Last night, Scamper played our last rehearsal in our craptastic Allston space, as we are picking the bones of Fooled By April by taking up residency in the basement of the Somerville Rock House, much to the delight of our upstairs neighbors who thought that their long, power-pop nightmare was finally over. We're hoping to ride the good basement vibes to much success - we are all really looking forward to breaking in our new digs.

Keith: (two seconds after walking into the basement) I just saw a spider. It was big.

Okay, so it's not exactly paradise. But at least it's a short commute for me - just a drunken ramble down some rickety stairs. So fuck Keith and his irrational fear of spiders. I hope a radioactive one bites him on the sack and instead of getting superpowers, he just gets a constant, nagging left ball itch.

But I digress. As happy as we are to be in our new space, the Allston Sound Museum still holds some sentimental value to me. A few things I'm going to miss about that old place:

- Near constant access to 35-year olds who are still dressing/acting like they're 19. I never get tired of these people. Hilarious.

- Close proximity to an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, where we would often have pre-rehearsal meetings. One time, I was so excited for eating some straight-up 'Nese that I forgot my bass.

- Rambling, barely coherent conversations with Tony the landlord, who is - in a word - out of his cotton' pickin' mind. You know those nutjobs with whom you avoid eye contact on the street for fear they will talk your ear off about a bunch of nonsense? Whenever I was trapped in a conversation with Tony, I longed for those nutjobs for their sweet, rational sanity.

- The giant pencil-drawn mural on the inside wall of a bunch of Satanic animals playing instruments. Even when you weren't looking at it, it was sort of looking at you. I was on the brink of madness, I tell you.

- Sharing the space with our friends Harris. These guys, while a great band and really sweet fellas, are by far the messiest motherfuckers you've ever seen in your life. Every time we came in, there'd be a new pile of beer cans in some artistic rendering in the middle of the floor. It was a little, selfish joy to watch the veins on Keith's head pop when he walked in the room every week.

So goodbye, Allston and hello Somerville. Hope you're as good to us as you were to those four jerks who broke up this month and stole my man virginity (okay, that was only Jordan).