One last XXX-mas story, and then we'll commence with the present tense.

The next night, a friend called to request an evening appointment with Taytyme. “Do you like the fancy beers?” he asked. “I like alcohol,” I said. He replied, “Well you’re in luck, because the thing about Brooklyn is that New York keeps its booze here.” Plans were made, accidentally broken (the dude left early, not getting the whole on tyme/in tyme thing), and then improved upon. We met another friend, went to a better bar, and to quote Mr. David Li Roth, “took it just a little too far.” P-Jiddy threw up in Tay’s lap, Tay had a fight with a thief of a cab driver, and for the second tyme in as many months, Tay left Brooklyn wearing a lady’s pajamas. For the record, when given a choice of circumstances Taytyme would prefer to wear the Party Favor’s PJs than his sister’s.

Heaving Anniverserairy!

Shake up the champagne and watch your eyes everybody, cause today Taytyme is a whole year old for the first time ever! Yes sirs, I remember the evening of January 21st 2006 like it was last year. Have we not been having hells of fun together ever since? Shit, mans! We’ve been to the Freedom Parkway, seen a few movies, met some interesting people, and even fucked with the occult! And that’s all prior to the whole Larry Slimfast debacle! Want to waste a whole day? Take a trip through the archives to remind yourself who stunk it up in 2006. I tell you what, readership and future conquests in the game of love: 2007 has a lot to live up to. In the mean tyme, thanks for reading. See you in few!

Whoa, here's another diary entry from December 22! That must have been the busiest day of my life! Then again, most people do more before noon than I do all day. But eat shit, mothers, cause I have more dreams after 9:30 in the morning than all of y'alls combined! Last night I dreamed a Saturday morning-style commercial for Sesame Street plush toys that gave birth. Like as in Grover had a vagina and you could squeeze him and a litle Grover would come out. I guess I was pretty confused during the night, because one character in the commercial was Grimmace from McDonalds. He was weird. See, his lack of genetalia made it necessary for him to burp his babies out of his mouth, like in that Flannery O'Conner story. It was hilarious! Seriously, he'd like burp, and as he did, little soft pyramid-shaped purple things with googly eyes would plop out. He was the last guy they showed in the commercial because he was the only one that was different. It was one of those "And now featuring Grimmace, whose features are radically different than the rest of our toys" kind of things. But back to the 22nd...

That night Tay and the fam hit a bar where they played tons of Morrissey and Big Star’s “September Girls.” That and the whiskey made a beer run on the way home absolutely necessary, so Tay and P-Jiddy ran into a convenience store while the train was stopped and accidentally frightened a large black man carrying chips. “Just don’t hurt me!” he cried, all wide-eyed and afraid. “Shit, you sneaked up on me, you’re on a mission. You move like you ain’t got footsteps.” I laughed and he asked me for money to pay for his chips.

“Taytyme, what the hell’s been going on?” My thoughts exactly, were I you. Damn if I haven’t been busy on the beaver, so to speak. Lemme tell ya: I thought it would be cool to make 2007 the Year of Employment, but with the way its been cutting into my Taytyming, I’m considering reconsidering.

Late this past Friday night it was taytyme over at Chris “there is no such thing as last call” Crofton’s house for beer, Fugazi, Billy Joel, Winger, and Paul Anka. No, not the Paul Anka from MASH. The other one. I bring it up not to brag, but as a way to introduce the following diary entry, dated December 22. Enjoy!

Don’t you love the days before you go out of town even better than the trip you take, when you get drunk with everyone you know individually because you won’t see them again for like SEVEN DAYS? After a week of such goodbyes that culminated in chance encounters with representatives of the Features (who, sorry?) and Lake Fever Productions and the daughter of a woman who used to date the father of Eric from Spider Virus (pause for breath), Tay fell asleep in his car and then found himself on an airplane to New York City with one Mr. Chris Crofton. The plane trip was planned, but the Chris Crofton part was pure rock and roll coincidence. He saw me first and said, “Taytyme? Guess there’s no music happening in Nashville this weekend. Not any worth a damn, anyway. The Spin’s gonna be EMPTY next week.” Upon our arrival at JFK, he introduced me to a strange little man he referred to as his “father.” The guy looked at Chris’s guitar case and asked me if Chris was any good. I told him that Chris was funny, but couldn’t play guitar for shit. He said that that wasn’t surprising, because in his words, “he never could.”

Later on while waiting for an elevator to the Airtrain, Chris was telling me about his vacation plans. “I’ll spend a few days in the city and then head up to Connecticut for Christmas,” he said.

“Do you have family there?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s where my mom and dad live. That’s why my dad was here at the airport to pick up my brother.”

“Wait, that was really your dad?” I asked.

He said, “Yeah, why?”

“I totally thought you were fucking with me. I thought some insane old hobo just started talking to you.”

Just then, the doors of the elevator opened up and spilled like fifteen elementary school boys wearing yarmulkes into the hallway. Chris turned to me and said, “Looks like I picked the wrong week to start hating Jews.”

A headache like this can only mean "Happy New Year"

Mucho apologeticos to all the bros and sweet lovin ladies who’ve had to read that Privates post for nigh onto three weeks. Sure Tay’s been on vacation, but shit! According to the archives, Tay’s been on vacation since February thirteenth of last year! I only feel bad about being out of touch because of my well-known personal crusade to wipe out carpal tunnel syndrome in the southeastern United States. (Let Bono deal with AIDS in Africa. I say take a look in the mirror and make that change, man. Whose dog's digging in your own backyard?) I hate to think that you guys have been typing “taytyme.blogspot.com” into your browser windows over and over again only to find the same old same old for days on end. It pains me to picture you clicking relentlessly on the comments links, hoping against hope that something new will appear if you just keep trying. “Christamighty, at least give me some spam,” I hear you cry. I don’t want you wearing out your wrists and mouses (mice?) on taytyme for nothing, you know? What’s the lifetime of a mouse, anyway? Like probably 400,000 clicks is my guess. Look, if your mouse wore out in the past week, just drop me a line and we’ll rectify that shit. No new mouse or anything, but I bet I can get you a mustache ride from the Snuggler once he gets that thing up and running again.

Here’s what we’ll do. Instead of bringing you up to date with a drawn-out Larry J. Slimfast-ish post, I’ll get with you every couple of days and by the tyme our one-year anniversary together rolls around at the end of the month, we’ll be back on the same page. See you at work, babies!