Los Lobos! Trombone Shorty! A bunch of kids! And Jay Lane pulling faces at the camera the entire time! You could do worse with five minutes of your time. You could even donate to a good cause if you want.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jeff chimenti (Page 1 of 10)
HEY!
“Ah, fuck. Not you.”
Cigarettes, Jeff Chimenti? How could you do that to your hair?
“It’s a joint.”
No, it isn’t. You work for the Grateful Dead. You wouldn’t sneak outside to smoke a joint. That’s a Marlboro you’re puffing on.
“Well, they’re not feeding me or Oteil again. It helps keeps the hunger pangs to a minimum.”
Can’t you negotiate meals in your contract?
“Contract? I don’t have a contract. I get paid in tips.”
What?
“The band tips me out at the end of the night. It’s always a pain in the ass getting it out of Billy.”
This is not right, Jeff Chimenti.
“I brought it up to Bobby one time. Asked if I could get paid like a normal person.”
What did he say?
“Nothing. He just picked up his phone and called the keyboardist for JRAD. Never lost eye contact. It was kind of a power move.”
That doesn’t sound like Bobby.
“I know! That’s what made the move so powerful!”
Wow. Seriously, though: stop smoking.
“They’re the only thing that keeps me together.”
And stop quoting KISS.”
“Never.”
“One, two, three, four–”
DON’T YOU DO IT, MOTHERFUCKER!
“–I declare a Rando War.”
Goddammit. Rando War is like the herpes of this site. So it makes sense you’re responsible.
“I don’t have herpes.”
Lie to randos, Josh, not me. You have at least one of every herpe. You collect watches, clothes, and herpes. You’re like that seed bank in Norway, but for herpes.
“I can’t hear you. I’m winning Rando War.”
“Rando War back on? We’re in.”
“Look at these randos! We got four. Beat that, Meyers!”
“Yeah, beat–”
“SPEAK WHEN SPOKEN TO, NEW BRENT!”
“Not in front of the randos, Mick.”
“You wanna keep flapping your gums, boy? You’re getting clogged!”
PERCUSSIONIST CHASING KEYBOARDIST WITH A PAIR OF ATTACK CLOGS NOISE
…
“Are, uh, we doing a Rando War?”
Bobby, that’s your family.
“Ah.”
Doesn’t count.
“Well, you know, they’re randos to somebody. Like Doctor J.”
What about Doctor J?
“He’d consider both women to be randos. He’d, uh, probably be nice to ’em ’cause they’re pretty, but they’d still be of the genus rand. So, uh, pretend I’m Doctor J.”
Absolutely not.
“Remember that ball we used to use in the ABA? The red, white, and blue one? Stylish ball.”
Stop it. You are not Doctor J.
“Oh, yeah. I can slam that rock. Put that biscuit in the gravy.”
“Does Bobby think he’s Doctor J again?”
Who’s that?
Oh, hey: it’s Bobby’s Parish, Matt Busch.
“That’s not my job title.”
It’s not wrong, though.
“No. Anyway, does Bobby think he’s Doctor J again?”
Yes.
“Dammit. Ah, well, it’s better than when he thought he was Marvin ‘Bad News’ Barnes.”
I didn’t know Bobby was so into the ABA.
“He’s obsessed with failed sports leagues. The ABA, the USFL, that soccer league that had Pele for a while in the 80’s.”
Wow. Never would’ve guessed. Oh, yeah: what are you doing here?
“Rando War.”
That’s George R.R. Martin. He writes the books with the snow and the zombies and the castles and all that shit.
“Sure, but he’s a rando to someone.”
NO. Not entertaining this stupid argument anymore.
“I win Rando War.”
Yes, you do.
“I’m a dog now.”
Yes, you are.
“Big Jeff.”
“Johnny Checkers.”
“Bro, I love it over here. Me and my guy rocking the fuck out.”
“Making beautiful music. Having a blast, bro.”
“Right side is tight side.”
“I like that! Nice.”
“Uh-huh. Um, Jeff?”
“Yeah, John?”
“Where’d you get that shirt?”
“Which shirt?”
“The one you’re wearing.”
“Oh, this one. I, uh, don’t remember.”
“It looks familiar.”
“I’ve probably worn it before.”
“I don’t think so. It looks–and don’t take offense to this–much more expensive than the shirts you usually wear.”
“I’ve been hitting the gym. Maybe that’s it.”
“No.”
“Huh. No idea, then.”
“Jeff?”
“Yeah, John?”
“Did you rob my house?”
“No.”
…
…
…
“I burgled your house.”
“GODDAMMIT.”
“Not cool?”
“No! Not cool in the slightest!”
“Dude, you’ve never been in a band before. This is what bandmates do.”
“It is not.”
“Billy breaks into my house all the time.”
“That’s because he’s a psychopath! This is not acceptable behavior!”
“Okay, okay, okay. Tell you what: you can burgle my place.”
“And steal what? Your gym shorts and Ratdog tee-shirts?”
“And conditioner.”
“I have my own conditioner.”
“And yet my hair’s nicer than yours.”
“That’s it: Oteil’s switching back.”
Dammit, Jeff Chimenti, move your hands and give us the triple potato salad action we’ve come to demand from our favorite content providers. Seriously: look how close we are.
OR
This looks like one of the promo pictures for a sitcom set in a family-owned pot shop. Bobby is “Pops” and he runs the place (in between naps) with his son “Jeff Chimenti,” who is played by Jeff Chimenti. His other son, a hard-charging finance executive from New York, comes home for some bullshit and ends up running the shop with his spacey dad and out-there brother. This is John Mayer, playing “Thumb;” for great stretches of the program’s runtime, the main and secondary characters beat him with sticks, and point, and laugh, and beat him about the face and head.
“Ha, ha,” they say. “Your name is Thumb.”
And Pops and Jeff Chimenti and the rest of the cast–the sexy, sassy, ethnic clerk, and the store manager who I’m thinking we need a Holland Taylor-type for– they take the sticks and poke Thumb in the soft places of his body. Perhaps a wrestling move is attempted.
“Why are you–”
Jeff Chimenti brings a brick down on Thumb’s chest. Swings it from way over his head and the Holland Taylor-type, when she hears the crunch of the sternum, cums. The second blow is shorter, but more direct: to the head, and with the brick’s point. Another crunch.
He stands over the body and extends the bloody cudgel towards the camera.
“THIS IS CAPITALISM!”
And then he kills himself by eating the brick.
Netflix has committed for eight episodes.
OR
Sadly, those are not Miller High Lifes. (TotD not being a beer person, but being highly suggestible, the official beers of the site are Heineken because Phil and Miller High Life because a blonde who lived in a terrible Hollywood apartments where the door and living room window open onto the catwalk; she used to say she was like a guy because she could only cum once and then she was done; she parked her bicycle in her kitchen, or in mine; she sat on the edge of the tub to watch me shave. I can’t remember her name, but I’ll always remember she demanded Miller High Life or nothing at all, and so it’s the shitty beer I’ll choose over the other shitty beers.)
OR
Jeff Chimenti’s shirt is immeasurably cooler than John Mayer’s.
OR
Hey, Bobby. You having a stroke?
“I don’t know. How’s my tongue look?”
GUITARIST STICKING OUT HIS TONGUE NOISE
Straight and true.
“Then, uh, it’s not a stroke.”
Good. So, uh, what’s going on with your face?
“That I don’t look vengeful?”
Yeah.
“Good tour.”
Yay.
OR
Off-White?
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but Virgil Abloh–”
Yeah, yeah, Louis Vuitton. His old stuff was fine, but since he got so big, I don’t know. He used to print the name of his company on bullshit so much more authentically.
“You’re very closed-minded about fashion.”
I’m not. I can appreciate high fashion. Crazy people make art for slender people to wear in front of rich people. Sometimes, folks still get mad about it, and that makes it fine by me, too. Or fashion throughout history. Silk road and whatnot. But this streetwear thing is depraved.
“Depraved? Depraved?”
You’re paying someone to advertise for them. The brand requires recognition and cash to survive; you’ve given it both. Plus there’s the issue of lies, John.
“What lies?”
You are not off-white. You are very white.
“I’m not that white.”
Your father was winter camouflage and your mother was hospital sheets.
“That’s rude.”
No, you know what’s rude?
“What?”
“Ow.”
Somebody’s publicist fucking hates you, dude.
“This is just mean. Why is this in the newspaper? There are only two fresh quotes in here, and the rest is just rewritten copy! And the second one is hearsay! Jesus, I’m getting fucked like a backwoods chimneysweep.”
I’m not familiar with the term.
“In the backwoods, you’re allowed to fuck the chimneysweeps.”
That didn’t help.
“Hey, you went to college.”
Barely.
“Help me with this, Is ‘He had to join the Grateful Dead because he talked too much about all his famous girlfriends’ a logical statement?”
No. And it’s not really the accusation that the bigwig thinks it is.
“He’s saying it like joining the Dead was a punishment.”
Like how in the old days, judges could send you into the military. The Famous Person Court sentenced you to three-to-five years of Grateful Deading for the crime of talkin’ poon.
“Don’t say poon.”
I probably shouldn’t.
“Billy?”
“Yeah, New Brent?”
“I think Mickey fell asleep on me.”
“He’s been doing that lately. Bad case of CIN.”
“CIN?”
“Courvousier-Induced Narcolepsy. I keep telling him to switch to a lighter liqueur.”
“How long is he gonna be out for?”
“Anyone’s guess. Sometimes, it’s seconds. Other times, he’s done for the evening. Never know with Mickey. Or with Courvousier. Lotta variables at play here.”
“Can you get a roadie or something? He’s heavy.”
“Wait til he starts pissing himself.”
“What?”
DRUMMER WALKING AWAY NOISE
“Billy?”
…
“Bobby?”
…
“Oteil? Anyone?”
Jeff Chimenti is whispering to Billy, “Sun’s going down, big guy. You’re getting real tired.”
OR
Is that a Real Housewife? If so, from which program/location? Whose flag does this Real Housewife pose under?
OR
When Josh stands in the middle, he looks like he’s the tall candle in a menorah.
OR
Mickey is befuddled; he has been thoroughly fuddled. Mickey has gone through the process of fuddling.
OR
Josh.
“Don’t call me that in front of the band.”
They’re the ones who called you that in the first place.
“What?”
You grabbing ass?
“No.”
Dude.
“No.”
Duuuuuuude.
“No.”
…
…
…
Dude.
“I’m grabbing ass.”
I knew it! I knew it, you grabasstic sumbitch!
“When you’re famous, they just let you do it.”
There’s my guy.
OR
Is there a wind machine? This is a fancy party, indeed, if there’s a wind machine on the blue carpet. (Blue for the oceans. Nowadays, the red carpet can be whatever color you want it to be, which I despise. A blue red carpet is self-contradictory, like vegan beef jerky. We don’t need forced diversity in carpets, Hollywood.)
OR
Bobby?
“Yuh-huh?”
You furious?
“Yuh-huh.”
Any reason?
“I’ll kill you, boy.”
All right, then. But what about here?
“I’m in a better mood here.”
Looks like it. What was all that before about? You frightened me, Bobert Weir.
“God bless ’em, but the randos get to you. 53 years of randos. Y’know, think about it: who in show business has been exposed to more rand than me? Maybe Duke Ellington. He, uh, played until he was 106 years old.”
Not true.
“His trombonist was 98. He could still blow.”
You are exaggerating.
“Okay, fine, yes. Get, uh, get the musicians off the greens, please. And, uh, bring Mr. Gleason another carton of Pall Malls.”
“Kind of you, Mr. President. I were you? I would’ve shot those hippies.”
“Y’know, Gleason, you’re right. Bebe? Where’s Bebe? Someone get Rebozo and tell him to bring his pistols.”
Excuse me. Excuse me, President Nixon. Mr. Gleason. What is going on here?
“You, uh, couldn’t come up with an ending to the post.”
“Terrible. You’ll never make it in show biz, kid.”
Jeff? Buddy?
“Can’t talk right now. Piano’s broken.”
No noise coming out?
“None at all.”
Lower your hands about 18 inches.
…
“Oh, that’s much better,”
Yeah. You okay?
“I decided to try some of this fentanyl all the kids are talking about. Packs a wallop.”
Please don’t take fentanyl, Jeff Chimenti.
“Makes you feel so warm. It’s like wearing a coat on the inside.”
Uh-huh. Stay away from the opioids.
“You’re not my father.”
I guarantee you that your father would tell you not to use synthetic heroin.
“Probably. He was old-school. He was an immigrant, y’know.”
What was his name?
“Waluigi Boyardee Chimenti.”
That doesn’t sound right.
“Proud man. Worked as a fisherman on the North Shore. Him and my mom raised the three of us right.”
Three of you?
“Me, and my brothers Vince and Dom. I was the only one who made the big leagues of the jam scene. Dom had a cup of coffee with Widespread Panic, but he just didn’t have the chops.”
You’re talking about Joe DiMaggio’s family.
“I am high as shit, man.”
Not a great talk, Jeff.
“Dude, look at that hair.”
It’s good hair.
“I wanna put it in my mouth.”
Why?
“I put everything in my mouth.”
Sure. Why do babies do that?
“I’m not really big on introspection. Honestly, I can barely control my limbs.”
You can get up stairs now.
“Yeah, but I can’t go down. I’m all over the place, man. Don’t ask me about my intentions. I see a thing, I put the thing in my mouth.”
Okay.
“But, dude, I wanna put Jeff Chimenti’s hair in my mouth. It’s so shiny. It’s like a horse’s mane if the horse were made out of disco balls.”
Good analogy, buddy.
“I literally just figured those out last week. That things can be like other things. Amazing being a baby. You know what a big breakthrough was?”
What?
“Categories. Like, the dresser’s white, but it’s also rectangular. An object or concept can belong to many different groups simultaneously. Blew my fucking mind when I realized that. And then I gnawed on the dresser for a while.”
What did you do today?
“Lately, I’ve been looking out the window. I do this thing where I pull myself up on the radiator and just stare at the street. It is unbelievable how much is happening down there.”
It’s New York City. It’s a moving and grooving kind of place. Enjoy it until your parents move you to the suburbs.
“Those hipsters? Never happen.”
Give it a couple years. They’ll start worrying about what school you’ll go to, and it’s “Hello, New Jersey.”
“Jersey? Nah. Not with those taxes. Maybe Connecticut.”
True.
“Yeah, maybe. Y’know what? I’ll worry about the future when I develop the cerebral pathways necessary to grasp the concept of ‘future.’ Right now, I’m gonna hang out, put stuff in my mouth, and enjoy the Jeff Chimenti-led jams.”
It’s nice being a baby.
“I don’t know why you ever stopped.”
Courtesy of Tor Haxson in the Comment Section, sort of.
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