Yo, bros! Here’s that Larry J. edit I promised back in the day. Dig it!

This ain't taytyme…

It's Larry J. Slimfast time. See, Tay’s been so busy rocking the hotties that he’s probably forgotten he even has this shitty website. Well, I figured out his password (it's 'anal-stage' spelled backwards), and I aim to fill the void. That's right, byitch. Taytyme has damn been hacked.

So the other night I was at Layl’a Rul, Jay Pennington's kick-ass cocaine bar on 20th avenue. Normally when I go there it's to hang out with my friends in Auto Vaughn, but they were out of town at the Revlon convention. This tyme the occasion was my girlfriend's birthday party, and I figured that if I went to it I’d get to sex her afterwards. If you've never had sex with me, it's kinda like a Hotpipes show - boring, noisy, and there’s always some weasely slightly balding weirdo screeching over the top of everything at unnecessarily high volumes. Yeah, I like to keep my favorite lady satisfied.

I guess I’ve never really looked aroud Layl’a Rul with what you might call a discerning eye before because I’m always so enamored of the Auto dudes, but with them not there it was like I was seeing the place for the first tyme. I hate to say it man, but the place is wacker than the goddamn Murfreesboro “music scene.” They have these really low couches paired with tall wooden cubes that serve as awkward tables and this small dance floor with a lighted podium allowed for use exclusively by females. I obviously hadn’t thought about this before, but now the blatant sexism put my nuts in a sweaty-ass wad. What about the flamboyant gay dudes who want to put on a show? I mean, seriously. Luna Halo, the Pink Spydrz, and Jack White are in there like EVERY NIGHT and they’re probably eating themselves up over not being allowed on that shit. You'd think a place like this would cater to queers, right?

Lost in such lofty thoughts, I set my cosmopolitan on a table-cube and realized for the first tyme that there are no places to sit at said table-cubes because there are no fucking chairs in Layl'a Rul. See, chairs don't fit the vibe there because they want people to lounge around on the couches while they snort their toots. I looked around and thought, “Wait a second . . . these assholes hate the gays AND regular sitting.” When I then remembered that my cosmo had cost me fucking fifteen dollars, I knew the shit was on. I guess I had what the Mormons call an epiphany and what the losers at A.A. call “a moment of clarity.” I began to undress and make my way to the dance podium.

Now you guys know I can get naked quicker than David Copperfield, and by the tyme I gave Tay’s baby sister my number and threw her off the podium I was strikingly beautiful, looking like Michelangelo’s David or some shit. Yeah, I’ve got those crazy Abercrombie muscles that hold your dick up. Anyway, once I got up there I was like a man possessed by the whole population of Fire Island circa 1957. I was quoting Frank O’Hara left and right, stirring up a frenzy with some “Having a Coke With You.” Bitches started sweating, dudes got hard, and Layl’a Rul was sore afraid, brothers. I was all, “Fellas unite! Get up here and helicopter with me! Let’s get hott togevuh!”

I’d let you in on what happened next, but I ain’t one to kiss and tell when it involves dudes. Let’s just say that if you go down to Layl’a Rul anytime soon, I won’t be there because I’ve been “totally banned for life.” Like I said, fuck that place. They eat more dicks than I did that nyte.

Night of the Bad Vibes

So I was out visiting this sweet pot of honey on Saturday night when trouble up and rang my damn number. I’m not the type to keep that old man waiting! I flipped that shit open and said, “’Sup, T?” But wait a minute, wait a minute- let’s not get ahead of ourselves, already. Here’s how it went down from Begin to Fin.

It all started at the She-Bees show I told you about the other day. Picture this: just as he began to think that he needed to leave the club immediately or die trying, Tay’s internet crush called him up to come to this place next door to the Springwater. Hmmm… why not just go to the Springwater? I mean, its RIGHT THERE. So that’s what Tay did. He went to the Springwater and saw the end of The Loaded Nuns’ set. I tell you what, if Tay could have seen ONE band that night that lies anywhere on the rock spectrum between the Seabees and the Nuns, he would have been happy. (Cloudwatch: The professor drank one Diet Coke and got a second to go.)

“But Tay,” you worry, “did you end up next door?” Of course, dudes. I just had to get some ’Water on me for protection before I walked into a room full of swank. You know, like how Jeremy Shockey rolls in dog shit before a game so nobody wants to grab him. I found my peep and met her friend Cory, who looked as out of place as I did, and we commenced to some sore-thumb partying, Larry J. Slimfast at Layl’a Rul-style.

At some point these people who were mad as hell at the world and twice as wasted came in and rolled over the vibe of the place like a tank wearing a gay dude’s shirt. You know how people like us drink for fun, but other people drink for like revenge or something? That’s them, and one of ’em thought that the lady I was there to see was his girlfriend. Dressed in jeans, a white shirt with a skinny tie, and what appeared to be some sort of New Wave leather sport coat, he had the look of a guy who had maybe just come from a Breakfast Club party. After eyeing me suspiciously while holding on to the girl’s arm like Bam-Bam, he said to me, “What’s up, I’m whoever,” which translates roughly to, “Who the fuck is this guy, anyway?” We shook, and I noticed a series of numbers on his hand, like a due date stamp from the library (he can not read). I said, “What’s that concentration camp shit you got there?” He lost interest.

Now, cut to fifteen minutes later. The bar was closing. I offered a ride to the girl I’d come to see, we turned to leave, and the library guy shoves Cory and goes, “Hey you skinhead anti-Semite motherfucker.” Man was this guy confused! I was the one who said that shit to him, and I was the one taking his girlfriend home! Cory shoved him back, people jumped in and broke it up, and we walked out to the car while the dude yelled, “He called me a Jew! Fuck that guy.” I still can’t figure out whether he was pissed for the honor of the Jewish people as a whole, or just horrified that he’d been mistaken for being Jewish himself. Regardless, I’ve self-imposed a restraint order. I am no longer allowed to leave the Springwater parking lot on foot. Now I've just gotta get this bitch off my blog and on my knob.

All We She-Bees

Last nyte found Taytyme alone at All We Sea Bees’ show at the Basement. First and last tyme, brothers. They're not totally shitty, but their tunes are for other folks to dig while I'm outside. If the band as a whole doesn’t piss you off, the bass player’s “I’m really into this music” dance and the crowd they borrowed from the Dave Matthews cover band show will. Think the wardrobe of LYLAS and the chamber vibe of Heypenny and then turn the pussometer up to about 8 and a half. If I was in that band I’d have gotten the fuck out of Detroit, too. In fact, I’d probably still be looking over my shoulder to make sure the MC5 weren’t about to beat me down with Iggy Pop’s schlong.

…Or Whatever Comes My Way

Hello, friends. My name is Toots McGruder, and I am this week’s guest contributor to Taytyme. You know me currently only as a commenter on all things Tay, but in the spirit of full disclosure, I must confess that Tay and I occasionally share an adult beverage together, and we sometimes perform late night jams consisting of Tay’s favorite musical hits from his youth (for example, you might remember the Bay City Rollers classic “The Fox is Loose”). Anyways, here’s my story:

In my occupation, I perform inspections on new home construction. In laymen’s terms, that means I look at people’s shit and say “Yay”, “Nay”, or sometimes, “Tay.” One recent morning, a homeowner walked out and started talking at Toots. He was a lanky, older, pony-tailed gentleman with a voice like a canary, and I immediately said to myself, “Toots, this dude performs tunes for a living.” He invites me in to talk about his business, and I reluctantly oblige. Sure enough, I notice out of the corner of my eye a room filled with musical instruments and I quietly high five myself. Right again, Toots! After brief conversation, this dude – hereafter referred to as “Shakes The Dude” – hands me his business card, which is completely useless to me. I read the card, and in the top left corner, it says “Steppenwolf, Inc.”

I instantly felt violated, because I realized I was being Richard Marx-ed. For those of you in the unawares, to be Richard Marx-ed is to be approached by a faux-celebrity and/or rock n’ roll ghost, and then having it insisted upon that you recognize his existence. Steppenwolf, eh? Not bad, not bad ’tall. But since Toots don’t play that shit, I remained quiet. Shakes was visibly upset that I was not acknowledging who the fuck I was talking to.

So there’s a little bit of back and forth, and it becomes obvious that Shakes will refuse to shut his cocksucker until this me-recognizing-he’s-in-steppenwolf business is resolved. After a few minutes of tense negotiations on how he’s going to get me to realize just who in the hell he is, Shakes breaks down and finally asks me, “Do you like rock n’ roll music?” I say, “Fuck yeah, Shakes, bring it on.” I stop myself from asking the next obvious question, which is “Do you wanna jam?” I do not ask this question because I know Shakes’ answer will undoubtedly be “Yes,” and what would follow could only lead to certain disaster. I keep quiet, and Shakes sneaks off into a secret room. He quickly returns with an Official Steppenwolf Digital Video Disc and hands it to me. “Here,” he says, “take this. That doesn’t look like me on the back, but I promise you, it is.” I peruse the cover of this Steppenwolf product, and I see a picture of a man that is obviously Shakes. As a matter of fact, it is a photograph of Shakes playing what cannot be mistaken for anything other than a keytar. A quick look-see of the packaging reveals that the DVD contains the hits “Magic Carpet Ride”, “Heavy Metal Thunder” (mistakenly referred to on the cover as “Born To Be Wild”), and the all-time great Steppenwolf hit “Snowblind Friend.”

I was a little dizzy from what had just been laid on my table, so I got the fuck outta there. I gave my thanks for the treasure, grabbed my shit, and headed out the door. As I backed out of the driveway, I realized that I’d forgotten to ask for an autograph. Fuck my shitter! Who’s going to believe that I got this from Shakes himself, and that it’s not some unopened Christmas present from my drunk granny Skillet McGruder, who probably stole it from some homeless fellow in Sri Lanka? Well listen here, you sonofabitch, I’m telling the truth, and there is no greater truth than Toots’ truth!

So, the point of this story is not that you should shower me with accolades after my brief (yet glorious) brush with rock n’ roll royalty. Well, that’s part of it, but not all of it. The real question is, which one of yous is gonna buy this DVD on E-bay, so Toots and Tay can get a motherfucking drink?

Street Gang Appreciation Night, Part One

Well shiver me timbers if Tay and the boys didn’t sail into Manhattan’s Lower East Side on a fifty-foot wave of whisky and beat that shit like Katrina. The list of fools getting laid to waste read like a damn Taytyme greatest hits. Tay, Toots, Snuggs, Larry J., P-Jiddy and Sexy Vixen Oh-69, Bruva Bear and The Doog - why even the lovely former Mrs. Tay, Ritchie Stinkfinger, and a Young Professional had their shit in full effect. God Almighty himself was walking through the club striking bitches blind with booze, and it was good. Thanks be to the Maker for disabling a certain lady’s sense of smell, too, cause Tay sat his ass down in a hobo’s puke and had to ride the subway to Brooklyn. Thanks to the kind New York lady who said, “Here, Mister,” and offered a SINGLE McDONALDS NAPKIN to rectify the situation. Look, there are some problems that ain’t gonna be fixed until you wash ’em in toilet water and some old-ass 86 proof Jack.

At some point, the new day’s sun braved a peek down at the damage wrought, and Tay hid his ass away for fear of retribution. Round two started with a couple of Aleve and an extra-strength Tylenol washed down with a double Jack left on the table a few hours before. Next thing you know, Tay’s barefoot in the street, hanging up on people and wearing a lady’s pajama bottoms, smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer, trying to flag down the Poon Tang Cruiser for a less-than-looked-forward-to ride back home.

I tell you what, if only the Falls City Angels had been there to stab some sucker, you could have called it an awards show. Then again, Keith Lowen did get set on fire.