taytyme

2007-05-25T00:49:00.000-07:00

There I was, there I was, there I was…AT the 3 Crow. All-out minding my buzzniss when this hobo nudged me and went, “Dude, whatever happened to taytyme?” I was like, “I don’t know who this guy is, he must be in De Novo Dahl. And what is Tay-time? Sounds like one of those unexpected slogans on candy hearts, like ‘hott stuff,’ ‘email,’ ‘skin it back,’ ‘tay-time.’ Yeah, yeah, like you’d say, ‘Baby, you know I play the drums, how about after the show you drive us to your place for some tay-time.’”

That’s when it hit me like a whiff of my own Sunday morning breff. “I am so much of a turd. I have blue-balled all my peeps way fierce with none of updates for so long that I forgot I even had a personality. Didn’t I used to be a pro internetter?” But don’t doubt me for too long, byitches, cause I got up a jones right then and there to let loose a summer storm full of cusses and typos straight out of Hail and still on fi-yahhhh!(.) I rang Larry J. to remind me how to get to my page, which took way too long due to his confusing my password with several of his own to porno subscription sites, and now here I am, all kinds of ready to lay the Word on you fags. Take it easy on me if it turns out such that I need to ease back into this balony, k? This shit might suck a thing or two.

Now I’d surmise that you might take my absence as a sign that shit’s been hitting the flan around Tay’s parts, but that’s just carzy. Everybody knows that this guy’s been on permanent taycation for a whole generation. And chim-chiminey charoo, brothers. Ain’t nothing’s hit Tay’s parts in a damn shame of a while.

What’s happened since I last typed at you? Four things. For starters, just about everybody including yours truly peed on themselves last week. Soiling yourself in the course of carrying out an act of misadventure is totally the new awesome. What’s your in-the-12-ounce-can-in-the-back-seat-of-the-car vs. all-over-your-own-pants pee ratio? Did you briss it up? How many somersaults can YOU do mid-void? On Friday I saw a girl do three, and they were all backwards. Beat that and you win the Yellow Badge of Courage.

Thanks to Dean the lion-hearted, we now know that Josh from the Squibs is secretly a Canadian person. I KNOW. His bass tone seems better than that. As you’ve no doubt heard, Dean’s Larry Norman Conquest has finally felled some folks, and they’re all mitay pleased about it. But Josh, keeping in step with the unwashed masses of America haters that Dean’s had the misfortune to have surrounded himself with for the past 20 years, weirdly described the piano sound on “I am a Servant” as “ridiculous” instead of “bad-ass.” Sorry, dude. You’re out of the club.

Speaking of our fair country, it’s good to know that everyone’s favorite sensitive drummer with a heart of gold and an ass full of gas Aaron “They Say an Old Guitar is all He Canna” Ford is back from the USA’s European colonies and protectorates. Word has it that while overseas he hell of learned to eat beans and mostly wore a speedo. Hey, a fella gets loony on the road.

Finally, I leave you with this warning. If I choose be in the same room as you and you choose to try to make me dig on some ELO, be the fuck ware. Faster than Duraluxe can kill a 12-pack, I’ll tell you that ELO is the gay man’s ABBA and leave said room on a mission to be somewhere where Jeff Lynne's crazy bullshit isn’t. You have been warned. Trust me, you don’t want this guy to not still be at your party at four AM.

On that note,

I am your Mayor,

Taytyme.

Wax Fang rules!

2007-04-17T19:40:00.000-07:00

OK, I was on Wikipedia the other day and found out there was no entry for Wax Fang. Well there sure is now!

Wax Fang is a rock trio from Louisville, Kentucky, a commonwealth in the United States whose bourbon whisky and expansive underground systems of caves keep it from being known only for methamphetamine and horse turds.

Not much is known about Wax Fang’s recorded output, but photos posted on the web prove their presence at a recording session at Ardent Studios in Memphis, Tennessee. The band’s live performances are characterized by visually stunning cymbal playing and the use of guitar effects such as distortion and delay. Stylistically, Wax Fang lies somewhere between two theremins. At a 2007 show in Nashville, TN, Wax Fang made Mr. Grieves of seminal garage band The Clutters happy that he had gotten a haircut. Considering their sound, many listeners may find it surprising that the band cites influences as disparate as Neil Diamond and Brian Eno. In reality, one of their songs sounds kind of like Queen, but the rest of them are even worse.

Band History

The unique history of Wax Fang has been the subject of much debate among fans and quantum scientists. Though different theories abound, it is difficult to pinpoint exactly when Wax Fang formed because the members of the group originally met and began playing together in a time machine.

Before Wax Fang

The day before teaming up with Wax Fang in what will for purposes of this article be referred to as “2006 subcurrent B,” Kevin Ratterman (b. 1965) was playing drums in the 1980s under-the-radar heavy metal powerhouse Mess Hall, perhaps best remembered for their traditional show opener, “(Let’s All Head to the) Mess Hall (Show).” Ratterman was regarded by colleagues in the Los Angeles, Illinois heavy metal scene as something of an untrustworthy braggart, having claimed for years that the magazine Modern Drummer was named after him.

Bassist Jake Heustis (real name Bizzy McThrusstin, b. 1970) founded the band Groinpull in 1993 after moving to Seattle from Tumbleweed, Oklahoma. Groinpull became an immediate fixture of the Seattle grunge scene, and could regularly be seen turning tricks for L7 and moving Gruntruck’s equipment. Bizzy changed his name after finding out in 2006 subcurrent B that people hadn’t had names like that since 1988.

Singer/guitarist Scott Carney has perhaps the most intriguing back story of the group, having burst spontaneously into existence at the precise moment of John Davis’s religious awakening in 2003. This phenomenon is held to be the single greatest unexplained mystery in rock music, with the exception of mainstream music critics’ continuing admiration for the music of Nirvana.

Wax Fang Today

According to the Jack Daniels Tennessee Sour Mash Whisky Co., Wax Fang currently represents the very best of today’s indie (rock) music. Rumors have been circulated that the band is shopping a finished album called “Wax and Wayne” to several major American record labels. If these efforts are successful, it stands to reason that the Jack Daniels Co. will have to reword their characterization of the band.

Wax Fang currently plays in Nashville, Tennessee once every month to thunderous applause from the music writers of the local alternative weekly paper. They plan to spend the summer of 2007 supporting My Morning Jacket on a tour of the United States.

2007-04-08T19:06:00.000-07:00

Allright, all you dicks who complain at me late on a Friday about “no updates for three weeks on taytyme.” You wanna read something new every damn day? Go start your own blog. Good luck trying to impress yourself after reading this shit, though. Not even your wife digs your jokes, and you don’t want to know how I know that. This tyme on taytyme: the Gossip Hour.

According to well-placed sources, even The Doors think the worst band ever is Faces. Don’t get big on yourself though, Mr. Manzarek. X ain’t about to lessen taytyme’s wrath on you!

Service at the Alley Cat is oppressively slow as always, but the waitrettes are still hotter than a jalapeño bread bowl at Chili’s!

Tastemaker Dean Bratcher has two Vinnie Vincent records and no KISS records, and that’s why he thinks he’s a better person than most people.

If you’ve lost something, check out the full-ass trunk of Toots McGruder’s party wagon before you waste time retracing your steps. It’s got literally everything. I once saw a wheelchair rider find the ability to walk in there! Here’s a list of the shit that’s on top (you gotta dig for anything else): one Mexican blanket, a pair of galoshes, an authentic Desert Storm uniform, two tubes of Ritz crackers packaged with sliced meat and cheese products, a poorly concealed Penthouse Forum stash (every issue from the 1985-1987 “So I was just sitting there in traffic when…” era), a variety pack of Axe body spray, an abacus, half a failed prototype bottle of “Bill Boner’s Cumberland Brand Whiskie Drink”, and one Benjamin Franklin style swimming costume (used).

Pot is pretty much back in style.

Everybody’s best friend The Snuggler hasn’t bought a guitar in 2 weeks! If you’re selling, now’s the time. I bet he’s jonesin’ something fierce to spend and spend big!

Kenny Christmas got busy with a bartender (it was “not” Jake from The Clutters) in the break room at the Bluegrass Inn, and now he’s got a spot opening up for an industry networking session every third Monday. Go cheer that little dude on and land yourself an entry-level position at BMI!

Speaking of an entry-level position, is there any sexual peccadillo that Larry J. Slimfast hasn’t thought of, tried, perfected, and dismissed? Man, that guy’s hornier than a trial lawyer at a Jagermeister-soaked speed boat race!

Have you heard about P. Jiddy’s new nemesis? Me neither! What’s up with that shit?

Matt Moody: still taller than you, and with more beard than a Republican congressman from San Francisco.

Looks like your favorite ex-patriot Tucker has taken to trolling internet websites for love. Good luck, boy-cut!

The guy from De Novo Dahl is still pretty unfamiliar looking. Go figure!

And hey, has anybody seen James lately?

Oh, oh, oh, only time will tail what the coming days hold for the residents of taytown. In the mean tyme, got anybody you want to out this week? Stick it to ‘em in the comments, byitches! Peace! (Happy Easter.)

Important Announcement!

2007-03-18T20:51:00.000-07:00

Guess what, the internet? Today is a very special day for Taytyme.

He has just posted entry #69.

To celebrate, here's a photo of some rockers in love.

(I found it that time when I googled "toot-toot.")

Just in Tyme for This Weekend, Here's Last Weekend

2007-03-16T17:35:00.000-07:00

So last weekend I peed with this guy at the Glossary bandiversary. Well, more like he peed with me. The bathroom was empty when I scoped it out, but I guess the dude saw me disappear around the corner and figured he’d cash in on that shit too. Ladies, allow me to describe the Boro’s men’s room for those of you who haven’t been bent over in it yet. There is a urinal, and there is a sit-down style toilet, and there is a sink. There are no stalls, duh, and there is no lock on the door. The stand-up and sit-down pots are on opposite walls, so at least you have your back to your bathroom bud while you go. Or at least you do until he seizes the opportunity to rap with you after zipping up, which is just what Quick-pee McGee had planned to do with me. He told me that he loves the two things I do that he knows about and said he’d like to get my styles on some stuff he’s doing over at Somebody’s place. It was great news, but he told it all while standing next to me as I peed!

During the whole ordeal I was thinking, “Thanks, thanks…so right now I’m holding my dick, and you are looking at me. You’ve actually taken steps closer to me as you’ve been talking. Now you’re close enough to hold my dick for me. How’s your aim, man? Would you like to take a shot at this?” As usual, I made it through by focusing my energy on thinking up an Injun name for him: Inappropriate Time For Compliments.

In retrospect, I probably could have worked the situation so that it ended with me getting my Doug on. Bummer, I guess. I could have become the oldest person to ever lay claim to such a feat at the Boro. But in retro-retrospect, the guy didn’t wash his hands after he shook off, and that’s a deal breaker for me. (I would not get booty from myself, as I also regularly violate the “golden rule”). I did wash my hands this time, because he was still talking when I finally finished and I thought that watching me do it might make him feel low-class.

2007-03-10T17:59:00.000-08:00

Where’ve I been and what’ve I been up to? What the hell time is it, question-thirty? All you need to know is that I’m back in action, I smell like beer, lady parts, and a couple pairs of feet, and that I finally scored that big interview with Brian Dunkleman, the ONE TRUE host of American Idol. Unfortunately, it turns out that he’s barely as interesting as ASCAP night at the Basement, so I had to sell the shit to Nashville Cream for a cool six of Tecate. I know, right? I got such a buzz on that I decided to add some more pictures to the internet.

Here’s one of the chicks from the Clutters, all bragging about how some famous person thinks they’re really “garagey.” She said that after they were (mistakenly included) in an issue of Rolling Stone (like on the back page, probably) Chicken Ranch gave everybody in the band these special credit cards that make beer free on the east side. Check this out: I saw that bitch pay a dude to go buy one of those novelty cigarette lighters for the express purpose that she would then be able to set money on fire to light her smokes. Some people!

The story of 90 whatever point sompthing

2007-02-18T23:02:00.000-08:00

Oh fuck, hosses. Snug’s fount himself a brant new radio station and now he can’t even get out of his car. He’s been sitting in the parking lot at work for nigh on to two weeks, subsisting on the cheese stuck to a couple of old Sonic wrappers and popping cold pills just to stay awake for one more jam. Every hour on the hour they play an old Genesis song for him, the name of which he can’t quite put his finger in. As co-workers pass his car, he rolls down the window and yells, “Goin to the roadhouse, gonna have-a-rio…a good time!” He marvels at how these DJs seem to have all the same Beatles records as he does, and on top of that how they too dig hard on some Eagles. Say, did somebody just request “Captain Jack?” Yes, please. “Bungle in the Jungle?” Don’t mind if I do. Even the commercials are killer: the latest yuks and insane cackling of those wacksters from the Bob and Tom show have never seemed so concise.

Boys, if you’re in the area do him a favor and drop a 5-hour energy, a bag of Doritos, some large Huggies, and a half-pint of anything by his car. Don’t let him coax you into sticking around for a chorus of “American Pie,” though. You’ll never leave.

Fambly

2007-02-11T22:40:00.000-08:00

Dambit, doods! How many tymes does a fella have to tell the world that he is the real-deal daddy of Anna Nicole Smith’s (god rest those titties) little love-baby? I’m about had it with these posers trying to act like their swimmers hit that bitch in the babypods any better than mine did. She told me herself that she was pretty sure the kid was mine and I was all, “Nooooo, thanks. You know I only impregnate girls who dig abortion, so this shit ain’t about me.” I knew I shoulda done her Cheatham county style, but my pill buzz led me off course and right into her danger tunnel.

Anyway, I faxed her mom to keep her hands off and I’m heading down to the Bahamas this weekend to claim what’s rightly mine. Any of y’all want to buy a baby?

2007-02-08T14:14:00.000-08:00

Come on, brothers. Everybody knows that Taytyme's pet peeves are many and not mild. Take other people trying to light my cigarette. It’s not a team sport, man. You and I are too many cooks for this kitchen. My smoke's starting to look like one of those cigars that blows up in the face of a cartoon, because the tip of it was the last bit to actually touch the flame. My crossed eyes and jutted jaw are like a Neanderthal's, and girls who thought I looked good a minute ago are now acutely aware that I'm no kind of a smooth operator. Just hand me your lighter! Three times out of five I won’t put it away in my own pocket.

And Moses damn Malone, what about those blogs that just show you what a dude looked at on the internet today? You know, the whole category of “the internet, as I see it” blogs. The "hey man, look at this" variety. Put that baloney in an email to your friends. I already have the internet, and I sure as shit don't need you to tell me what's on it. It's like when people tell me that I HAVE to hear some band, see some movie, or go to some restaurant. I punch those fuckers in the tits and say, “Nobody tells me what to do.”

That being said, look what popped up the other night when Taytyme came home dronked up and googled "gayest band in the world."

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

2007-01-26T17:01:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-01-21T20:45:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-01-17T12:18:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-01-15T10:16:00.000-08:00

“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"

2007-01-05T14:46:00.000-08:00

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!

Seriously, The Privates?

2006-12-19T00:10:00.000-08:00

Sorry, bros, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk some shit about the Privates real quick. I never paid those dudes much mind back when they were supposed to be the shit around town, and damn if that position didn’t get validated Saturday night. For the uninitiated, hearing a Privates set is basically the musical equivalent of reading a dog-eared People magazine while you wait for your doctor to finish feeling up the old dude whose appointment preceded yours. Their music is both familiar and bland, polished and boring as hell. You keep waiting for them to do something you don’t expect, as if you’re about to turn the page of the magazine and all of a sudden find a picture of Screech crapping on somebody, but it just never happens.

Whatever, man. Maybe when you’re just a part-time band you end up being so busy trying to remember each other’s names that you don’t have any tyme left to get good ideas about how your songs should go.

Grand Palace boozin'

2006-12-16T09:14:00.000-08:00

You guys know Chike, the drummer from Spider Virus? Brace yourselves, men, and don't ask me how I know what his back tastes like (balls/the ocean).

2006-12-09T22:36:00.000-08:00

This ain’t Taytyme...it’s 00AsianDisco.

Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if this ain’t the easiest blog to break into in the entire “internet.” Now I’ve tried my share of illegal activity on this here computer but this break-in takes the cake.

Let me tell you a story about a girl named “erin” and a city called “New York.” Now “erin” happened to be groovin’ to some cheesy pop music at this bar downtown when she discovered a secret room in the basement next to the bathroom. There were some crazy strobe lights shining into the hallway with that come-hither look that one could hardly resist. In a trance, “erin” along with a few friends investigated the situation only to find, to their amazement and delight, that this room was filled with disco music and neon lights, and it had the star of David painted on the dance floor. Yes. The Star of David.

I know what you’re thinking. THIS IS THE BEST PARTY EVER! But alas, the second “erin” started chanting “Go David, go David!” the lights suddenly turned off and the music came to a screeching halt.

Well I’ll be damned. “Erin” looked through the darkness only to find a pair of old Asian men telling her to please leave the bar. “Erin” proceeded to tell them in her calmest shout that the asian disco was over when she said it was over.

Well, that was that. Someone (I won’t name names) got kicked out, only to find comfort in that ever-so-faithful pizzeria Rosario’s where her tradition of comedic bulimia will live to see another day.

High Technology

2006-12-06T12:29:00.000-08:00

Here's a camera phone picture from Rock and Roll poker night. Yes, that's Stevie Ray Vaughn and Roger Waters getting peed on.

2006-12-03T18:13:00.000-08:00

Man, if you weren’t at the shit-rock fest that went down at the End last night, you were in the majority. But don’t look so smug, asshole, because you also didn’t get a chance to go to Dean’s house afterwards for some real-life Rock and Roll poker. You know how everything Dean owns came from eBay, including his car, his toothbrush, his jeans, and his flesh-light? Well he recently hit the mother load, and he deemed last night a special enough occasion to share his bounty with our fair city’s rock elite.

What Dean had procured were several unopened packs of “Rockcards” manufactured in 1991. Rockcards are exactly what you think they are. Like baseball cards with rock dudes on them. On the front of a card is a picture of a long-haired guy with his name on a banner and his band’s logo in the upper right corner. Turn the card over and you find another photo and some stats. For instance, Chuck Billy of Testament was born on June 23, a day no doubt referred to in his home town of Dublin, California as “Chuck Billy Day.” Check out his profile: “Testament’s Chuck Billy stalks the stage like a bull in a china shop. His shaggy mane of hair covering his face, his tall body practically dwarfing his bandmates, Billy virtually demands attention as he preaches out Testament’s power-riffed songs. He says his primary motivation these days is to ‘play in front of anyone, anywhere.’” I KNOW. Wow.

So Dean would shuffle the deck and deal each of us five cards, out of which we were to form the best possible super trio. Things got out of hand, dudes got drunker, and the definition of “trio” was stretched pretty far. Here’s a summary of the last round of the nyte:

Josh from the Squibs had Chris Slade of the “Razor’s Edge” era AC/DC on drums, Cliff Williams on bass, David Bryan of Bon Jovi on keys, and Cinderella’s Tom Keefer on vocals.

Larry J. Slimfast came correct with Tommy Lee on drums, Dana Strum of Slaughter on bass and backing vocals, Angus Young and Dave the Snake Sabo on double lead guitar, and Alice Cooper as the front man.

Taytyme himself was an early leader with his no-guitar guitar band. It was Vince Neil, Mark Slaughter, and Jani Lane on lead vocals, with two Cozy Powells on the drums.

Ft. Lauderdale Smith must’ve dealt himself some extras, cause he had Mick Mars on lead, Tony Iommi on rhythm, Cliff Williams on bass, Tico Torres on drums, David Bryan on keys, Ray Thomas of the Moody Blues on flute, and Pink Floyd on vocals.

But it was Mason from Ole Mossy Face who was the night’s undisputed champion. His band was fronted by Andrew Eldritch of the Sisters of Mercy, accompanied by Rob McKillop of Exodus on bass, two Jerry Dixons in shorts on another bass, and the rest of Exodus.

2006-11-25T16:56:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-14T23:39:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-12T16:52:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-11T19:30:00.001-08:00

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

2006-11-08T14:58:00.000-08:00

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.

An Open Letter to Mr. Larry J. Slimfast, Retard.

2006-10-26T11:24:00.000-07:00

Dear sir, it has damn come to my attention that you have spent countless hours decoding the password to my personal web-based pamphleteering project, taytyme.blogspot.com, in order to get in on the good loving that follows a self-published self-publisher everywhere he goes.

Kudos to you. I heartily suggest that you cease wearing both a belt and underwear post haste as such apparel will only hinder the private and public displays of wanton lust you will no doubt become familiar with in the coming days. Perhaps unbeknownst to you or perhaps not, veritable herds of beautiful women read the internet. Heed a word of warning from a veteran of the world-wide web's shit-talking scene: these herds are currently surging towards you. When they converge, it will not be pretty, but it will be awesome. You will smell funny for weeks. You can't scrub it out with lava soap, brother.

That being said, I'd like to offer you a few pointers on your story style. For instance, more than once this week I’ve overheard a young female complain, "Did you see where Larry Slimfast hyjacked taytyme? He sounds hot, but I bet he'd just talk your ear off." Larry, this may be a sign that your post was too long. Hey, I didn't say it, the hottest piece of ass in Bent Fur did. Maybe here’s a good rule of thumb: if your shit is three pages long in Word, publish it in installments.

As a favor to you, Mr. Slimfast, I will publish my own version of your story later this week for you to use as a template for any further hacking you may have planned. Until then, take care, use protection, and for god’s sake quit listening to Pearl Jam.

All the best,

Taytyme.

2006-10-20T17:26:00.000-07:00

This ain't taytyme…

It's Larry J. Slimfast time, and I know how to use a spell check… among other things. Why is it Larry J. time? Because the stories have been coming in too slow on taytyme (he's been busy looking for the "Church Bell" setting on Rock Commando's keyboard) and I figured out his password (it's 'anal-stage' spelled backwards). That's right. Taytyme has been hacked.

So here you go…

Story number one: I hyjacked taytyme.

Story number deuce: The other night I had to go to Layl'a Rul, Jay Pennington's new cocaine bar on 20th avenue. I went for a birthday party. Normally I wouldn't go to a place like that for such nonsense but it was my girlfriend's birthday and I like to have sex so I went. If you've never been to Layl'a Rul, it's kinda like a Hotpipes show - boring, noisy and there is always some weasely, slightly balding weirdo screeching over the top of everything at unnecessarily high volumes. But like I said, I went anyway because those things are really of no concern to me when it comes to keeping my favorite lady satisfied.

I wasn't in there long before I knew I that had better leave or I was going to get pissed off. I was right as usual but not before I scored a really awesome weed hook-up from somebody's ex-girlfriend's old roommate's brother. Things were actually going fairly well until the party moved upstairs. Upstairs was supposed to be a "dance party" but it was really just a bunch of snotty Vandy kids and rich scene-ster wanna-bees that think they are much more sophisticated than they really are. There are also some really low couches, some tall, wooden cubes that serve as awkward tables, a small dance floor and a lighted "dance podium" that is only allowed for use by females. I find this last feature to be sexist. What about the flamboyant gay dudes that want to put on a show? You'd think a place like this would cater to queers but… whatever.

So I got a drink (ten lousy bucks for a vodka and tonic) and found a "table" near the back of a couch with my friend, Hard C (it was his birthday too) and some others. Now, there are no places to sit at these tables because there are no fucking chairs in Layl'a Rul. Apparently chairs don't fit the vibe or something and they only want people to lounge around on the couches while they snort their barbs. Ol' Hard C and I sat our asses down on the back of that couch and commenced pondering our existence. It wasn't long before some squirrelly little bouncer dude comes over and tells us that he "can't have people sitting on the back of the couches."

C hops up and says. "Aw man this is BULLSHIT! I'm leaving!"

I kept on sitting and said, "What is this place, my grandmothers 'good room?' Whatever dude." Mr. Bouncer scattered off after that. It was then that I really knew I had to leave or I would be angry. This sucked because A) angry dudes usually don't get sweet lovin' and 2) neither do guys that leave their date's birthday party early. I could only do one thing… get kicked out for a bullshit reason. I've never been kicked out of a bar before (that I can remember) but this seemed like the perfect opportunity.

As I sat anxiously, some burly guy with an Abercrombie & Fitch knock-off flannel shirt and a goatee came up and introduced himself as "Chad D." He wanted to bum a smoke and use an empty glass at my table as an ashtray while he waited on some people. I gave him a menthol and told him to have a seat on the back of the couch while he waited. We had the following conversation.

"Man I've never seen you here before. I come in here four or five nights a week. I fuckin' love this place."

"I don't. I think I'm about to try to get kicked out of here."

"What do you wanna do that for?"

"Oh, you know, the bouncer over there is full of shit."

"Well if you need a badass to back you up, I got you covered."

"Did you just call yourself a badass?"

"Yep." I like Chad D. He reminds me of my friend Truck. Ask the Snuggler about him.

"Well, they just don't want us sitting on the back of the couches is all. It's a load of crap."

"Really?" Chad D stands up quickly.

"Dude, sit down. It's nothing. He hasn't said anything to you yet."

"Naw man, I think I see my friends are over there."

Then the bouncer came up, said "Sir, I'm not gonna ask you to get off the back of the couch again…" and left me sitting there… again.

Pussy.

Chad D wandered off after I introduced him to my lady-friend. He also told her he was a badass and that I was crazy… nice guy that Chad D.

Sticking to my seat, I filled the birthday girl in on all of the recent developments. She only feigned support for my ridiculous cause but did not get angry. That's why she's awesome.

When the bouncer came back and asked me to get up again I politely reminded him that he said he wasn't going to do that anymore. To that he said he didn't want to have to ask me to leave. I told him he could if he wanted but he just turned around and left me sitting on the back of the couch. I sorta felt sorry for him but I kept on sitting just the same. At this point my better half decided she was kicking me out and I had to get up and leave… unsatisfied. We ended up arguing over the benefits of lambskin condoms on the way home and I fell asleep (again unsatisfied) under a pile of Arby's cheese-stick wrappers on the floor of her apartment.

2006-10-14T15:40:00.000-07:00

Well, I was all set to help some ladies I know start a band called The Sexecutioners. I came to the idea a little late (I come to most events a little late. I get to places in tyme, not on tyme), so I missed the meeting regarding wardrobe (a librarian theme) and album title (Sexecutionary Style). I didn't mind them getting started without me because details aren't really my bag, you know? I'm more of a song title man.

Things seemed to be on the track to greatness: we had top-notch personnel, a sexy gimmick, and freshly-inked contracts going into the first rehearsal. I was excited, and then shocked by the fiasco that awaited me at the rehearsal space. Friends, I had been duped. The mere presence of a microphone transformed the Sexecutioners from the Life of the party into mumbling, wilting, floor-staring wallflowers. These girls were no Sexecutioners! They were real-life spinster librarians! And the problems didn't stop with the ladies, no! The backing band had all kinds of issues, too. The guitar player was clearly intoxicated and the drummer was a little too handsome for his own good. That guy should be in New York modeling underwear.

I hate to lay it on the line like this, but I can't in good conscience let these girls play songs with the titles I suggested. They couldn’t handle my ode to Jemina Pearl, "Talkin' Statutory Rape Blues." They would murder "A Fish Called Rwanda," and I don't even want to imagine how badly they'd butcher "Hungover Like A Horse." But fear not, cause the Snuggler and I are gonna play all three of those future hits in this Jew-rock band we started called The Orthodicks.

2006-10-01T12:51:00.000-07:00

So on Fryday Taytyme went out for drinks with a lady friend he was trying to get with while her husband was out of town on business. Hey, she's lonely and vulnerable! Anyway, in the bathroom this dude was all, "TAYTYMEWHATUPDOOD."

The guy in the bathroom was the guy who inexplicably gives Tay coffee for cheaper than it's supposed to cost at the coffee shop. Apparently he also likes to buy Tay a shot after we pee together. Hey, you know me: I'll pee with or on anyone for free booze. So the guy goes, "See you later. No, wait. You know Jared Renolds?"

I told him that of course I know Jared. I brag about knowing Jared. He's the second greatest bass player in America, only about a mile and a half behind Keith Lowen.

The coffee guy replied, "Tell me about it. It's Keith's tone that makes the difference. But hey, Jared's got this friend who went to England a few weeks ago, and while he was there he saw a U2 concert."

"Oh."

"Yeah, man. He said that Bono came out on the stage by himself, and he just starts clapping real slow. Like clap...clap...clap, you know? And then after he's been doing it a while he says all serious and slow, 'Every time I clap my hands a child in Africa dies.' Well, right on cue this dude in the crowd yells, 'WELL QUIT BLOODY CLAPPING THEN!'"

I told the guy that this was the best story I had ever heard, and he said, "Yeah, man. I mean, I knew Bono had powers, but shit!"

What was it doing in the yard?

2006-10-01T12:43:00.000-07:00

Goddamn and wow! I just ran over my credit card with the lawn mower by accident. How does this shit happen to me?!?

2006-09-21T01:17:00.000-07:00

So Taytyme has this old high school friend from the Philly days. He went to a show his friend’s band played in Nashville last night, and here’s what two ten-dollar cab rides got him: a totally free totally badass show (the band is quite good), three Budweisers and an accidental bud lite, two shots of whiskey, excellent conversation, a case of mistaken identity resulting in more free drinks (what band was I supposedly in?), an unopened “litre” of Bombay Saphire, two thirds of a bottle of Auchentoshan, half a bottle of Appleton Estate, three St. Pauli Girls, five butterfingers, a Baby Ruth, an incomprehensible number of individually-wrapped tic-tacs, a poster, a t-shirt, and a pair of well-fitting Levis. This, my friends, is an incredible band. I also got the impression that I can shop for free at Target for the rest of my life, as long as I don’t throw away my “laminate.”

Quickie

2006-09-19T12:37:00.000-07:00

Hey, next tyme you're in the same room as Aaron from Duraluxe, ask him about the tyme he went to Peter Cetera's house and Peter Cetera farted really loudly in the other room.

2006-09-17T14:52:00.000-07:00

So here’s a story the Mercy Lounge guy told to Chris Crofton and me the other nyte.

This couple walks out of 3rd & Lindsley and the proverbial homeless dude comes up going, "Hey, hey, excuse me!" You know the type (Oooo, what a taytyme word!), all carrying a year-old plastic bag from Dollar General and wondering if you've seen his teef. So he's doing the "hey, excuse me" thing and the lady of the couple says, "I'm in the middle of a sentence here."

She turns back to her date and completes the sentence. The homeless dude, having waited his turn, says, "Look. Now I know you two don't want to fuck with me, so I'll just say it like it is. I smoke crack and I'm just tryin' to get two dollars."

I love this variety of crack-head.

The couple uses body language to communicate that they are not built of charity, and the dude starts getting honest. "Look. . . I'm sorry. I just told you a lie. I really only need a dollar thirteen."

The lady says, "You can't buy crack for a dollar thirteen!"

"Oh yes you can!" he replies as they continue to evacuate the scene. Now the dude gets SERIOUSLY honest. "Okay, I got to admit that I been lying to you again, and I'm sorry about that. The truth is that I already have crack and I'm trying to get something to eat." When the couple is still unmotivated to the cause, he reaches into his bag. As you've no doubt already guessed, the bag is full of dildos. "Please, check it out. I got all these dildos and they go for 60 bucks at the porno store. I'll give 'em to you for two bucks a pop."

The punch-line is that at this point in the story, Chris Crofton said, "Man, I wish I'd been there; I mean, come on. I have a dishwasher."

2006-09-13T22:39:00.000-07:00

I'm guessing you probably remember that tyme I got kicked out of Mercy Lounge for walking up to the the owner, pointing my finger in his face, and saying, "YOU'RE fucking CRAZY." I'd just overheard him talking some shit about how Van Halen had a couple of good songs with Sammy Hagar. Fortunately, I was saved from life banishment at the last minute by a mutual acquaintance. The owner guy was like, "What the fuck's your problem?" and I was like, "you're the one with the problem." He said, "You don't like Van Halen?" and I said, "Man, they broke up in 1984 when Eddie Van Halen died of alcoholism." He bought me a shot. He did not know that Eddie was deceased. "Yeah, man," I continued. "When Eddie died and Dave went solo, Alex and Mike built the Eddie Van Halen robot and pulled the wool over every-damn-body's eyes. It was crazy, man. They built it so right with DNA and everything that it even got toungue cancer just like Eddie would have if he'd lived." The guy was like, "Fuck, man." Then he said, "What about his kid, then?" I shook my head. "Exactly. That was the one flaw in the Eddie robot, and that's how everybody knows about it. Do you seriously think that the real Eddie would name his kid Wolfgang?" The guy was blown away. He had to just sort of stare into the distance while he thought this through, which gave our acquaintance a chance to chime in. "So what's up with that kid, man? He's gotta be gettin' of age and stuff by now." "Yeah dude!" I agreed. "He's in the fucking Strokes!"

Where were you on 9/11?

2006-09-12T10:38:00.000-07:00

Man, I was splitting my tyme betwixt Melrose Pool & Pong and the Springwater Supperclub & Lounge. (Too late for dinner, shucks.) Guess whose game didn't show up on 8th Ave? Damn, damn, damn. However, I did get to see some shit go down when somebody called out the doubles teams. Eat a bowl of dicks, nashvillezine and weownthistown!

Down at the 'Water, Duraluxe was hosting their now-legendary weekly spoken word party. If you missed it last night (which you probably did - only the six hippest dudes in town were invited) you should probably do something to punish yourself. I unfortunately can't take a chance describing what exactly happened. Its a matter of NATIONAL SECURITY. The cops were even there to make sure no bums were listening in. They caught one and kicked his ass all over the parking lot in the name of the Red, White, and Blue.

So I've seen Duraluxe a bunch lately, and have this suggestion: don't play any more songs. Throw out even your best tunes and get a strangle hold on that Jim Morrison vibe that suits you so well.

So that's where I was on 9/11. Yeah, it was crazy.

Huh?

Oh, THAT 9/11.

SV Action

2006-09-03T13:39:00.000-07:00

Holy shit if taytyme didn't wake up at 2:30 today and hadn't yet slept off a headache. "That's how it goes playin in a band," a poet once soothed. Actually, that's how it goes when you get your shitter kicked in by fucking SPIDER VIRUS on a Saturday night. All I can say is that they were meaner than the Christ child in a bad mood and on crack cocaine. Honestly - and you know I don't say this lightly - the early era SV songs outrock anything anybody could ever do. Including Valient Thorr. Including the Jesus Lizard. Including Slayer. Including Fair Warning and Mini Kiss. Seriously. Last week two different people said to me, "I saw them in '96 and they were so fucking scary - it was insane." If you always chickened out of seeing them, you'll never understand. The machismo in a room where Spider Virus is playing is thicker than semen. They rock so hard that it actually smells like balls.

This is all I'm saying: the next time somebody tells you some bullshit about Jason and the Scorchers or Clockhammer or Who Hit John or even F.U.C.T., you tell them to fuck off. Because anyone who knows anything about the history of this scene would rather be rocking Spider Virus.

Weekend Forum

2006-08-26T14:21:00.000-07:00

Now I know as well as you that you tune into taytyme for two reasons: to find out what's on my mind and then to find out how what's on my mind is gonna play out once I set to elocuting. Trust me, I'm pretty impressed by it too. Shit, I probably read taytyme even more often than you do. In fact, about the only thing I like better than taytyme is a good old-fashioned hangin'.

Now I don't want to scare away potential new readers by turning over the reigns to some rank-ass amatuers, but I'd be willing to pose a question for your own pondering maybe just this once. So the band Squeeze, okay? They are totally good except for this one terrible member who plays the keyboards. The era gives the dude a little leeway on some of the ridiculous sounds he used, but his actual parts are SO BAD that they pretty much ruin the songs. (I know they went through two keyboarders over the course of a few records, but they both sucked so bad that its not even worth mentioning their names. I'd rather just refer to the pair of them as one big shitty problem.) If you could get a Squeeze record with all the keyboards muted, you'd have evidence of an amazing band. What I'm asking you to do is come up with other bands that are super good with the exception of one member who sabotages them at every turn. Okay? GO!

You bastards are in for it.

2006-08-18T14:23:00.000-07:00

Dudes, Brad Baker from the End did not write "Night Train." I can't take people telling me this bullshit anymore. Look at the record sleeve! Provide me any single source besides Brad himself or a dude Brad talked to about his involvement! Any source! I could be persuaded that Brad went to a party thrown by GNR and helped them steal purses for heroin, but that's the extent. Maybe they were rocking the song and he was like, "dudes, how about 'feeling like a space brain?' Huh?" That's hardly "writing the song." Come on, I fix Ryan's songs all the tyme, but I don't go around telling everyone that they're my songs. The little guy just needs help. Lots of very serious help.

So, next guy that tells me shit about Brad that I don't believe does not leave the bar alive, K?

Some for real keen observation stirred up with a few kick-ass comparative genre skills

2006-08-08T12:23:00.000-07:00

Well this is more like it: its taytyme, ladies and other ladies. So I'm way behind the curve on talking shit about How I Became the Bomb (well, at least in the land of self-publishing). Have you seen their video on weownthistown? Ding Dong if they don't sound like Ned's Atomic Dustbin! I tell you what: there was a time that it wasn't too embarassing when someone found "Godfodder" in your cd box. (Holy shit, I just got that joke after fifteen years. I am slower than Rocky Balboa in the Rocky II cue-card-reading scene.) That time was brief. Then it became pretty clear that very few details separated Ned's from EMF (they're crumbalievable), Jesus Jones (who you better have hated from day one, you preppy fucks), and the "long-forgotten suicide comandos." Here's a good man-on-the-street question for Realitay Tee-Vay: How many members of How I Became the Bomb have "Kill Your Television" stickers on their station wagons?

The real issue surrounding How I Became the Bomb is their legions of female fans and the dudes who want to do them (the fans, not the band - I am implying nothing about the singer's dance moves). When asked what's so great about the How I Became the Bomb experience, fans say with regularity that they sound like the eighties. Detractors often compare them to "eighties rip-off bands like the Killers." Isn't it funny how kids today think that bands who sound like shitty early nineties bands are mimicking the eighties? Do you wonder if they think "Lucky Star" is Disco?

Now, no offense to the Bomb for sounding like Ned's. I'm not saying they're a Ned's rip-off. They may not even know Ned's. Shit, according to people in their mid-30s, my band sounds like tons of bands that I've never listened to. But I sure hope those bands are cooler than Ned's Atomic Dustbin.

New Chapter Available Today!

2006-08-06T23:57:00.000-07:00

Sorry, dudes. Look. I don't work in an office, so I have a significant disadvantage to real blogfolks. That being said, my shit always turns out better than theirs so who cares if it only shows up every two weeks, right?

Oh my GAWD, did the False Titty Angels make it right! You may remeber what fools they were made by Valient Thorr and Rufus Fontaine earlier this year. I'd link you to that post, but all I know how to do is type words. Anyway, last Sunday the Alley Cat was transformed into the firey pits of hell by the eight-dicked demon that is THE FALLS CITY ANGELS JUBILEE! Those evil bastards sounded like the damn Melvins on speed, I tell you! Holy crap! If they had one more dude playing the same power chord I think they might have birthed a black hole. Durango Sweetmeat's (AKA Alvo Zenith's) cracked ride shook the very sewers of the east side, and the inexorable Dupree Beauxchamp's roto-tomming put Alex Van Halen right in the fucking ground. After the show, a dude went up to the gang's - they are a real gang, dude - leader Ft. Lauderdale Smith, and told him that the Angel's set "made his heart happy." Smith became enraged, proclaiming that it was "supposed to make it hurt, supposed to make it burn when you pee!" Damn. I got the fuck out of there right then, dude.

So here's the challenge. To truly claim the title that is rightly theirs, the Falls City Angels have to show up unannounced to the Springwater on August 12 and kick the shit out of Cokedick Motorcycle Awesome. Not battle-of-the-bands style, riot-style. Trust me, those dudes have it coming.

2006-07-23T16:29:00.000-07:00

Ah, people who watch TV shows, and not in DVD versions! They're good people to have around because they know what's going on and they have opinions you can steal. Like the other night when I was talking to Rock Commando and the Missus about the show Rock Star: Supernova. (His Missus, ladies. Not mine. I'm all kinds of unattached. My phone number is 483-5938, and I am a total sweetheart.) Though they claim to think the show blows, they seem to watch it with a regular infrequency. "So what blows about it," I asked, "besides the whole concept and everything?"

"The singers are so bad!"

"Yeah," I said, "that's TV. They can't have twelve or however many contestants all be good, because viewers would get turned off by seeing good people lose every week. They can only have like three or four good contestants. That way we only have to watch a few good people lose; we can take drama, but only for a couple of weeks at the end of the season. The rest of the show has to be comedy and comeuppance. You suck, get out of here! Who the fuck do you think you are, all trying to sing!"

RC Cola replied, "No dude, that's just it: they're all bad. They couldn't find anybody to audition for that shitty band. Who wants to sing for those dudes? Its not INXS or somebody people have heard of, its three douches that nobody cares about. Seriously, who would audition for that band?"

I thought for a moment. "But is it really the three dudes? I agree that they're douches all, but I have to assume the real problem is Gilby Clarke. Everybody knows Tommy Lee. People love that guy. And Jason Newstead? People don't know him as a dude, but they dig hearing that he was the bass player in the popular version of Metallica. Nobody even knows he was a replacement! Gilby, however, is only known to folks like us, who argue about whether Wayne Evans or Tommy Aldridge was the better fit for Black Oak Arkansas. Gilby was never in Guns n Roses when they were popular. Not even when they were popular and terrible. He was in GNR when they were terrible and unpopular. So what we need to do is make a list of the five most likely better candidates for Gilby's position."

The rules? Candidates have to lack integrity almost entirely, and either kind of need the money or just be publicity hounds. You know, they have to be the kind of people who would go on a reality show. Slash for instance is out of the question, but Dave Navarro would be perfect if he wasn't already the host of the show. It took an hour of heated arguing, but we made the list, put the dudes in order, and taped the list to the fridge. Cheers!

1) C.C. DeVille

2) The Nuge

3) Ace Frehley

4) Jerry Cantrell

5) John McEnroe

Livebloggin' Blues, turkey

2006-07-19T11:07:00.000-07:00

Cosmopolitans, how are you? Good. OK, so what follows is the actual live blog-on-the-spot that I did from the Nashville airport last week. I just wrote and saved it in Word because I didn't have my little wireless antenna. I am the four-tracker of computers, brothers.

And of fucking.

Oh my god you will call me a liar but you will be motherfucking wrong. Can you guess where Taytyme is, and whether or not he is tipsy? The answer is the airport, and quite! But that's not the thing, in and of itself. The real thing is that I am currently, right now, as we speak, sitting next to a dude I saw on Elimidate a few weeks ago. NO SHIT. I know its him because his episode was filmed in Nashville. They went to the Trace and NV. He is the type of dude who speaks with a British accent, probably because he's from there originally. He lives in Nashville and makes money as a tennis instructor. On the show he was the dude that picks one out of the four girls, and he wisely went for the randiest one. Right now he's talking to a couple in their late 40s (big dude, hot Asian catalog wife) about world traveling, property in New Zealand, the sheep farm and dairy on said property, and Europe's most annoying airports. Oh, those Customs agents in Venice! HA! But seriously, it is totally him.

I'm a magnet for this type of stuff. Last tyme I went airporting, I stood in the security line behind Naomi Campbell. Or somebody like that. It was a famous hot black woman, anyway.

2006-07-14T08:07:00.000-07:00

Kept you waiting again, crusaders! Oops! But check it out- Taytyme is in New York City! New York City? Yeah, dudes! Where they make the salsa! I've been so busy telling every fool in town how to fly right and be cool that I've had little time to sit and ruminate, OMG J/K LOL!

Got to get back to it, bros!

taytyme

2006-07-05T15:38:00.000-07:00

Sorry, airybody! I'm sure you've been more than a little worried, what with two Mondays having passed and no Taytyme for miles. Let me put your questions to rest: no, no, yes, twenty-two, no, not applicable, spina bifida, channel 8, Ricky VAN Shelton.

So what's been going on? For Taytyme its been about a day's worth of painful constipation followed by a second day of merely uncomfortable constipation. Seriously! "But Tay," you say, "you're the very picture of pooping efficiency!" All I can say is that I'm flattered, but don't believe everything you hear out there. Yeah, I'm pretty regular and pretty proud of it, but its not really that big a deal to me. Check it out: I mainly eat fruits and vegetables, with fish once a week or something. I certainly enjoy the random beef product, but only when shaped like a hotdog. That all being said, here comes a “however.” In an inhuman (remember that show INHUMANOIDS?) effort to take one for Uncle Sam, I ingested nothing but beef, beef, whisky, beer, beef, and a pizza over the course of three days. That shit did me wrong, man. I'm afraid of Professional Laxatives, so I've been sticking to coffee and cigarettes to - as a neighbor put it - "soften it up." David Sedaris said that as a high school-aged gay person he spent like 20 days in Greece without ever pooping (by choice, and I can't say that I blame him). I had a three-day odyssey of the same sort in Boston once, but it was just weird, not uncomfortable. So anyway, that's what's up.

Toe Up

2006-06-20T15:21:00.000-07:00

Look, I'm a flip-flop wearer. Call me a hippie or a parrothead if you must (that's what they call fans of Jimmy Buffet? Don't you think "Buffeteers" would be better? Oh my jesus- I have to tell you this other story. So I saw someone else's PT Cruiser the other day in downtown Franklin - that's a long story, too - and this is one of those Cruisers that's all dolled up with flames painted on it and shit. Its black and all the designs are painted in silver, like a PT Cruiser from the future that can fly and shoot lasers at the Chevy HHR. There were like little silver waves and little silver margaritas painted into the flames on the doors and in front of the windshield, which you didn't notice until you got up close. I naturally started looking around excitedly for the owner, wondering just what business Sammy Hagar had in downtown Franklin today. Then I saw it: totally out of place, scotch-taped to the inside of the back passenger window of this person's extravagant dune buggy, was a piece of computer paper with a clip-art salt shaker on it that read, "LOST: ONE SHAKER OF SALT. IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN."). I like knowing that at a moment's notice I can be barefoot. You can walk in grass and dip your feet in fountains, and get naked faster than you could if you were wearing shoes. And you just plain can't make flip-flops (which my dad calls "thongs" !?!) smell as bad as shoes.

Here's the thing though: you can't wear flip-flops when you go out to a place. They're chillin-on-the-block shoes. If you wear them to a restaurant or club, you'll get stepped on, pee will get on your feet, and you'll look stupid. Why do I know this? Because I got stuck without real shoes in a situation where I had to go out "dancing" with my sister and her friends! I didn't know we were going to do that! I would have planned ahead! And what happened? I broke my fucking toe on an invisible stair! (I also burned my thumb and hit my head REALLY hard on the Cruiser, but that shit was my own fault.)

Poot-Tang Cruisin', Part Two

2006-06-12T11:24:00.000-07:00

Holy Damn if some mystic shit didn't go down last week! So 'member the late-night jam at Casey's? Let's take up where we left off...

"The Bleeder." At about four in the morning, Casey's next-door neighbor came over in a robe, but not to join the party. He just wanted to knock and let us know that when you rock the drums/guitar/Rhodes super group at that hour, you're rocking for everybody on the block. I told the dude that yeah, we knew that. I said, "Man, Dave Chappelle's MC-ing this joint, so its gravy." Dude totally called my bluff (how was I to know that Chappelle was actually spending the night at his house as we spoke?) and we called an abrupt ending to the proceedings, GNR-style.

Upon arriving home, it was discovered that Taytyme's smokes were AWOL. The poor guys had been orphaned at the scene of the cryme!

So several days later, Mason was still beating himself up for snoozing through the whole jam. He was all like, "All I'm sayin is that I would of landed a plane on that shit." He was out with one of Taytyme's spies when he got into kind of an admitty phase. "I killed a man with pills once," "I didn't visit my grandmother enough," that kind of shit. Then he breaks down at the bar, tears and all. "I saw Tay's smokes on the Rhodes and I said those are Tay's smokes don't smoke 'em I'll wait until I see him someday and give 'em to him but I ended up takin' one and then the next night I was out and I took another one but I knew they were Tay's and I was gonna give 'em back but then it was down to just one and it was the upside-down one, you know, the lucky one and you can't smoke a man's lucky smoke that's just wrong but it so happened that I did smoke it and oh fuck why did I do it oh shit oh shit oh damn..."

You know what happened? We put together a timeline and everything, and this is the truth, friends. At the exact moment that Mason's flame ignited the tobacco in my lucky smoke, my check engine light came on. I KNOW MAN, that is some freaky shit. Look you guys, just be careful in all your dealings with the occult. Remember how the Ouija board gave Alice Cooper alcoholism? I just hope to god that Goat Hawk knows what they're doing.

Poon-Tang Cruisin'

2006-06-05T12:31:00.000-07:00

Shit! Don't tell anybody, but I totally hit Casey Sanders's car Saturday night. I smashed out one of his lights, but the 'Tang Cruiser came through unscathed. Fortunately for me, Casey was pretty tanked and I was able to convince him that I couldn't possibly have inflicted such damage considering angles and science. He became convinced that the cops had come by and billy-clubbed the light out to teach him a lesson (I don't know where he got that idea wink wink), and was on the verge of revolution when I suggested that we just head back to his place and play the verse of "The Bleeder" 400 times, or at least until I finished all his beer. You know what he said?

"Its Taytyme."

So I Saw This Stinky Fingers Tribute Band

2006-05-30T11:44:00.000-07:00

Band etiquette is a huge point of contention! Romans, is my understanding of rock show mores correct in that its bad form to play for more than forty minutes when you're not the final band of a three-band bill? (Classier bands don't go over a half-hour, right?) Wait, wait! Let me explain why, just to make sure we're all on the same page. I quote from the Taytyme Big Book of Rock Music for Rockers: eh-hem. "Starting really late and playing too long makes you a fucking dickhead, asshole. It forces the last band go on so late that all the people who saw your band have left after tiring of being in a shitty club all night.

Is it Ego that makes bands ignore the well-being of other bands? No, surely not! Surely such bands just haven't timed their songs. That's it. Well, look. I have a few tips for Stinky Fingers. I've seen them play a lot and have come to the conclusion that they need a man on the outside. Gentlemen, I am that man.

Stinky Fingers believes that each of their songs is only two minutes long. They are dead wrong about this, but it explains why they think they can play fifteen songs all at the same show. Guys, you can probably get away with eight or nine if you start on time and don't jam. Now if you want to play fifteen songs, you will need to play them very fast and probably organize a medley or two. Perhaps compose some sort of quodlibet out of several of your less-inspired tunes; you know, the whole "two birds with one stone" thing. Your only other option is to form a second band called Stinky Fingers Jr. and to book shows for both of your bands to play together. Let me know how it goes! I'll probably be at the Goldrush when it goes down.

Next stop, Hollywood!

2006-05-23T13:32:00.000-07:00

Let me guess. You've probably always wondered what Dave Cloud gets at the store. I used to be in your shoes, man. But what if I told you that I recently got a new pair of shoes?

Due to the burgeoning success of Taytyme the blog (somebody told me they read it once), Taytyme the guy has decided to branch out and create Taytyme the show. It will be called "REALITAY TEE-VAY" and be on HBO. Each episode will be about 10 minutes long and be presented in little two-minute vignettes. There will be regular features like "Cloud Watch," where a camera secretly follows Dave Cloud into the grocery store to find out what he eats. In the segment called "Guess Who's Talking Shit About Keith Lowen," everyday people that you know will say funny things about Nashville's premier bass personality. You didn't know that they thought that too! Of course I'll conduct man-on-the-street interviews that elicit confounding answers to life's difficult questions, and we'll find out "Who's Getting Douged at the Red Door" and "Where's Andy Willhite Sleeping?"

For the pilot episode, we'll film a game show segment called "Betting on Bones." We'll get a few high-rollers (like the Pink Spydrz or something) to place high-dollar bets on what jam the Bones Explosion will be kicking when our cameras roll up to the 5 Spot on Sunday afternoon. "I got 500 on Dead Flowers!" "I'll see your Dead Flowers and raise you House of the Rising Sun!"

What do you think? I know I'd watch it, even if only for the dreamy host. You guys should leave ideas for other segments in the comments! Oh, and just so you know, Professor Cloud bought a 20-ounce Mountain Dew and two boxes of Nilla Wafers.

An open letter to The Falls City Angels

2006-05-15T13:15:00.000-07:00

Hola, amigos! (A Spanish phrase meaning, "I live here.") Well, another weekend has come and gone, so it's time to talk about the previous weekend's Springwater excursion. Is that confusing? I'm talking not about the weekend whose hangover you are currently nursing, but the one before that. I know, it's like how you get paid next week for work you did in the pay-period that ended last week, and you can't figure out what the hell your check means so you either act complacent and keep getting high before work or you raise hell just in case somebody's trying to fuck you. Allow me to preface with a question. Can The Fall City Angels be out-rocked?

Men, the 'Water had it all last Saturday: hard rock and girls gone wild. That's really all you need, right? I mean, give Taytyme hard rock and a couple of girls showing their boobs and he feels completely at home. You know what time it is when shit like that goes down? Its taytyme. But seriously. Quit trying to get me side-tracked, dude. The question was whether or not The Falls City Angels could be out-rocked. I'm afraid the answer is yes. Yes, they can be (out-rocked). Actually, if The Falls City Angels play a show with Rufus Fontain and Valiant Thorr, they can get their ass kicked.

Here are a few recommendations that I have for the Angels after close observation of the work of Rufus Fontain and Valiant Thorr. Falls City, listen up and never be embarrassed on your home turf again.

1) Look more like a motorcycle gang (possibly join MS13). The members of Valiant Thorr wore matching denim vests with big Valiant Thorr patches on the backs. Thanks to this, they were able to quickly recognize each other as bandmates. They also started their set turned around backwards so the audience knew which band they were. Heaven forbid that you rock the shit out of a place only to be mistakenly identified as LYLAS.

2) If the audience seems hesitant to approach the stage, frighten them with a folding chair. Next, stand on the chair, look at the floor, raise your arms, and wordlessly beckon the crowd to you. They will say, "Fuck all other bands, it is time for Valiant Thorr." Hopefully they will say the correct name of your band instead of Valiant Thorr.

3) Talk about the three things that you hate. For example, Valiant Thorr hates Bankruptcy ("that's your fault"), Nature-uptcy ("there's nothing you can do about that"), and Cover-uptcy ("I think you know what I'm talking about").

4) Be more bad-ass than anything in the world. Valiant Thorr has this one down, man.

4) Like Rufus Fontain, allow only Tom to be your myspace friend. This makes you look exclusive and gives fans the impression that telling you how well you played after a show is something they will never forget.

5) Also like Rufus Fontain, purchase a wireless setup for everyone in your band. This way, guitar solos can emanate from the middle of the crowd. You could even walk to the bar in the middle of a song and get yourself another beer instead of asking someone else to do it for you.

6) Drink from a gas can that says "Rock-it Fuel." Remember to freely admit that it's just water, though. This ain't 1987, dude.

7) Install smoke machines and lights that flash in time with the drums in the bottom half of your stacks.

8) And for God's sake, put your foot up on the monitor more, Lance. You look like some kind of queer whose balls don't sweat when he plays guitar. Let 'em breathe, brother!

I have not joined a cult, but have nothing against those who have.

2006-05-05T10:56:00.000-07:00

Well, well, well, if it isn't taytyme! I bet that until a few days ago you thought I'd gone and got roped in by the Moonies, or at the very least forgotten about you (which in its own way is a kind of sad, sad "might as well have become a Moonie" sort of scenario). No, friends. I've just been as busy as a slutty little beaver. Here's the what's up:

Last Saturday I forgot about remembering to see Fair Warning, the self-proclaimed "baddest David Lee Roth era Van Halen cover band in the world." However, I did play ping-pong at Melrose Billiards, where I am gaining a reputation as "one of the guys that plays ping-pong here." On a trip to the bathroom between matches (not just the smallest but also the dirtiest bathroom in our fair city, and yes I have on occasion relieved myself at the Springwater S.C.& L.), I daydreamed about the possibility of a cutish lady-person asking to get in on table rotation (winner keeps the table, but you can get in on rotation, see?). Well Moses Malone, if I didn't learn the old lesson about being careful what you wish for! Up to the table she came, all thinking she was badder than Fair Warning and not really meeting the criterion of cuteness. Lady, yes. But more up the alley of the brothers, you know? She brought a certain level of intensity to the game, but her total lack of discipline made her easy prey for a seasoned intimidator such as myself. By the way, have you ever looked at a Victoria's Secret catalog? Stay with me here, people. You know those "sexy underwears" made of three strings connected above the butt's crack by an engagement ring? Well she did, and she was sporting them with low-cut jeans that became more unsettling each time she bowed to retrieve an errant ping-pong ball. Not even The Snuggler shows his trunk with such abandon! Brother, the crowd at Melrose is nuts!

2006-05-01T10:56:00.000-07:00

On Harding Road between the I-65 and Danby there's a two-story house that has a Deer's head mounted on the outside of it. Like on the top floor inbetween two windows on the front side of the house. I tell you what, brothers: I would like to play the drums for the band that practices there, even if they sound like Nirvana.

OK, just kidding. No, not about the deer head, dummy! That's for real! I'm kidding about being so indiscriminate about who I play with that even a Nirvana-loving band would be up my alley (my proverbial alley, perverts). Look, even if you have once-wild game displayed where Old Glory might normally reside on a more by-the-book domicile, I will stomp on your stinky little toes if you think Nirvana is awesome.

Here is some decent advyce, friends.

2006-04-26T20:56:00.001-07:00

Some advice to rock-and-rollers follows, so get the fuck ready. If you are in a band and any of you can grow mustashios, then by all means have at it. Mr. Andy "The Snuggler" Wilhite has been seen around with an impressive womb-broom of late, and by all accounts it has been opening doors and dropping drawers for him all over town.

Taytyme can not grow a mustache, because his head is too round.

There is of course more to say, but taytyme's track record is pretty shitty so I'll use it to stock the reserves. Thank you, philistines, and good nyte!

2006-04-06T20:39:00.000-07:00

The other nyte Taytyme was rocking out something fierce, as per usual. Hard rocking. You know that old joke, "Rockin' hard, or hardly rockin'?" If you say that shit to Taytyme, your quipping days are over, brother. There's only one aswer to that question, and it is poking some sucker in the fucking eye! Better is the saying, "When the rocking is hard, the hard get rocked." You better believe it! One of the hardest of all is Mr. Dean "Jungle Fever" Bratcher, as many of you already know. In fact, you were probably already thinking of him before you read his name here on Taytyme. When I said that thing about the rocking being hard enough to rock the hard, you probably went, "oh yeah, like Dean for instance."

So I caught up with the old man and he wanted to know if I'd seen the big dude in the straw top hat at the previous weekend's rock show. "Straw hat?" I asked. "Like a barbershop quartet?"

"No," Dean said, "like Slash, but straw though." I had not seen the gentleman in question. I was told that I should have. "He was wearing a harmonica belt. Like that holds twelve harmonicas." As I pictured an amalgam of Wavy Gravy and Rambo, the story began to play out.

So Dean eyes the guy, goes up to the bar, sits down beside him, and says, "You play harmonica?" The guy looks at him and then down at his harmonicas, referencing them with a wave of his hand. Dean goes, "Yeah, I kinda figured you blew. You got a chromatic in there?" After the guy explains that he doesn't do chromatic, Dean tells him that he really should get a chromatic because it would be a lot easier for him. Again, the guy says, "I don't do chromatic." Again, Dean says, "Well, you should."

The guy tells Dean that he just puts three harmonicas in his mouth at once, which obviates the need for him to learn to play the chromatic harmonica, and Dean goes, "Oh, like that Guiness Book dude that can smoke a hundred cigarettes at once."

Wavy Gravy stared.

Dean said, "You always wear those out?" Uncle Meat told him that the thing was that you never knew when somebody was gonna up and ask you to play harmonica, and Dean readily concurred. "I guess when people see you in that get-up, they figure they might as well ask, huh?"

At this point in the story, Dean paused. He asked me if I'd ever heard of "Magic Dick." "Is it a guy or a maneuver?" I asked. Dean said exactly. But then he told me that Magic Dick was the harmonica player for the J. Giles Band, and that his claim to fame was a song called "Whammer Jammer," whose name was derived from the whammy-bar characteristics of Mr. Dick's chromatic harmonica stylings.

As suddenly as it began, intermission was over and Dean was back in the middle of the story. Still at the bar with the dude in the straw top hat, Dean says, "You know how to play 'Whammer Jammer?'"

The guy goes, "I can play 'Whammer Jammer.'"

Dean replied, "I thought you might have a little Magic Dick in you. Listen, I manage this band called Ole Mossy Face, and they want to play 'Whammer Jammer' but the trouble is they can't find a harp player who can keep up with them. You think you might be able to hang with these boys?"

Numbers were exchanged, and it looks like Mason's already being shooed out the door! Can you believe it? Just remember where you were when you heard it first, ladies. On Taytyme!

Movey Nyte, 2006

2006-03-22T15:01:00.000-08:00

Whoa!...klahoma, where the wind comes sweepin down the plains! Hey everybody, howdy do! Damn if Tay didn't sleep all day! Man, I saw the second half of Troy The Movie last night. And also some of Roadhouse (another movie). Hmmm, very eerily interchangable stories. By interchangable I mean the sex, and by eerie I mean that I saw a lotta naked gentlemanly bottoms last night. I guess one of the awesome things about doin' it is that you don't hardly ever end up looking at a dude's butt, unless you are a man-lover (hey dude, that's cool) or you fornicate inbetween two mirrors. Damn. Then you'd see, like, infinity butts. Half of them would be killer, but half of them would make you go, "shit, I look funny naked." And she might be all like, "what's up?" And you'd go, "nothing." And she'd be like, "what are you looking at," and then you'd say, "my butt." (Because you value honesty and communication in a relationship.) And she'd be like, "you are a narcissist." And you'd go, "No baby, I'm mother-fucking Achilles, you better recognize."

At least that's the way it plays out in my head. See you next time, on Taytyme!

2006-03-17T14:40:00.000-08:00

How, as the Indians say. Guess what? Today Taytyme turns Thirtay! Now I know what you're thinking: "Hey, wait a minute. The archives only go back to January. How do I catch up with 30 years of blogtastic blogogrophy?" Silly disciples! Its not Taytyme the blog that's gotten older than Jesus, its Taytyme the guy!

Yep, Taytyme the guy woke up a little older this morning. He lost all his hair over night and has gone straight impotent. Oh well!

The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on sometime after noon.

2006-03-16T13:50:00.000-08:00

DO NOT drink more than one Yazoo Dos Perros on a week night! And absolutely do not drink three. If you drink three, plan ahead and eat food prior to the partay. And start the partay before 12:30. Sure, you'll accomplish whatever you set out to do that night, but tomorrow won't feel normal until 2:00. Oh, eat food the next day, too. OK, so here's the deal. Drink three Yazoos, but also eat food twice. There, problem solved. See you tonight, Miller Lite!

Before I get dressed, let me stand next to you and show you how to do something on your computer.

2006-03-14T12:40:00.000-08:00

Yeah, that's what happened to this guy in the locker room today! He did it to himself, really. What a bunch of freaks! So this dude is in the locker room after a game of Raquetball with his teacher, right? The teacher is in the shower, and when he returns, the kid has his laptop out. He's like, "Hey, how do I do this thing with this program?" And the teacher, in his tight little purple underwears, bends down beside him and starts walking him through it! In his underwears! No shirt, no socks, no nothing. The kid's sitting on the bench, and the old dude in his underwears is standing next to him bending over the keyboard. Jesus Lordy Christmas Pie, I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I mean, come on! Put on your pants, at least!

Its like this one time my friend Cortez was pooping in a bathroom built for one-at-a-time-please and forgot to lock the door. Big mistake, my friends. This fucking white buisiness-type guy opens the door, sees Tez in there, and just saddles on up to the urinal next to the crapper. Now there's no divider, wall, or stall, or anything in there. Its just a urinal and a commode right next to each other on the same wall. Or in this case, a guy sitting down on a toilet next to a guy standing up with his shlong out. Poor Cortez, man! He couldn't just get up and leave, right? He had to just stare straight ahead until the dude zipped up and left (he did not wash his hands).

Thing is, Tez just got screwed. Sure, he fucked up by not locking the door, but its reasonable to assume that if a guy opens a door and sees you on the pot, he'll go, "Oh, sorry," while hastily getting the fuck out of the bathroom. But these guys in the locker room just bewilder me. Am I super sexually repressed and the thought of an older man tutoring me in his underpants is not actually strange, or am I correct in thinking that people should talk to each other with the respect that being clothed brings? Weigh way in on this one, followers. Taytyme needs your help.

Ding Dong!

2006-03-13T13:41:00.000-08:00

Ding Dong! Its been too long again, faithful audience. Your humble and handsome host has much of an apology to own up to, but for now let's just get on to bizness. What a week, and by that I mean that I am a hobo. A cute hobo. I am acutely a hobo. A hugely astute hobo. When you are a hobo, you can do anything. You can even do what you want to do! If you want, you can strike out at the Home Run Derby!

Taytyme would like to thank all the wonderful people in his life: to those with whom he makes wondermous music, to those with whom he relaxes in the post-day, and to those who put him up for the nyte whenever he wants to stay where he is, big hugs and a pinch on the bootie.

Also, an XYZ updayte. Friday nyte, Five Spot stage left, $9.00 "Made in Russia" jeans on, zipper way the fuck down, no undies. Oops!

Hello, Readers!

2006-03-01T20:42:00.000-08:00

Hi, everybody! Or should I say, "Hy!" Or should eye say it? Jeez Mr. Breeze its been a long tyme! Well, you won't believe it. Taytyme has just about done it all in the past few weeks. He even went to Indiana, U.S.A. He rode trains in Philadelphia, the city of "brotherly love" (gross! Taytyme has a brother named Bradius, but they don't get it on!). Tay even played the drums and had the flu at the saymtyme! Well, sorry to say that's about the extent of the updayte for today. Perhumps somehing yucky will happen tomorrow, or maybe something that's not yucky but funny anyway. If it doos, you'll be the first to know. Know why? Because you read Taytyme, silly. Bye!

X. Y. Z.

2006-02-14T15:24:00.000-08:00

Oh the years are upon Taytyme, and they are showing. First the ear hairs that need to be dealt with at regular beard-hair intervals, and then this! The number of tymes during the past week that Tay has discovered his zipper to be in the unzipped postion while not accessing his gentles? Five! What's going on here? Too much on the mind to remember such a simple task as zipping? Today's motto is, "what goes down must come up."

The future's so bright that I won't give a goddamn.

2006-02-13T19:14:00.000-08:00

This weekend Taytyme was inspired to quit everything about lyfe that's not the stuff he wants out of said lyfe. Thanks be to Boston's own immortal Boston, those soothsaying poets of yesteryear who so recently quipped on the classic rock station in Tay Town, "Some people got to make a livin' livin'."

The Freedom Parkway

2006-02-07T09:12:00.000-08:00

This weekend Taytyme and company visited the great city of Atlanta, which is better than most places in New Jersey. We were able to spend a little while driving on the Freedom Parkway, and it really got the old gears turning.

See, "Freedom" is one of those words that means different things to different people. To white people, freedom means killing terrorists. But I bet to black people it actually means freedom.

2006-02-01T23:19:00.000-08:00

Taytyme's been reading Lorrie Moore stories. It makes him happy that that she doesn't know any of his friends, because she'd probably tell him what shitty people they are deep down.

You Better Organyze

2006-01-31T22:22:00.000-08:00

Old Mr. Taytay better organyze better! He lykes having every day be different, but does it ever make it difficult to remember what needs doing. Which student has his book, and what is Tay about to hear him (or hyr, laydys) play? Not to mention stuff that' s not fun!

Tomorrow: make important calls, make copy of important personal documents, memorize things for new job, go to new job, teach at free school, practice with band for out-of-town show, rewrite another chapter, prepare lesson plan for augmented sixth chords introduction (substituting on Friday), exercise, prepare for thesis meeting (remember about example he messed up).

Hey, that wasn't too hard after all. Tay twill report soon with an honest self-evaluation, unless said evaluation comes out all, "needs improvement."

2006-01-29T19:34:00.000-08:00

fuckin' shit, man!

Strange Growth

2006-01-26T14:19:00.000-08:00

Today tayday discovered a strange growth, or really more of a worrisome swelling in a sensitive area.

Readers, he needs two new "tires."

Cuidado!

2006-01-24T14:19:00.000-08:00

Oh my god...

Please, readers, do not look at the things sent to you by pickles. She wants only to hurt you. There are no fun and games with a girl like pickles. She is like the person who tells you that you have cancer if your fist smells like strawberries.

2006-01-23T16:18:00.001-08:00

Pickles took Taytyme to a movey, and he had to close his eyes when the people were getting hurt. Somehow he still saw some gross stuff, and now when he tries to go to sleep he can't stop seeing the gross stuff in his mind's eye! To quell the pictures he has to think of stuff that's nice, but apparently he can't think of what nice stuff looks like so he has to hum a little tune or replay a pleasant senario from his recent past, and all that action gets him worked up and sleepless! How are you doing in the nyte-tyme, gentle readers?

taytyme for everyone!

2006-01-21T18:39:00.000-08:00

Yes, its tyme! About damn tyme! Tyme for tay! Its Yaytyme! Yaytyme for taytyme!

Indeid.