The reason that this wreck of a show caught my attention and, truthfully, the only reason my channel surfing ever has a layover on VH1 is because of John Taylor. Yes, that John Taylor, the aging Duran Duran member who seems to have taken up permanent residence on VH1. John Taylor, who, of course, should not to be confused with either Roger Taylor or Andy Taylor, who are, of course, not related. And while I certainly understand that going from the raging excesses of eighties stardom and all its perks to the half-life dullsville existence of the rest of the unmanicured masses can be a difficult transition, I certainly do not understand the urge to embarrass oneself by agreeing to appear on anything VH1 produces. The List, Mr. Taylor? And while you certainly held your own against Kevin Bacon and that irrepressible Danny Bonaduce, your company was unappreciated. And, yes, Mr. Taylor, while you do hold a certain cachet on VH1, and they certainly have a plethora of openings for fallen stars, there have to be other options. You can't have sunk this low yet. Call your agent. Call him now.
A hapless and overworked manager is stumbling out of an elevator at some high-falutin' and storied hotel in some unnamed urban center. He is busily apologizing to a reporter for his client's failure to show up for an interview. The jaded rock reporter nods, unconvinced of the agent's defense. The frazzled agent pats him on the back, saying don't worry, don't worry, he's learned! He's found positive ways to channel his extra energy. I look out the window, and Foreshadowing is standing there in bright red short shorts, waving a big huge flag and pointing at my television set and giggling. I glance back at the television just in time to see the agent open his "reformed" rock star's hotel-room door to absolute mayhem. There are naked chicks here, drunken debauchery there, and John Taylor standing in the middle of it all wearing Axl Rose's headband. As the writer and the agent survey the room, John Taylor grabs a television set and tosses it out of the window, then watches excitedly as it crashes onto the crowded street below. Wow, that looks like a great idea. Especially if the little men who live inside my television and act out the television shows insist on reenacting this crap. The agent introduces the reporter to John Taylor, who is working under the pseudonym Jimmy Blitz. Oh yeah, sure, like we don't know it's you. The reporter whips out his tape recorder and starts asking questions. Jimmy, are you happy to be back on the road? Do you mind playing smaller clubs? John Taylor says that he doesn't mind, because he's giving something back to the fans. The reporter asks what he's giving back to the fans when he's charging fifty bucks a ticket. John Taylor rolls his eyes and says, dude. If Rick Astley can do it, so can I. The reporter asks if he still gets drunk before each show; in response, John Taylor spits his drink all over him and threatens to light him on fire. Game, set, and match. The reporter retreats out the door, and John Taylor smashes a mirror with his head in celebration. He's so rock.
An elevator stops on (can you guess?) the thirteenth floor. One of the hotel's maids steps out of the elevator and pushes her squeaky little cart down the hall toward John Taylor's room. You can tell she's serious about her work because of her Protestant hairstyle, the fact that she has decorated her cart, and her sensible nurse-style shoes. ["You can also tell that Holland Taylor's agent hates her." -- Sars] The radio is playing a muzak version of "Footloose," and I wonder why Kenny Loggins hasn't made an appearance on VH1 yet. The maid opens the suite's door and finds, of course, utter chaos. She stares in horror at the scene, and stares in even more horror as John Taylor stumbles out of his room, drops trou, and whizzes in the potted palm. I'm staring in abject horror myself. In fact, I'm staring in such abject horror that my eyeballs have fallen out of my head and scattered about the room. One has lodged itself under the couch, and the other rolled under the radiator. Well, I suppose that was bound to happen sooner or later, what with all the crap I watch. I hot-glue my eyeballs back in just in time to see John Taylor straggle out of the room with a blonde floozy under each arm. The maid rolls her eyes and begins the task of cleaning up. She spics and spans and dusts and mops until the room is back in perfect order. She smiles at a job well done and shuffles off down the hall. John Taylor's agent is trying to convince him to apologize to the reporter, because reporters are important when a washed-up rock star is attempting to stage a comeback. John Taylor is not terribly interested in apologizing, but agrees to meet with the reporter again. As they head back into the room, John Taylor notices that the room is spotless. This upsets him. What upsets me is the fact that he has bleached hair, is decidedly paunchy, and has a kind of burly accent. The crush I developed on this man when I was a hapless twelve-year-old is certainly dwindling.