Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: mickey hart (page 4 of 62)


  • This guy?
  • This guy right here?
  • This fucking guy right here?
  • Have you read Senator Franken’s new book Al Franken, Giant of the Senate? (You should; I just did. Here’s my review: if you’re going to buy it, then do so via that link, as I get a percentage. That was my review of Al Franken, Giant of the Senate.)
  • Did Mickey come directly from the cruise?
  • What’s in Bobby’s pocket? (Vape pen, backup vape pen, $1200 in cash, vegan rabbit’s foot keychain, bottle of Fret-Eeze.)
  • Would you like to see a larger version of the painting of John C. Calhoun behind them?
  • He looks mean as shit, doesn’t he?
  • I wonder if he treated his slaves well?
  • How many Senators would own slaves now if they could? (Definitely not Al Franken, I think we can assume that. Not that it would be a straight ticket, either: mostly, it would be Republicans, but I think Pelosi would buy her household staff if she could. Just to make taxes easier.)

A Never-Before Seen Publicity Photo Of The Grateful Dead In 1977

That look on Bobby’s face? That’s the look you get when Bono starts talking to you.


That’s Dick Durbin from Illinois on the left, and Patrick Leahy is next to Mickey, but does anyone know who the tall lady and the round man are?


“Bob. Can I call ya Bob?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Otherwise, you know, I won’t know I’m part of the conversation.”

“Bob, what d’ya know about African debt?”

“Just what I hear on the radio.”

“Tremendous problem in th’ Third World.”

“Y’know, when I have money troubles, I do a tour and get a new business manager. Has, uh, Africa considered that?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Always worked for me.”

“Bob, there’s one more wee matter.”


“Can you get John Mayer to stop trying to join U2?”


“Tall kid, wears clothes.”

“Oh, Josh. He doing that to you, too?”

“No, U2.”

“We’re both correct here.”

“Bob, it’s got to stop. The Edge is gonna punch him.”

“You really call him that?”

“The Edge? Of course.”


“Okee-doke. I’m gonna talk to anyone else.”


Durbin’s shitfaced.


Seriously, look at him. Schnockered. Trying to stand perfectly still, keep a neutral expression on his face: Durbin’s laced.


Is Bono just allowed to come and go from secure buildings at will? Can he wander into the Situation Room? Can he play basketball in the Supreme Court’s court? (The Supreme Court has a basketball court in it. The building, I mean. Not the nine people who we refer to collectively as the Supreme Court. You could not fit even part of a basketball court in Ruth Bader Ginsburg. She is tiny.)

To Leahy Me Down

“Psst. Weir.”

“Yeah, Mick?”

“Who’s this?”

“Senator from Vermont.”


“No, no, no.”

“Oh, good. That guy shows up and white people start arguing.

“This is the one who likes to be in movies.”

“He’s got the looks.”

“Handsome devil, yeah.”

“Hey, Weir.”

“Yeah, Mick?”

“I think we made the right decision not tucking our shirts in.”

“We’re rockers, Mick.”

“Totally. This place have a Hostility Suite?”

“Yeah, but they call it the Cloakroom.”



“Does that mean–”

“It’s not a room full of cloaks you can yoink.”

“–that it’s…okay, just checking.”

“Try not to steal anything while we’re here, Mick.”

“I promise nothing.”

High Level Meeting

Frankenflesh, baby. That little sliver o’ calf? Sexiest part of an aging white man. It’s dad-cleavage.


Mickey is drunk, thinks he’s at the hotel, and has been sticking that keycard into the door latches of Senators’ offices all day. Mitch McConnell had Capitol Police place Mickey into a wheelchair, and then drag him out of it.


The frame/art ratio is off, isn’t it? Shouldn’t the art be bigger than the frame? I’m not exactly Robert Hughes, so I’m not to be trusted on matters of art, but I always thought the art should be bigger.


Goddammit, Bobby, you couldn’t even put on your socks?


“Psst, Weir.”

“Yeah, Mick?”

“He really loves that fucking song.”

“What’s it been?”

“Twenty minutes straight.”

“He doesn’t even know we’re here. He’s just talking.”

“Well, yeah. He’s a Senator. That’s what they do.”

“You think they told him who killed JFK?”

“His co-worker’s dad did it.”



That Calhoun fellow’s got a flash haircut, man. Dunno where I’ve seen it before. (Okay, fine: would someone PLEASE ‘shop a beard onto John Calhoun?)

The Fog Of Rando War

“Rando War!”

I cannot explain this to you for the second fucking year running. A rando is a non-famous person who is not your wife.

“Are these people famous? Or my wife?

Yes to both. I don’t know the guy in the middle, but he looks famous. He’s got the skin of a famous person.

“You should see it up close. It’s creamy.”

Whoa, just noticed the boob window. Christie’s aging well.

“I was gonna make a run at her.”

Looks are not important to her.

“But she lives in such an uptown world.”

Don’t you fucking dare.

“You think she’s ever had a backstreet guy?”

You stop that now, Mickey.

“Ooh, there’s the guy with the little hot dogs.”

“Hey! I figured out the rando thing!”


“Randos! I’m in the Rando War now.”

Those are the Brolins, Amir Bar-Lev.

“Is that a sub-species of rando?”

Those two men are the opposite of randos.


Stop that.

“Not randos?’


“The old one keeps bothering me about stuff I left out of the movie.”

Yeah, you’re gonna get that for the rest of your life.

“I’m coming to terms with it. Do I win Rando War?”

You were DQ’ed out of the gate.

“Dairy Queen?”


“I mean I wanted you to buy me Dairy Queen.”

“Are we getting ice cream? I found a rando.”

Not a rando, Mickey. Your daughter.

“She’s a mermaid.”

She is. Still your child, though, and therefore not a rando.

“Let’s get back to the ice cream.”

“Mickey, you up for ice cream?”


“Hey, Mick. Soft serve?”

“Fuck, yeah. Swirl that shit up.”

“Nice. Let’s go.”



Um. Hi, Reya.

“Don’t talk to me.”


Rando War: The Push Zoom

Please don’t–

“Rando War on the bocce courts!”

–join the Rando…dammit. Hasn’t there been enough tragedy on those courts?

“Why do you think I built them?”

Oh, God, you’re burying bodies in there, aren’t you?


Are the busboys?

“Yes. Sometimes, Grahame does it.”


“If he doesn’t do his chores, he doesn’t get his allowance.”

Sure. Are you blessing that rando?

“Swatting a horsefly.”


What is this, theme night?

“The, uh, framing of the pictures?”


“Huh. Looks like it. Little bit of randian synchronicity.”

You having a press covfefe?

“Yeah, apparently.”

What’s Mickey doing there?

“Not much. He’s gonna slap Branford’s flip-flops together for a while soon.”

So, the usual?

“About that, yeah.”

Jack Straw

“This is new.”

“Is it, Bob?”

“Never seen it before. Doesn’t, you know, augur well for the evening.”

“What’s he got in there?”

“Nothing good, Josh.”

“What’s on your iPad?”

“Franken’s book. This guy really hates Tom Cruise.”

“I’ll check it out. Seriously, we should do something about this.”

“Good idea. You talk to him.”

“Why me? You’ve known him for 50 years.”

“That’s why I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Sure. Um, Billy?”


“Whatcha doing?”

“Getting my swerve on, hamster-style.”

“Uh-huh. What is it that you’re drinking?’

“If you soak weed in Bacardi 151 for a month, it turns into…like…I don’t know what the fuck it turns into, but it kicks like a rented whore.”

“You’re not drinking it straight?”

“I threw in some ice.”


“And whisky.”

“Okay. Bob, can I talk to you over there?”


“In the next picture.”

“Ah. Sure, yeah.”

“He’s drinking rocket fuel.”



“Because, you know, he’s done that before. Doctor once told us Billy had the stomach acid of a condor. Can’t be poisoned.”

“No, it’s some sort of concoction, and I’m sure he didn’t even tell me all the ingredients.”

“He’ll survive. And, uh, it can’t be worse than whatever’s going on next to him.”


Kicky Hart

Why are you like this?

“Someone’s got to be.”


“I’m a shaman.”


“Shamanistic, at least. The magic comes out from everywhere. Sometimes, the magic comes from my dainty little drum brushes; sometimes, from a pair of lady’s clogs. Sometimes, the magic comes out of my dick. Magic everywhere.”

What’s in the Fiji bottle?


Good talk.

It’s Clog, It’s Clog, It’s Big And Heavy And Wood

Mickey, what would you say that you do here?

“Shoe duty.”

Is that a thing?

“Is now.”

Any other surprises?

“I’m being paid more than Oteil.”

That is surprising as fuck.



Could you put those down?

“They took away my drumsticks.”

For the best.

“Obviously not. I’m playing clogs.”


To Life, To Life

Hey, Mickey.

“I was wondering when you were gonna get to me.”

It’s a long summer, buddy.

“Great summer. You see how many drums I got?”


“The most! I checked around. No one touring this summer has more drums than me.”


“You’re welcome.”

You having a little party?

“Oh, yeah. Getting drunk with Black Phil and Girl Justin.”

Reya. She is your daughter.

“I knew the second part.”

Why are you all so bad with names?

“Decades of substance abuse.”


“Also, I don’t hear ’em when people tell ’em to me.”

Also true. This is sweet that Reya’s going on tour with you.

“It’s great, man. Having adult children is a blessing.”

I think you just mean “children.”

“No. They’re fucking terrible when they’re kids. I avoided that whole thing.”

Probably for the best.

“Can’t get drunk with children. I mean, you can.”

You shouldn’t.

“No. Kids can’t drink for shit. Sloppy little fuckers.”

You’re cursing more than usual.

“This is my sixth margarita.”

Gonna be a good summer.

“I’ll drink to that.”

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