“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.”