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!

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.

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!

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

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.

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

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.