Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: jeff chimenti (page 2 of 9)

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.”


“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.”


“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.”


“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.”


“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.


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.


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.)


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


ATTENTION PLEASE: Billy has new sneakers.


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.


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.”


“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?


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?”


“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.”


“The other motherfucker.”


“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.”


Begun, These Rando Wars Have

Don’t you say–

“Rando War!”

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

“I’m not.”


“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.”


“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?”


“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?”


“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?



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