The youngsters have a phrase, and it is perfect and true: I can’t even with this.
First off, the guy in back has invented photo-bombing. This was 1988: he really might have been the first guy. Sadly, he is not Billy.
Let’s get this out of the way: Fucking bangs, Mickey? You’re a grown-ass man.
Are there more photos of Mickey wearing a Dead shirt or Garcia smoking? Wearing Dead shirts (or hoodies or fleeces or branded bike shorts or his limited-edition Stealie-engraved cockfighter’s referee outfit†) is Mickey’s punching dicks: it’s the thing he does besides drumming or quitting the band or starting fistfights in hotel fitness centers.
Though a fastidiously hygienic man, Mickey dreaded showers, simply for the time that he was momentarily without a piece of Dead paraphernalia on. Sure, he leapt into the towel monogrammed in Alton Kelly’s font that was so psychedelic you couldn’t tell who the damned thing belonged to, but Mickey liked to scrub up good and Mickey followed directions, so he would lather, then he would rinse, then he would do it again, with feeling. It took a while in there, is the point.
The Dead weren’t tattoo guys, but I’d lay good money that Mickey’s got a lightning bolt on his ass.
†Mickey does not participate in cockfighting, nor does he condone it in any way; he merely thinks the outfit emphasizes his trouser triangle and that’s good enough for Mickey.
*This is, hands-down, the worst title I’ve come up with. When it came to me, I let out a small, involuntary ‘oof’ from its shittiness.