear. This resulted in a delay of around an hour.

Then came the rain, which wouldn’t have been such a hassle had most of the band not had electrical equipment strapped to their chests. Or literally anything been grounded properly.

And the wind, which–again–wouldn’t have been a big deal had the Dead not strung up a giant sheet behind them for the light show. A giant sheet, Enthusiasts will realize, is also called a “sail.” The stage threatened to tip over before Parish and Ramrod clambered up, Captain Blood-like, to shred the canvas with their knives.

Also, their sound man was the Most Famous Drug Dealer In America, so they were way too fucking high.

OR

Speaking of knives: What the fuck, Mickey?

OR

I’d link their set, but they played Lovelight for 45 minutes and I’m not rewarding that behavior. 45-minute Dark Star? Yes, please. 45-minute Other One? This gives the Deadhead a boner. 45-minute Lovelight? Why do you hate America?

Here’s the only worthwhile performance from that muddy self-suck:

He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Percussionist

July 15, 2018 / / 3 Comments

“Billy?”

“Yeah, New Brent?”

“I think Mickey fell asleep on me.”

“He’s been doing that lately. Bad case of CIN.”

“CIN?”

“Courvousier-Induced Narcolepsy. I keep telling him to switch to a lighter liqueur.”

“How long is he gonna be out for?”

“Anyone’s guess. Sometimes, it’s seconds. Other times, he’s done for the evening. Never know with Mickey. Or with Courvousier. Lotta variables at play here.”

“Can you get a roadie or something? He’s heavy.”

“Wait til he starts pissing himself.”

“What?”

DRUMMER WALKING AWAY NOISE

“Billy?”

…

“Bobby?”

…

“Oteil? Anyone?”

A Sisterly Chat

July 12, 2018 / / 2 Comments

“Annabelle?”

“Yes, Trixie?”

“Is he asleep?”

“I think so.”

“Because he’s got, like, all of his weight on my shoulders.”

“I know where you’re coming from. My boat is leaking in the same way. Lemme check.”

PERCUSSIONIST-NUDGING NOISE

“Nah, he’s out.”

“Breathing, right?”

…

“Yeah.”

“Oh, good. We could–and this is just a suggestion–flip him backwards over the railing and let him be someone else’s problem.”

“Trixie, most of the world’s ills have been caused by letting Mickey Hart be someone else’s problem.”

“Well, he’s heavier than he looks.”

“Let’s walk him around town and buy stuff with his credit card.”

“You’re suggesting we pull a Weekend at Bernie’s?”

“I am, yeah.”

“I can’t carry him. If we find a wheelchair, then I’m in.”

“Did you see Babbs?”

“Holy shit, yeah. Does Mom look that old? Because Mom’s that old, but I don’t think she looks that old.”

“Mom doesn’t look that old.”

“Are you the one farting like that?”

“What? No.”

GUITARIST’S DAUGHTER SNIFFING NOISE

“That’s clearly Mickey. You can still smell the Courvoisier.”

“He loves that shit. It’s so terrible.”

“Tastes like someone bottled a dead monkey. What is John Mayer wearing?”

“It’s called streetwear.”

“I have no idea what that means. Like, not pajamas? You can wear all clothes out into the street. It’s kinda the point of clothes.”

“He’s a hypebeast.”

“Trixie.”

“He kicks it normcore.”

“Trixie. Shit! Trixie!”

PERCUSSIONIST RELIEVING HIMSELF NOISE

“Oh, c’mon, Mickey!”

“Down.”

“Just lay him on the ground.”

Where The Oceana Breezes Blow

July 11, 2018 / / 9 Comments

Jeff Chimenti is whispering to Billy, “Sun’s going down, big guy. You’re getting real tired.”

OR

Is that a Real Housewife? If so, from which program/location? Whose flag does this Real Housewife pose under?

OR

When Josh stands in the middle, he looks like he’s the tall candle in a menorah.

OR

Mickey is befuddled; he has been thoroughly fuddled. Mickey has gone through the process of fuddling.

OR

Josh.

“Don’t call me that in front of the band.”

They’re the ones who called you that in the first place.

“What?”

You grabbing ass?

“No.”

Dude.

“No.”

Duuuuuuude.

“No.”

…

…

…

Dude.

“I’m grabbing ass.”

I knew it! I knew it, you grabasstic sumbitch!

“When you’re famous, they just let you do it.”

There’s my guy.

OR

Is there a wind machine? This is a fancy party, indeed, if there’s a wind machine on the blue carpet. (Blue for the oceans. Nowadays, the red carpet can be whatever color you want it to be, which I despise. A blue red carpet is self-contradictory, like vegan beef jerky. We don’t need forced diversity in carpets, Hollywood.)

OR

Bobby?

“Yuh-huh?”

You furious?

“Yuh-huh.”

Any reason?

“I’ll kill you, boy.”

All right, then. But what about here?

“I’m in a better mood here.”

Looks like it. What was all that before about? You frightened me, Bobert Weir.

“God bless ’em, but the randos get to you. 53 years of randos. Y’know, think about it: who in show business has been exposed to more rand than me? Maybe Duke Ellington. He, uh, played until he was 106 years old.”

Not true.

“His trombonist was 98. He could still blow.”

You are exaggerating.

“Okay, fine, yes. Get, uh, get the musicians off the greens, please. And, uh, bring Mr. Gleason another carton of Pall Malls.”

“Kind of you, Mr. President. I were you? I would’ve shot those hippies.”

“Y’know, Gleason, you’re right. Bebe? Where’s Bebe? Someone get Rebozo and tell him to bring his pistols.”

Excuse me. Excuse me, President Nixon. Mr. Gleason. What is going on here?

“You, uh, couldn’t come up with an ending to the post.”

“Terrible. You’ll never make it in show biz, kid.”

She And Her Uncle

July 3, 2018 / / 0 Comments

“You’ll need to speak up.”

“I didn’t say anything yet, Uncle Mickey.”

“But when you do, you’ll need to speak far louder than you thought necessary.”

“How deaf are you?”

“Dalmatian. Maybe someone who lived through the mumps. If this were a hundred years ago, I’d have a giant tin horn sticking out of my ear.”

“Wow. What’s the last thing you remember hearing clearly?”

“Queen Latifah’s talk show.”

“You’re a fan?”

“Love the Latif. She just gets it.”

“Have you considered hearing aids?”

“No, I wear condoms.”

“Not AIDS, Uncle Mickey. Hearing aids. In your ears.”

“Trixie, I don’t want AIDS in my ears. Why are you offering that to me? Is that a Millennial thing?”

“I’m not a Millennial. I’m technically Generation X.”

“What did you guys do?”

“Nothing good.”

Remembrance Of Drumz Past

June 12, 2018 / / 1 Comment

“Hey, Mick, you remember when it was just two drum kits and we had to share a microphone?”

“Not really, no.”

“Okay. You remember when we put the Beast together and Phil threw a hissy fit?”

“Oh, that sounds fun. But I don’t remember that.”

“What about your children? Do you remember your children?”

“Just gimme a little clue. How many are there?”

“Two? Three?”

“Do any of them ambush pizza delivery guys and make the food cold?”

“That’s the Noid, Mickey.”

“Then I do not recall any of my children.”

“What’s the last thing you remember, Mick?”

“Asking you if my children ambush pizza delivery guys.”

“Just play your drums, buddy.”

“I love drums.”

In Which Billy Learns A New Word

May 21, 2018 / / 1 Comment

“Hey, Ass! Where’s Fucky?”

Fucky?

“Ding Dong Doodle.”

Who?

“Mister Clothes.”

Oh, Josh. I have no idea. Has he still not shown up for rehearsal?

“Nah, and my accountant’s getting worried.”

Not you, though?

“Nah, fuck him. But he’s gotta be here for us to get paid. It’s in the contract.”

You read the contract?

“I shoved it in a chick that works at a Dollar Store. Same thing, legally.”

I’m not a lawyer, so I can’t refute that.

“Seriously, where is the kid? At least when we used to go missing, we had good reasons.”

Such as?

“Rehab. Jail. Had a fight with the keyboardist and got on a plane 15 minutes before the show started.”

Right.

“What’s he doing?”

Twinks, I think.

“Twinks? Is that like Fortnite?”

No. They’re kinda like skank. But with dicks.

“Hey, some skank has dicks. They should tell you upfront, but they don’t. Some guys freak out, but not me.”

Because you’re open-minded?

“Shit, no. Because I flip ’em over and do my work in the backyard.”

Always a pleasure, Billy.

“I’M DRUMMING!”

You, too, Mick.

A Song Of Ice And Fire On The Mountain

April 26, 2018 / / 7 Comments

Jeff Chimenti looks terrible.

OR

Did Billy’s shirt stop rendering at his nipples?

OR

Either the rest of Dead & Company needs platform shoes, or we have to cut off Josh’s feet. This is just unaesthetic.

OR

Get yourself a big-boy pair of suspenders, Mork.

OR

“LITTLE POTATO! THAT MAN STOLE MY DRAGONS!”

“Jesus, ‘Ye, not now.”

“MY DRAGONS ARE THIS BIG.”

“Wouldn’t that make them just lizards?”

“DO NOT QUESTION MY SKILLS AT HERPETOLOGY, LITTLE POTATO!”

“I do not want to be called that.”

“PRESIDENT TRUMP SHOULD PUT ME IN CHARGE OF THE VA. I WILL HELP THE SOLDIERS WITH MY FREETHINKING AND DOPENESS!”

“Why hasn’t Kim had you tranked yet?”

“MY BODY REJECTS THE POTIONS!”

“I completely believe that.”

“TELL FATTY TO WRITE FASTER!”

“I’m not gonna do that.”

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