Big ups to all the good folks who crowded the stage at O'Brien's this past Saturday. Some highlights:

- When we loaded into the club around 8, we noticed a strong, but unidentifiable odor wafting in the air. After much discussion, we determined that it was either a spilled keg of beer from July or a gallon of rancid skunk semen.

- I must have worn my "lunatic-attracting" cologne by mistake that night, because every freak, alcoholic methhead and outpatient was prowling the streets of Allston, targeting your buddy Brendo. As I tried to walk over to the ATM before the show, a weird drunk dude started shadow boxing with me. Inside the club, a huge (from what I could tell) deaf mute in a red satin jacket decided that his best way of communicating with me was to slam his shoulder into my chest a few times. As I was loading out after the show, a stumbling inebriated asshole on the sidewalk took periodic breaks from falling into the grimy snowbank to yell "Faggot!" at me. Good times. Got to love Allston.

- My baby brother Colum (okay, he's not really a baby anymore, but he does drool a lot) and his girlfriend Katie showed up for their very first Scamper show. While I was happy to see them, I was a little worried. They say that smell is the strongest sense tied to memory. I didn't want my little brother's first impression of my band to be "They sounded okay, but they smelled a little like... I can't place the smell." To which Katie would say,"A gallon of rancid skunk semen?" Colum: "That's it. A gallon of rancid skunk semen. My brother's band smells like a gallon of rancid skunk semen." (The words "a gallon of rancid skunk semen" just get funnier and funnier the more I type them.)

- Bad odors aside, the actual show was a lot of fun. We had a tough time hearing ourselves and each other on stage, so we adjusted the way any other well-oiled professional music outfit would: more jumping. In Scamper, the solution to any problem usually ends up being "more jumping." Actually, it was sort of liberating to have such a bad sound on stage - we just sort of said "fuck it" and had a blast playing. It's true what they say - a bad day playing music is better than a good day doing just about anything else.

- Crazy people attacking me aside, we liked playing in the Allston-Brighton area so much that we're heading back on February 10. This time, we're playing at Great Scott - a club which, I'm told, does not smell like a gallon of rancid skunk semen.

Even though she ruined the surprise yesterday by being a shameless, self-promoting birthday whore, I have some good news for you all: today is Stacy's birthday. For all y'all who don't know, Stacy is Scamper's #1 fan, sometimes merch girl and overall bubbly and sexy rock chick. So happy birthday from Scamper, girl (sorry - woman).

In honor of her birthday, I'll share with you all the funniest conversation I've had with Stacy in our short, but fruitful relationship:

Me: So how old are you now?
Stacy: 22.
Me: Oh my God. I'm old enough to be your father.
Stacy: No, I'm old enough to be your mother.
Me: How exactly does that work?
Stacy: Science. And time travel.

So I hereby open up the floor for everyone to say nice things about Stacy on her birthday. Have at it, kids. And if you want to buy her a drink at the show at O'Brien's tomorrow night, I get a 10% cut of all beverages.

Before I get started with today's journal - does anyone know where I put my keys? This morning, I woke up and they were gone. I've never lost my keys in my life. Any suggestions?

Okay, now it's shameless whoring time. This Saturday night, your favorite Scamperdoodles are performing at O'Brien's in Allston. This is good for you because you are extremely old and decrepit. You don't go out on weeknights anymore because they run back-to-back episodes of Diagnosis: Murder and Touched By An Angel on PAX and you just can't peel yourself away from the good, righteous TV.

This is good for us because O'Brien's is literally pissing distance from our rehearsal space. Less time loading out means more time for us to party the night away with you. If you have plans, cancel them. See you there. And bring my keys if you've got them.

Snow, snow, snow - blah blah blah. I'm getting tired of writing about the snow. If whomever is in charge of blessing us with this snowy goodness could please stop, that'd be just peachy. In fact, it'd probably be cool if you took February and at least half of March off. You know, just to give yourself a break.

In absence of another bitch session about the weather, today I offer a new feature in the journal - Scamper SecretsTM. In this segment, I hope to offer little tidbits and hidden emotional scars of your favorite power pop quartet.

For example, did you know that as children, all three of the non-Brendo Scamperinos had superhero alter-egos? It's true. I wouldn't make something like that up.

In fact, let's make a little game out of it. Match the member of Scamper with the childhood superhero alter-ego. Winner gets a smooch at the next Scamper show*.

1) Nate
2) Mike
3) Keith

a) The Exaggerator
b) No Prob Natebo
c) Chase Caruso


* Brendan reserves the right to not smooch you if you're male or gross.

Good morning, friends -

Well, how about that weather? It sure was weathering out there. Weathered the crap out of us. Hope you all had a shoveltastic weekend and a slip-out-a-vertebrae New Year!

Honestly, I don't understand people who like the snow. It's pretty for exactly 2.3 seconds. Then it gets grimy, brown and gross. Oh, and you have to stand out in the whipping cold wind for about 3 hours just to get your car out. But no - you're right. It's "pretty." If someone around you says how pretty it is today, you have my official permission to punch them in the box.

While I'm at it, here are some other things that people seem to like that I think are craptastic:

- the band Pink Floyd. I just don't get it.

- the Oscars. How many dung-ass movies have to win before people say "Hey, you know what? Maybe the 'experts' in Hollywood have ferret-shit for brains. After all, they think that Charlize Theron's performance in Monster was actually good 'acting,' rather than the scenery-chewing, stunt-casting camel spew that it was. Those people are retards."

- hockey. I'm so glad the NHL is on lockout. I equate playing hockey with being an asshole. In my opinion (and stop me if I'm repeating myself), they should advertise for youth hockey in every town in America. When the little bastards show up for tryouts, they should put them all on buses and send them to juvie for the rest of their adolescences. Let's eliminate the hockey problem before it starts.

- Hal Sparks, Michael Ian Black and the rest of the cast of VH1's I Love the... series. Obnoxious, poorly conceived and not funny at all. Sometimes, when I'm alone in my living room, I have imaginary conversations with these idiots that go a li'l somefin like this:

Hal Sparks: "Ha ha ha - Steve Guttenberg. Ha ha ha!"
Me: "What? Steve Guttenberg was a successful actor in the 80's."
Michael Ian Black: "Ha ha! You like Steve Guttenberg? Ha ha!"
Me: "No, I don't necessarily like him. But I don't think something or someone is worthy of contempt or derision just because he's associated with a certain era in the past. Steve Guttenberg had a long, successful career - especially compared to you talentless fucks."
Hal: "Uh..."
Me: "Seriously - what have you done? You hosted Talk Soup - you were a poor man's John Henson. And what about you, Michael? How's that supporting role on Ed going? What? It's cancelled? What a surprise."
Michael: "Hey, that was a good show. It was a dramedy."
Me: "You fucks! You smarmy, useless, talent-free fucks!"
Hal: "Hey, at least people know who we are. Who the hell are you?"
Me: "My name is Brendan. I'm in Scamper."
Michael: "Scamper? What the hell is a Scamper?"
Me: "Uh... hey, remember that band Winger? Ha ha!"
Michael and Hal: "Ha ha! Winger! Ha ha!"

Christ on a cracker, it's cold out there today. Every time I step outside, I can feel my nipples plotting a revolution against me. I think the right one is the ringleader. He's always been the power hungry nipple. The left one is a little lazier, just along for the ride, looking for the bigger better deal. I think I need to employ a divide and conquer strategy to quell this little uprising before it gets out of hand.

But on to more pressing issues - the funniest conversation from Scamper rehearsal last night:

Mike: I saw the trailer for the third Star Wars movie. It looks pretty good - they brought Darth Vader back.
Keith: From Australia, where he lives now.
Me: He's like Brando - he lives on an island. He's all fat in a Hawaiian shirt with short white shorts and pasty legs.
Nate: And the mask, of course.

Anyway, I thought it was funny. Have a good weekend, Jedis.

I made an error in judgment.

In my haste to sell Scamper records (which I hear are flying off the shelves at certain Newbury Comics locations, so you'd better hurry and get yours now), I did something that I wouldn't normally do - I pimped myself out in the employee newsletter at my day job. This was an error.

Normally, I try to keep a pretty low profile at work (I sell propane and propane accessories). Keep my head down, do my work and hope everyone leaves me alone. But here's the thing - I figured out of the hundred or so people that work in my building, at least a few of them just might enjoy the well-crafted power pop of the juggernaut known as Scamper. So when they asked for submissions for the monthly employee newsletter, I thought "Hey, what could go wrong?"

Yesterday, the newsletter came out. It had a link to this very site. Hundreds of people clicked to this site and listened to the music. This is good. Then, they saw the "Brendan's Journal" and thought "Hmmm... I wonder what that nice young man that works down the hall has to say." This is not good. I think you can figure out the rest.

Yep, everyone in my building - including my boss, my boss' boss and my boss' boss' boss - got to read my classy little gems like "hardcore anal prison rape" and "chipmunk fisting." This morning, people are looking at me just a little different as they pass me in the hallways. Top notch, Brendo. Top notch.

It was brought to my attention that some of the content of yesterday's journal entry could be construed as offensive by some people (I had no idea that the subject of "Which section of the high school band is the coolest?" was so controversial.). So if I offended any of you kittens with my jokes yesterday, I do sincerely apologize. I meant it all in good fun. I genuinely don't want to hurt anyone. In our crude and hateful world, I intend this journal to be a shining bastion of love, good will and jokes about hardcore anal prison rape.

See - I did it again, didn't I? I think the problem is that I was born without that particular synapse in my brain that gets offended by things. There simply isn't any subject matter that offends me. I'm not bragging or anything - it's more sad than funny. I don't know - maybe it's a seratonin deficiency or something. What passes as horrid hatespeech to the average person is regular dinner conversation to me. In the words of David Cross, "Darn this counter-culture. It's got me all bugaboo."

I guess what I'm saying is I need your help. I want to be a good person, I really do. So I'm going to list a bunch of subjects about which I was considering writing future journal entries. Could you guys tell me if they're offensive or not? Like maybe on a scale of one to ten or something?

- chipmunk fisting

- Ryan Seacrest and what a fucking cunt he is

- nuns who aren't really nuns but they say they're nuns and they're really hookers

- the growing problem of Jehovah's witnesses with gonorhea

- Mike Mirabella's ball sack (it's magical, you know)

- Ryan Seacrest getting hardcore anal prison raped

- The time that Jesus appeared in my French toast and told me to throw out all my Bachman Turner Overdrive albums

- Girls who cover their bed with stuffed animals and why it's a really bad idea to sleep with those girls because they're almost always fucking crazy

- trout fondling

See - I did it again, didn't I?

I hope everyone had a simply smashing long weekend and celebrated Martin Luther King Day by letting freedom ring or at the very least letting freedom whimper a little before you shooed it back under the mattress with a broomstick. Personally, I flew to a third world country (Friday), enslaved an indigenous race of brown people (Saturday), wrote a flowery proclamation setting them free (Sunday) and then threw myself a little holiday celebrating what a great humanitarian I am (Monday). So from now on, Martin Luther King Day will be celebrated as Brendo Is A Helluva Guy Day in Sierra Leone (or Papua New Guinea, I think - one of those).

Actually, I spent the bulk of my weekend at my high school band and chorus alumni concert. It was (as the idiots on the left coast say) hella weird being back on the auditorium stage on which I played in my first band, sang so many concerts, starred in so many plays and was roughly de-flowered by Joe Welsh.

For the alumni concert, I was supposed to split my time between the band percussion section and the baritone section of the choir. However, when I arrived at the chorus rehearsal I discovered that one of the pieces was a medley from the Broadway show Rent. I turned my firm apple bottom around and went right back to the band.

Have you heard the music from this fucking show? Personally, I find Broadway musicals to be the lowest form of human communication. And Rent is certainly the genre's nadir. After singing "rent rent rent rent rent" a few times, it makes one just a little glad, in the darkest part of one's brain, that Jonathan Larsen died of AIDS. I'm just being honest, friends.

So to prevent further emotional scarring, I scuffled back to the band percussion section and banged on a bass drum willy nilly. And those of you who aren't in the know - the percussion section are the "cool kids" in band. We just kind of chill in the back while you little flutes and clarinets get your little notes right. Call us when you're ready to make some noise.

That's right - banging a drum in a high school band made me feel cool. If you think that was sad to read, imagine living it.

When I first joined this hep, happenin' rock and roll band known as Scamper, I thought being a minor rock god would help obsure my general geekiness from the rest of the world. Guys in bands are cool, right? They couldn't possibly be giant nerds.

But sadly, human nature can not be as easily changed as we would like. I is what I is and it's official - I'm the nerdiest of the nerdy nerdy nerdalingers. Some more recent evidence:

- Last week, I had a fairly heated AOL instant messenger conversation with a friend (okay, it was Fooled By April's Pete "12-Gauge" Galea, an equally unabashed nerd) about which female Klingon the history of Star Trek we thought was the hottest. Doesn't get any nerdier than that, you say? Try this on for size: I then pulled out my datebook and scheduled a day for the two of us to have our own little Next Generation-watching marathon. I can almost hear the ladies of the world's privates drying up just reading that last sentence.

- After rehearsal last night, I tried to explain to Nate how the physical demise of "Rowdy" Roddy Piper was thrusting me into an early mid-life crisis. And yes, I was completely serious.

- This weekend, I'm performing in my high school's Chorus and Band Alumni Concert. I was in both chorus and band. BOTH, I say! Let's just say I wasn't dating a lot in those days. I had heard of breasts. I mean, I sort of knew about them on an esoteric level. But there was no actual, how you say, hands-on experience. And I'm going back this weekend to relive it all again.

In the words of Nelson Munce, I feel like punching myself.

Overheard from this week's Scamper rehearsal:

"Goo. Gooo ga ga burp."

No, it wasn't Nate and Keith making dreamy eyes at each other (as usual) - it was a special guest appearance from little baby Jason Raymond Michel.

Since our resident little drummer boy had to work, we three remaining Scamperinos had a acoustic vocal rehearsal at Keith's house. For big softies like us, that usually means about 10 minutes of actual rehearsal and about 3 hours of "play with the baby" time. To combat this, Keith decided to place his progeny in the middle of our rehearsal, so we could coo and awww at the baby and still manage to get some work done. A few things I noticed:

- It's amazing how many of Nate's lyrics are about babies.

- When he isn't sure what's going on, Jason involuntarily raises his eyebrow, a la The Rock. He could have a future in professional wrestling/mediocre action movies.

- He was quiet and attentive when we were playing the song. After the song was over and we were talking, he'd start crying. Then, he'd stop when we started playing again. Like father, like son - even at 3 months old, this little baby loves him the rock and roll.

As a local up-and-coming rock and roll quartet, we in Scamper are always looking for ways to raise the band's profile. We are woefully unashamed of gimmicks (wait until you see the shenanigans we have planned for March), but still - amongst all the great bands in Boston, it's tough to make ourselves stick out.

Then, my good buddy Vinny Shit on the Face had a brilliant idea: a feud. We start a media war of words with another band - sniping at each other in interviews, writing songs with subtle digs in the lyrics, etc. I think it would be wicked awesome. Hell, it worked for Oasis and Blur.

But with whom should we do verbal battle? Fooled By April is too easy - I live with Joe and there's just too much material there. Plus, no one wants to hear a song called "Your Farts Could Strip the Paint Off A Military Shed" (although it's a catchy little number with a beat you can really dance to). The same issues apply to Baby Strange (I went to high school with Ryan) and the Good North (college with Luke) - I could unearth some dirt, but no one would really care. Our sophomore year, Luke murdered a hobo, by the way.

So I thought I'd bring the issue to you, the Scamps. With what band should Scamper start a feud? What should we do to start this feud? The best answer gets a smooch on the cheek from Mike Mirabella. You have 30 minutes to complete this test. And........ begin!

I talk about my family a lot in this space, mostly because they're lovably fucking insane and give me lots of good material. But I never seem to talk about my little brother Colum (laugh all you want - it's a common name in many a bog in Ireland). I don't mention him much because probably because a) he is the only sane one in the family and b) because his humor is much more subtle than the rest of us.

The quintessential Colum joke: one time, I was standing at the sink, brushing my teeth. He walks in and says, "Hey, that's my toothbrush!"

I look at it. Clearly, my toothbrush. "No, it's not. It's mine."

Colum: "No, it's mine. I've been using it for months."

Grossed out, I spit out the toothpaste and rinsed out my mouth with Listerine, only to hear him chuckle, grab his real toothbrush and start brushing. That little bastard. The lesson: don't have brothers. They'll get you every damn time.

While other, more "hep and happening" members of my band were hanging out with rock stars and Red Sox at the Hot Stove benefit last night, I was rocking the living room couch for perhaps the greatest hour ever broadcast on television: VH1's premiere of the fourth season of The Surreal Life. Broadcast television has finally reached its apogee, friends.

In the first hour of The Surreal Life, Chyna got drunk and slurry and stole Mini-Me's mini-sized room. Then, a chick from America's Next Top Model got naked and had sushi served on her... and Mini-Me fondled her nipples. Finally, Mini-Me got ridiculously drunk, fondled Peter Brady's face and then pissed on the floor as Da Brat (who was da horrified) looked on. Quite frankly, I can't think of an hour of my life that I've spent where I was so completely satisfied. And this was just the first episode! Hooray for me!

Just when VH1 had beaten me into submission, it was the premiere of Strange Love with Bridgitte Nielsen and Flavor Flav. I quit the band. I'm never leaving my house again. Flavor FLAAAAAAAV!

My patient peeps - it's time for the long-awaited recap of Wednesday night's big show with Kay Hanley at TT's. Here goes, and keep in mind I slept until 1pm yesterday, so I'm still a little logey:

- Your Scamperrific heroes arrived at the venue around 5pm for soundcheck, as we were instructed to do. Unfortunately, the only person in the building was the janitor. He was, in a word, ornery. He was nice enough to let us load in, but it was clear from his demeanor that he didn't much cotton to us youngsters "opening doors" and "using the bathroom." Us meddling kids.

- After soundcheck, we played a little pool in the back room (and no, that wasn't a veiled reference to homosexual bumpy bumpy, you immature perverts). It was Nate and Keith vs. me and Sarah from Grand Evolution. Now, if you don't know this, Keith is one of those incredibly irritating people that's good at everything. Naturally, he (with zero help from Nate, by the way) was absolutely wiping the green felt with us. Sarah hit two balls in, whereas I was working on a very sexy oh-fer. Then, as Keith was finishing us off, he scratched on the eight ball, giving Sarah and me (Team Scamperlution) the completely undeserved, but still very sweet victory over over our opponents (Team Wicked Jerks).

- It was time for the show to begin. As Grand Evolution rocked the house on stage, we performed our usual vocal warm-ups in the green room. For reasons that I still don't quite understand, part of our warm-ups involved me spanking Kay Hanley's drummer Pete over and over again. I sort of wish I were making that one up.

- When we finally got on, we had an absolute blast. The crowd was terrific - the room was packed full of you creeps. I was having some trouble with the A string on my bass slipping down on the bridge, but no one seemed to notice my struggling. It was one of those shows that was so much fun that when we got off stage, we were like "That's it? It's over?" Our half hour set flew by for us in what seemed like a minute. And you all were terrific and warm and loud, like you always are. As much fun as everything else is, looking out from the stage at your smiling faces, seeing you dance and sing the words, hearing you cheer is the greatest part of being in Scamper. I wish I could bottle you up and take you home with me and drink you until I slur my words and black out and make embarrassing phone calls to ex-girlfriends and then pass out in some fourth grader's bed like Robert Downey Jr. That's how great you make me feel.

- Then, it was time for the main event - Mike changing his shirt in the green room. Hoo delolly. After we all recovered from that, I headed over to the merch table to chill out and watch Kay Hanley. She was predictably terrific. There's a reason she is who she is - she left everyone in the place satisfied, but also wanting more. Meanwhile, I sat at the merch table for the next hour with a lovely merch girl on my lap. Sometimes, it's really good to be a rock star.

Good people,

I had no idea so many of you would be so upset if I missed a few days of the journal. In the words of William Shatner on Saturday Night Live, "Get a life, people. It's just a TV show (journal)."

Just kidding, friends. You know I eat up your devotion like so much Boo Berry cereal on a cold icy morning. Thanks to all who came to the show at TT's last night. You're all peaches.

But I am tired and I must rest. I'll give a full report tomorrow. Or maybe I won't. Boo.

More family-related hijinx this morning, puppies. My older brother lives in Beverly Hills and, more importantly, lives a bit of the LA lifestyle. So when my phone rings late at night, it's almost always for something stupid. Last night was no exception.

At 5am (that's right, I said 5am!), my phone rings, waking me up from a sound slumber. It's my brother. "Hey, I'm hanging out at Seth McFarlane's house. He drew a Stewie for me on a napkin. I'll send it to you - I know how much you like The Family Guy."

First off, I fucking hate The Family Guy. I think Seth McFarlane is a thief and a hack. Secondly, did I mention it was 5am? I hate everything at 5am. I couldn't fall back to sleep for hours because of the deafening ring of idiot in my ears.

But don't YOU be an idiot by missing our show tomorrow night with Kay Hanley at TT the Bear's Place in Cambridge. As of last night, there were still tickets available. See you all there, bitches.

I hope all my little pixies had a fun, drunken and safe New Year's Eve and that you're all still alive and kicking.

They say that how you spend New Year's Day will determine how your entire year goes. So I thought I'd kick the year off to a good start by driving home to the Moms and Dads' and having a nice, wholesome New Year's lunch, thus ensuring that 2005 will be a year of love, family and other people buying me lunch.

Unfortunately, my plan hit a snag when my right rear tire blew just as I was coming off the highway. Luckily, I was close enough to roll into my parents' driveway. Unluckily, my dad dropped a very heavy jack on his foot. So instead of a nice relaxing free lunch with the 'rents, I spent the afternoon watching my dad ice his big toe. Not good times.

Oh, and then Joe and Sarah dragged me to National Treasure which is a steaming pile of Jerry Turdheimer. So by all accounts, my 2005 should include plenty of flat tires, swollen digits and Nicolas Cage. So that's something.

But don't let the first week of YOUR New Year reek of suckitude. No, no - it should reek of awesomeness. Check us out at TT the Bear's this Wednesday with Kay Hanley. Last time I checked (granted, it was last week or so), there were still tickets available. Hope to see you there (that's the metaphorical you, not you specifically).