Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: jeff chimenti (page 1 of 8)

The Great Silver Way

Nice to see you back where you belong, Jeff Chimenti.

“Off-Broadway is not for me.”

No.

“I like the Dead. Dude, do you know how much weed you’re allowed to smoke at rehearsals for a musical?”

None.

“None! I offered everyone dabs, and they looked at me like I was crazy.”

You brought your dab rig to rehearsal?

“Not the big one.”

Sure.

“I had to go out behind the theater during a coffee break. And by myself, too! I was like a leper with great hair.”

Poor guy.

“Problem is that now there are offers coming in. They want me to do Annie.”

To be the musical director for a restaging of Annie?

“No, they want me to play Annie.”

Why?

“I look incredible in the dress.”

Okay.

The Musical Never Stopped

Hey, Jeff Chimenti. How’s Broadway?

“Off-Broadway.”

Whatever.

“I hate it so much and want to go back to the Grateful Dead.”

But the Dead doesn’t feed you and won’t put your name on the poster.

“Don’t care. Do you know what time they start practice in the legitimate theater world?”

The morning.

“Yeah! And the early part of the morning, too. The real morningy morning. Oh, and speaking of starting: do you know when things start?”

No.

“When they’re supposed to! I’m used to easing into things 45 minutes late, or whenever Bobby shows up. It’s bordering on militaristic around here.”

That’s a bit hyperbolic. Overalls Wolverine is completely out of regs.

“I’ve been calling him Mister Muttonchops.”

That works.

“Dude, do you know how long a 20-minute intermission lasts here?”

20 minutes?

“Yeah! Isn’t that fucked up?”

No! That’s the way professionals behave.

“Exactly! I wanna go back to the Bush League. This whole environment is too tense for me.”

Okay. You making a move on Dita Von Teese?

“I’m gonna let her watch me shampoo.”

Nice.

Red Roses, Green Gold, Silver Mane

Hey, Jeff Chimenti. Bobby looks weird.

“That’s not Bobby. She’s an actress from Red Roses, Green Gold.

Oh, right. The jukebox musical with all the Dead tunes in it that you were the musical director for. How’s that going?

“I do not like these musical theater types.”

No?

“They never stop singing. All day, nothing but show tunes in 95-part harmony. And I don’t know if you know this, but they sing loud.”

I did. Theater kids can weaponize Sondheim.

“And their hand gestures are so dramatic.”

That, too.

“And there’s an AIDS benefit every fifteen minutes.”

Broadway cares.

“Plus, the smell is unbelievable. Backstage, I mean. It’s just rectal sweat and feet, man. These kids work up a frothy lather. You know what Oteil smells like after a show?”

No.

“Weed.”

Sure.

“I went backstage after opening night and I couldn’t get the funk out of my hair for days.”

Oh, not your beautiful hair.

“I know! Had to get it professionally laundered. I was about to go buy a couple gallons of tomato juice.”

Ew. So I guess this means you’re not gonna be the next Lin-Manuel Miranda?

“No way, man. I’m sticking to rock and roll.”

You rule, Jeff Chimenti.

“Okay.”

Ready For The Feast

Was John Mayer not invited or did he have Celebrity Thanksgiving to attend?

OR

Why is Oteil not sitting with the rest of the band? Is it because he wore sweatpants on Thursday?

OR

Is Matt Busch wearing a fucking Islanders hoodie? Unacceptable, Matt Busch.

OR

“Who’s the youngest here?”

“Black Phil.”

“Thanks, Billy. Black Phil–”

“Oteil. My name is Oteil.”

“–will you read the Four Questions for us?”

“Wrong holiday, Bobby.”

When They Say Your Name, You Walk On Stage

“Would you like to take a picture with a Grateful Dead, young man?”

“Bobby, I’m in the band.”

“I’m pretty sure the new guy’s black.”

“No, I’m the old new guy. Jeff.”

“Not ringing a bell.”

“Jeff Chimenti.”

“New Brent.”

“Oh, hey. Didn’t recognize you standing up.”

“Sure.”

“I think we’re gonna have a great show. Let’s, uh, just have some fun out there.”

“Sounds great, Bob.”

“But, you know, not too much fun. Or I’ll yell at you in front of the whole crowd.”

“Okay.”

“Speaking of yelling at people, you see the drummers lately?”

“They’re in the parking lot trying to sell counterfeit Bitcoins.”

“Oh, yeah. I bought a couple.”

“They’re fake, Bob. They’re not worth anything.”

“They are when I sign ’em.”

“Huh. Smart.”

“I got a lotta tricks up my sleeve.”

“You really do.”

“Bob, do you have any food?”

“I’m not going though this again, New Brent. You wanted to eat, you should have joined The Eagles.”

“I hate The Eagles, man.”

“Everybody hates The Eagles, but they lay out a spread.”

Throw Me In The Waffle House, Til The Sun Go Down

They fed you!

“Yeah, thanks. Bobby saw your post and felt bad. I mean, not bad enough to pay, but bad enough to stop.”

“I hadn’t eaten in four days. No, wait. I found an old sugar packet in my organ yesterday. Tasted fucking awesome.”

“You didn’t tell me about the sugar packet.”

“Sorry, O. I just ate the whole thing before I even thought about it.”

“Not cool, man. I ate my shoes yesterday.”

“So that’s where they went.”

Guys, are they really not letting you eat?

“It’s fine.”

“They love us.”

This is not okay. Aren’t there, like, union rules that say you have to have a certain amount of meals provided?

“Oh, they’re provided.”

“And then slapped cruelly from our hands.”

Jesus.

“When I play my big solo on Friend of the Devil, Mickey uses a fishing rod to suspend a burrito above my head like Tantalus.”

“I often don’t have the strength to do my bouncy dances.”

“Billy often makes his water on the salmon.”

“John made me watch him pull his pork.”

Is that a euphemism?

“Yes and no.”

This is unacceptable. What does Bobby say?

“He lets it happen.”

“When everyone finds out, he’s gonna issue a statement saying that he had no idea.”

“Complicit.”

“Benign moral neglect.”

This is shocking. You guys should quit!

“What? And leave the Grateful Dead?”

“I get to sing now. I’m not going anywhere.”

Enjoy your meal, guys.

Otherwise Known As The Chickenshit Show

Jeff Chimenti looks like a beloved high school music teacher who’s also a member in good standing of his local BDSM community.

OR

Billy and Oteil have both noticed the meatball the intern is holding aloft. This will not end well; Billy loves meatballs, and interns. Oteil also enjoys meatballs, but no one’s getting tackled for one. Billy’s gonna tackle the intern.

OR

All new on CBS this season: Friends. Due to legal incompetence on the part of Warner Brothers, the rights to remake Friends became available, so CBS cast these six and they perform the episodes line-for-line. It’s fucking terrible. (Bobby used to be a Joey, but now he’s a Phoebe. Mickey is Ross. Josh banged Rachel.)

OR

Can Mickey still fit the merch he’s yoinked these past few tours into a storage space, or does he need a warehouse?

OR

ATTENTION PLEASE: Billy has new sneakers.

OR

I can’t see his feet. Is Oteil in his goddamned flippity-flops? Bobby had the sense of decorum to put on his formal socks, but I think Oteil is going full flop. You are not running into a Sarasota Publix in for a chicken tender sub and a sweet tea, Oteil. At least Bobby’s sandals are made of leather.

Pss pss pss.

I am being informed that there are such a thing as vegan sandals, and even if Bobby didn’t care, he would most likely wear them just so not to get protested by Lilian Monster.

OR

What is that?

“My toppermost?”

Your kimono.

“No, no. It’s a Japanese-influenced men’s toppermost designed by Givenchy in associated with streetFUVK”

There’s no such thing as a toppermost.

“You only know about poor people clothes. We have access to shit you’ve never heard of.”

Uh-huh.

“This is what I like to call ‘Fun John.’ Real playful, just mixing and matching and, you know, trying to display my own style. I’m always thinking ‘What is my aesthetic?'”

What is your aesthetic?

“Guy who spent an hour deciding what to wear.”

You nailed it. What is that garment made of?

“Ultrasilk.”

Is that like ultrasuede? A synthetic?

“No, it’s real silk, but much fancier. The worms are all wearing little tuxedos–get this–made from the silk that they themselves produced. It’s self-sufficiency in action.”

Is it expensive?

“Oh my God, yes.”

Ballpark it for me.

“Where are we?”

What?

“I wanna know how far my dollar goes. We could buy a town in most countries for what this thing cost.”

We’re in America.

“You could start your own business.”

Pre-built space or custom structure?

“The second thing.”

Goddammit, Josh Meyers.

“Don’t call me that. Don’t worry about how I spend my money.”

I’m not worried. I’m judgmental.

“Kiss my ass. What should I do with my money?”

Take as much of it as you need for yourself and give the rest to the poor.

“I will not.”

Well, there you go.

“And of course you’d say to give my money to the poor. You’re the poor.”

I’m just repeating the words of some Jewish guy I met once.

“You would buy just as much stupid bullshit as me if you had a nickel to your name. Easy to make a decision for someone else when you’ll never face it.”

You’re right. Absolutely right. Tell you what: you give me all your money. Then you’ll see that I would live up to my words and distribute it to the needy.

“This is a trick.”

It is.

“You wouldn’t give the money away.”

I would.

“I don’t believe you.”

If you’re feeling froggy, leap.

“What if I gave you a little bit of money and saw if you gave that away? Like, as a test.”

No. I will keep and squander any amount of money less than all. All or nothing. Maximum Christ, baby.

“I’m gonna pass.”

“I like that toppermost, boy.”

“Them other white boys look like homeless lumberjacks or some shit. Hats on indoors. They lucky I got a cocktail.”

“Oh, wow, Mr. Davis. Hi. My name is John Mayer.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

“I am such an enormous fan of your music. I have every one of your albums, every single one. You’re one of the most important men in musical history. In American history! It’s just such an honor. Wow.”

“In the key of E flat, what does the C minor resolve to?”

“G minor.”

“You see this medal?”

“I do.”

“You holding?”

“We are. Collectively.”

“Gather that shit up. Those motherfuckers look smelly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nice. Respectful. Hey, motherfucker.”

“Me?”

“The other motherfucker.”

Me?

“Yeah. Why didn’t you introduce me to this white boy before? I like this young man.”

Awwwwww. I wanted you to hate him.

“I’m fucking unpredictable.”

Aw.

Begun, These Rando Wars Have

Don’t you say–

“Rando War!”

–Rando War. Goddammit, Oteil. You’re above this.

“I’m not.”

Okay.

“You would not believe how many more randos I attract since I started singing lead. They’re like moths, and I’m a bug zapper.”

Are you electrocuting randos to death?

“Not randos. Not plural.”

You’re really becoming a true Grateful Dead, Oteil.

“I’m settling in.”

“Oh, is Rando War back on?”

 


“BOOM, I just won Rando War.”

There are no winners in a Rando War, Jeff Chimenti. Just death. And randos.

“But look how many I have!”

Venture not down this path, Jeff Chimenti.

“Kiss my balls.”

Everyone’s a dick tonight.

“Quit whining, motherfucker. Don’t bring your bitch shit to a Rando War.”

Oh, not you, too.

“Rando War is over. I won. Tell all them white motherfuckers to go home and kiss on each other.”

That’s Wynton Marsalis.

“Motherfucker’s a rando to me.”

Ow.

“I’m a cold motherfucker. You see my shirt?”

I do.

“That shit’s the truth.”

None of this makes any sense any longer.

“Whose fucking fault is that?”

True.

“You can pick off my cheese plate if you want.”

Thank you, Mr. Davis.

“It’s the little moments of humanity that make Rando War such a fucking tragedy.”

If you say so.

The Great Wig In The Sky

Stop looking at Mickey, Jeff Chimenti.

“I can’t. His doohickeys are vibrating.”

Did he explain himself before the performance?

“Kinda. He said, ‘New Brent–‘”

He still calling you that?

“–I’m tired of being a Vulcan. I’m an Andorran now.”

Is that a Space Track reference?

“Maybe. I’m not a nerd.”

Good for you. Stop looking at him.

“He’s just so fascinating.”

In his own way.

Bobby, Bonds

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“You see the size of this sumbitch?”

Barry Bonds is a big guy.

“I’ve, uh, played venues smaller than his skull.”

Enormous fellow.

“Jeff, you seeing this?”

“I am, Bob. This fucker’s gigantic.”

“Oh, hey. I, uh, didn’t ask. How’s that Broadway musical going?’

“It went.”

“That quick?”

“Yup.”

“Check clear?”

“It did.”

“All right, then.”

Older posts
%d bloggers like this: