Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: jeff chimenti (page 1 of 7)

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?”


“Check clear?”

“It did.”

“All right, then.”

Boogaloo Down Broadway

Oh, yes, Enthusiasts. You forgot. You tucked the information away in the back pocket of your mind, forgot it there, left it when you put your mind in the wash. I now take that information and place it in a sealed bag of rice. This promotional still–and you can barely call it a “still,” there’s so much exuberance in the shot–is from Red Roses, Green Gold, which is what’s referred to in the theater world as a “jukebox musical,” which is a show biz term for “not an actual musical.” Musicals are damn near impossible to write–Steven Sondheim went insane for a year or two and thought he was living in Rome around 100 AD; Rodgers ate Hammerstein–but jukebox musicals are simple. You go down to your local Sam Goody’s, buy a group’s greatest hits, hire some actors, rent a theater, and wait for the money to roll in.

Except when it doesn’t. For every jukebox musical that runs for years, such as Mamma Mia or Jersey Boys, there’s a The Times They Are A-Changin’ or Tonight’s The Night. (Based on the work of Dylan and Rod Stewart, respectively.) Even the good ones are pointless, other than as revenue sources, but tourists and the middle-class enjoy sitting in pretty buildings while young people sing for them, so they’re going to keep making them.

Red Roses, Give Us Your Money tells the story of…well, I’ll let them you:

Did you kill yourself halfway through the blurb? I did, like, two or three times.

But then I horror-vomited myself back to life:

Did you horror-vomit? I bet you did.

Anyway, there’s a plot of some sort:

  • The characters are introduced.
  • Their goal is stated.
  • Comic reversals occur.
  • An ingenue with an enormous voice sings the song right before intermission.
  • Overpriced wine and candy.
  • The comic reversals are reversed once again, comically.
  • The Act Two Hoedown, also known as the Shipoopi number.
  • Song from Act One is resung, but with a different meaning this time.
  • Big finish.
  • You wanna eat or go back to the hotel?
  • I’m hungry.
  • There’s an Olive Garden.
  • Ooh, I bet the Olive Garden in New York is fancy.

And so on.

If you’re thinking about taking in the show, you’d better hurry. The Hollywood Reporter said “If Garcia weren’t dead, this show would kill him” and the New York Times calls the show “cartoonishly corny.” Also: it is an abomination against the Lord AND there are no fucking Bobby songs. On the other hand, Jeff Chimenti was the musical director and did all the arrangements, so he got a check and that is a good thing.


If I really did have a Time Sheath, I’d go back and knock that fucking hat off Garcia’s head.

Our Father, Who Goes To Heaven, Hallowed By Thy Name

What do you think, Bobby? Best song with a man’s name in the title?

“Bohemian Rhapsody.”


“Rhapsody Abramowitz. My publicist. Real tall fellow.”

Let’s move on. Whatcha doing?

“Paperwork. Being a fake priest is like being a cop: 95% paperwork.”

Why are you a fake priest now?

“Tax reasons.”

Bobby, you still have to pay taxes.

“Separation of fake church and state.”

Not a thing.

“My buddy Wesley Snipes says it is.”

Please do not take financial advice from Wesley Snipes. Why do you even know him?

“I was up for the part of Whistler in the Blade movies. Bastard Kristofferson snaked me out of the gig.”

You’d have killed it.

“You bet.”

Tell Jeff Chimenti that I see him back there.


New Brent.

“Ah. Will do.”

Summer’s Here And The Time Is Right For…

“Rando War.”

GodDAMMIT, no. C’mon, Bobby. Don’t do this.

“Listen, man: Grateful Deads are cyclical beasts. We’re like cicadas.”

You’re pronouncing that wrong.

“No, Garcia pronounced it wrong. I say it right.”

Bobby, please don’t start another Rando War.

“Don’t think of it like that.”

How should I think of it?

“Like the last Rando War never ended.”

Eisenhower warned us about the Rando-Industrial Complex.

“Lot of jobs depend on this happening. It’s realpolitik.”


“Both. My advice, you know, is to start profiteering immediately.”

I’ve heard worse advice.

“I’ve given worse advice.”

“Rando War?”

Don’t you have a Shipoopi number to write?

“Musicals write themselves.”

They don’t.

“My rando is taller than Bobby’s. Point: Chimenti.”

Is that how this works?


“But my rando has a giant hat!”

Aw, come on.

“Look at this fucker’s big hat!”

It’s a sizable chapeau.

“Game on, motherfucker.”


“You didn’t need to yell.”

It’s D-Day. You have some respect on D-Day.


Yes, you are.

Separate, But Unequal

2017 and we’re still dealing with this kind of racism.

Excuse me?

The non-whites get segregated. That is the textbook definition of racism.

Jeff Chimenti is white.

Italians are white now? What next, the Irish?

You gonna be like this all night?


Okay. Hold on.







Did you just deliberately get beaten to death by Turkish security goons?



Jealous Again

“Looky there, man. Little Josh suckin’ off the Dead nipple some more.”

Chris Robinson?

“Heeeey, brother.”

Don’t call me brother. I know how you treat your brother.

“It’s just shit, man. Legacy acts playing their old hits. Just sad, man.”

Sure. What are you doing this week?

“Playing a show from ’77 with Phil.”


“Where’s his beard?”



Don’t call him that. Only me and Bobby and everybody else gets to call him that.

“Still: where’s his beard?”

I don’t think he has a girlfriend at the moment.

“You think this is what Jerry would have wanted?”

He’s dead. He doesn’t get a vote, except maybe in Chicago.

“Whatever, man. Just sad Play your own songs!”

You’re very hard to handle, Chris Robinson.

“You suck, too.”

Nice of you to stop by. Call first next time.

Madman Across The Border

Hey, Bobby. Look at you.

“Went where the weather suited my trousers.”

If there’s any place in the world those pants are appropriate, it’s a Mexican resort.

“You bet.”

Do this again next year?

“Might be a problem. New Brent didn’t get back across the border.”

Jeff Chimenti is his name.

“There’s no ‘J’ sound in Spanish, so he’s probably gonna have to change it.”

Why can’t he come back?

“He’s been classified as both a drug kingpin and a Syrian.”

Wow. I didn’t know you could be declared a Syrian.

“We’re learning a lot about civics lately.”

Hey, Garcia Tee-Shirt.

“Hey, man.”

A Momentary Return To Normalcy


That’s some good Dead shirt-wearin’, Bobby.

“Mickey taught me everything I know.”

He may have taught you too well.

“The master becomes the apprentice.”

If you say so. Are you guys rehearsing?

“Yeah, how could you tell?”

Billy isn’t there.

“He may be avoiding the mainland for a while.”

Good idea.

“You bet. So, uh, Dead still a part of this?”

I’m talking to you, aren’t I?


What now?


We did that. It did not work.

“Then keep voting. Gotta do it every single day. Make it a routine.”

I think you’re talking about going to the gym.

“That’s important, too.”

Tell Jeff Chimenti to put away his drugs.

Jeff is the piano player.


For The Benefit Of Mr. Barlow


Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Group shot.”


“Benefit for Barlow. Hospitals are expensive.”

Better than the alternative.

“Depends on your level of Buddhism, I guess.”

I have zero Buddha-nature. I have Daffy Duck nature.

“I can see that.”

How many of these people can you name?

“I could give ’em all names, if I wanted to.”

No, I meant their actual names.


“Well, there’s Ramblin’ Jack.”

Of course.

“Other folks.”

There ya go.

“Wait, wait. That’s my keyboardist.”

And his name is?

“I stopped learning their names three or four keyboardists ago. You get attached.”

Sure. Keep going.

“Is the guy on the end Sir Paul McCartney’s daughter?”




“Is it about the shirt?”

It’s about the shirt.

“It’s me.”


“And it says ‘STFU.’ That means ‘Stop Talking, Focus Up here.'”

It doesn’t.

“Then my daughters are messing with me again.”

Probably. Baller move wearing a shirt your own face on it.

“Victory Lap, man.”

Oh, no capitalizing.

“Billy got to capitalize Summer of Skank.”

It’s October. Summer’s over.

“Nope. Fall of 2016 is officially the Bob Weir Victory Lap.”


“I should probably steal the Earthroamer.”

Yeah, okay.

Once Again, Happy Birthday To Jeff Chimenti


Looking good, Jeff.

“Am I a horse now?”


“I hate you.”

Join the club.

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