Open Mick

by Holly Woodward

Queen Elizabeth snubbed Mick’s knighting ceremony—not the first time he’d been rejected. At her death, he sent his respects.

An extinct species of semiaquatic ungulate related to hippos was named for Mick. Keith has an extinct little exoskeletal number. And Ozzy. Also, Dick Cheney.

Longtime girlfriend Jerry traveled with a wedding dress, in case he ever gave in to her wish. She made Mick seek help for sex addiction. He seduced the therapist.

He’s worth 400 million. Not for nothing did he attend London School of Economics. Mick studied the Fortune 500 list. He’s under Jimmy Buffett. Fuck Jimmy Buffett. I should write an anthem to alcohol. Yeah, to gin, my friend. Gin is a member of the band.

Nights, after his friend’s death from overdose, Mick read Percy Bysshe Shelley’s Adonaïs.

People think Mick’s the man in “You’re So Vain.” He sang uncredited backup on that song. What did he have to do to convince everyone he wasn’t vain, bite off his tongue? Already did that. Made his voice less posh, more rock.

Mick watched Richard Simmons at 3 AM and danced along. Tears streamed down his face. This guy was uglier than Mick but still believed in love. Mick wanted to believe in love, but all the want got in the way.

Mick told Bowie backstage that he wrote “Angie” for him. David’s pale eye flashed fire, but the dark one stared faraway. Mick told himself: don’t love a chameleon.

Jagger didn’t like the nickname Mick. It sounded like a shaving cut. Those things bled and bled and bled. “Let it bleed,” Keith said.

Marianne Faithfull said, “I think you’ll like this,” and handed him Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, which opens with the devil introducing himself.

Keith opened the remains box and some ash of his father rose like dust. He snorted it up. Mick loved him so much. He wrote in his will that Keith should get a nickel bag of his ashes.

Dylan called. “You stole your band name from my song.”
“It’s a common expression.”
“You can’t steal things!”
Mick screamed, “You stole your name from Dylan Thomas!”

One early review said, “The lead singer has to go.”

Mick framed and hung it over his dressing table.

Holly Woodward is a writer and artist. She lives in Costa Rica and NYC. She has a dog and a cat. Bi in many ways.