Lots of happy happy to cover in today's journal, so let's just get to it:

- Congratulations to my friend Andy who finally made an honest woman out of his lovely long-time girlfriend Sarah. He took her on a trip to the most romantic city in the world, Paris... and then decided to pop the question the day they got back to their hovel in Brooklyn. Interesting strategy there, kid. But hey, it worked - she said yes. Good job, guys. (For those of you keeping score at home, here's the grand total of people in my life that aren't engaged: me, Keith's baby and the coffee mug I'm looking at on my desk right now... although I'm not sure how long that'll last the way it's being ogled by the stapler).

- Happy birthday to our boy Jon Gorey. Last night, I picked Jon up in one arm and the lovely Gina up in the other and shook them around as a sort of bizarre birthday celebration (hint: I'd had a couple of cocktails). This action had the tri-pronged effect of a) making them both very uncomfortable, b) making me feel like a big big man and c) throwing my back out. So happy birthday and thanks for throwing my back out, you fucking jerk.

- Yet another happy birthday to my friend Andrew Bujalski, the mind and talent behind the films Funny Ha Ha and Mutual Appreciation. He's off in New York today on a whirlwind media tour to promote the movie, so don't be offended if he pretends he doesn't know you. He's a big shot now.

- My condolensces to all of you who are going to miss tonight's Scamper show at the Middle East Upstairs with the Bon Savants, Jetlagger and Max Heinegg & the Nervous. You are a sad, pathetic lot and will die alone and unhappy. Sorry, but it's true. You should have come to the show.

Speaking of the show, my Rowdy Roddy Piper t-shirt has not yet arrived. I was hoping to wear it at the show tonight like a true nerd-faced loser-ass, but unless it comes today, I'm out of luck. But don't worry - I still plan on breaking a coconut over the head of "Superfly" Keith Michel. See you there - we're on early (around 10, I think), so don't miss it, ya pencil-necked geeks.

Once again, it's time for Brendo's Utterly Unhelpful Advice Column. These are actual letters from actual people that arrived in Brendan's actual inbox in search of actual advice, which was an actual mistake on their parts. If you want to be included in the next advice column, hit Brendan at brendan@scamper.net. Don't be scared.

Dear Brendo,

Why is that most guys seem to miss the toilet when they pee? Where
they pee in their own houses is their business, but if I had a nickel
for every drop of piss I wiped from my guest bathroom, I'd hire a
maid!

Tired of Pee

Let me explain a little something to you about the male anatomy, TOP - there are really two kinds of wankers: "show-ers" and "grow-ers." Basically, a show-er has more slack on his hose, so has more of an ability to aim accurately. These guys are not your problem. The grow-ers, on the other hand, are struggling with an awkward angle, especially if they have enormous balls like Mike Mirabella. Hence, misfires happen. It doesn't make them bad human beings (not that I'm one of those guys or anything. I avoided these problems two years ago when I donated my ding-a-dong to Christian science).

So why don't these aim-challenged fellas clean up after themselves? Because, in the words of Mahatma Gandhi, "That's what bitches are for."

Dear Brendan,

I'm hungry. Can you bring me food?

Famished in Framingham

Sure, I'll be right over and fix you up something. Be warned - I cook with no pants.

Brendan,

Deseo hacer furtivamente en los Estados Unidos. No tengo ningún dinero
sino pagaré en cualquier manera que pueda. Gracias.

-Hombre Atractivo
Los Cabos, Mexico


I... I don't speak Spanish.

Brendan,

I'm depressed. I am the unwilling doormat of my circle of friends.
I'm always the butt of jokes, and I constantly get picked on for just
being me. It's making me self-conscious and unsocial. When my
friends hang out with me and my relatives, my family starts chiming in
with the barbs and doesn't defend me at all. I've tried to act
differently and I've tried to laugh along with the jokes, but nothing
makes it hurt less.

-Resigned, Unhappy
Haverhill, MA

This letter reminds me of a story - back in my unhealthy eating days, I was enjoying lunch at Burger King when I heard the sound of giggling in a corner booth. When I looked up from my delicious juicy Whopper, I saw a group of about ten 13-year old girls making fun of a loser-ish 13-year old boy sitting by himself across the dining room. He was trying to ignore them and eat his burger, but I could tell from his face that every cruel word they said cut him to the bone.

My heart ached for this kid. I wanted to help him so badly. I wanted to walk over to him and whisper, "Trust me - if you don't stand up for yourself in this moment, you will feel weak and small for the rest of your life." But I didn't. Instead, I just finished up my tasty Whopper and walked out, feeling that the world was a horrible, unfair place.

But just before I walked out the door, something wonderful happened. The kid looked up at the group of girls, stared at them for a moment and launched his shake in their direction. The shake soared through the air in a glorious arc and exploded on the table in front of them, spraying chocolate all over the little shrews-in-training. They screamed and jumped up in horror. The kid just smiled. And I smiled right along with him. It was absolutely glorious.

What does that have to do with you, RU? Your family and friends need a proverbial shake thrown at them. The only reason that they continue to pick on you is because a) it's funny and b) you take it like a little puss. I think a completely insane overreaction is in order here. Next time they make fun of you, scream like Sam Kinison and smash their favorite antique flugal horn against the wall. Steal their keys and wrap their car around a clown statue at a miniature golf course. Put their prescription medication in Jell-O. They'll think you're batshit insane, but at least they'll think twice before they fuck with you again.

Brendan,

How can I get the band that I share a rehearsal space with to clean up
and take out the friggin trash every once in a while?

-Keith Michel
Allston, MA

You can't. They're a real rock band, whereas you belong to a group of soft-shelled, non-hotel-destroying nancy boys. But don't worry - I'll buy you a Vitamin Water at your big show at the Middle East Upstairs on Friday. That'll make you feel better.

So I've bitten the bullet and joined the world of fantasy baseball. Now that the Sox have freed me from my neuroses, I feel I can watch and enjoy actual baseball games like a normal, sane human being. Now, I plan to become obsessed/raise my blood pressure over my fantasy team. Let's meet the fellas on offense, shall we?

Johnny Estrada
Albert Pujols
Tony Womack
Troy Glaus
Juan Uribe
Brian Giles
Dave "The Steal" Roberts (okay, I'm allowed ONE sentimental pick)
Coco Crisp (best. name. ever.)
Lyle Overbay (second best. name. ever.)
Lance Berkman!
Jim Thome
Brad Wilkerson

Wow - what a powerful, yet well-balanced attack, huh? Homeruns, average, steals - we've got it all, right? But wait, there's more - meet my pitching staff:

Jason Schmidt
Oliver Perez
Brad Lidge
Ben Sheets
Jeremy Bonderman
Kevin Millwood
Mark Prior
Derek Lowe
and the currently ailing but sure to be nasty again upon his return Eric Gagne

Wow. Right? I mean, wow. My opponents are dead dead dead.

Speaking of fantasy lineups, you should check out the dream lineup at the Middle East Upstairs on Friday with Scamper, the Bon Savants, Max Heinegg & the Nervous and Jetlagger. It'll be a well-balanced attack of rock. Be there.

Morning friends,

It's getting to be that time again - advice column time. Some time this week (or maybe next, if I'm feeling ridiculously lazy), I'll sort through the letters and get a new one up. If you're interested in learning how to properly live your life, hit me at brendan@scamper.net. Again, everything's anonymous (I promise), but don't send me anything about how you're going to hurt yourself or someone else. Chances are I won't give a fuck. But seriously, don't. Not even as a joke.

My main advice to you today? Don't miss Scamper at the Middle East Upstairs this Friday. What? It's this Friday already? We're playing on a no-bullshit awesome bill with the Bon Savants, Max Heinegg and the Nervous and the (apparently debuting) Jetlagger.

In other news, I was at my parents' house this weekend watching the movie Pirates of the Caribbean on cable. My dad, who's quite frankly ancient and a little deaf, spent the first ten minutes of the movie a) asking me to turn up the volume, b) making fun of British people and c) asking me to turn up the volume again. After a few minutes of this treatment, I turned to him and said, "Maybe you wouldn't need me to turn up the volume if you quit flapping your gums for a minute," which prompted my mom to laugh uproariously for about 35 minutes. Got to love quality time with the fam.

Overheard at a rock club this weekend - an unnamed but well-known local musician talks on his cell phone:

Musician: You're bringing chicks? Are they pigs? (pause) Answer me! Are they pigs? Because I want to score and hot chicks hate me.

Ah, the things you see and hear when you're out and about on the local rock scene. Speaking of which, don't forget that Scamper is playing this Friday night at the Middle East Upstairs. I believe we're going on a little earlier than usual (I think we play second), so plan accordingly, bitches.

In other news, Baby Jay Ray Michel has apparently entered the ever-popular "Chewing on Brendan's Face" phase of his infancy. Even though last night my face was covered, and I mean covered , with baby drool, I like this stage much better than the ever-popular "Look at Brendan's Ugly Mug for a Second and Then Immediately Cry" funk that he'd been in the last few times I'd seen him.

I've been told that I talk about Keith's baby a lot. Like a lot. Way more than normal when talking about someone else's kid. But what can I say? I'm nuts about the little guy. And it also leads to funny conversations, like the following with Vinny Shit on the Face:

Me: Jason has entered the stage where he goes "bah bah bah bah."
Vinny: (with a serious face) Oh, he'll grow out of that.

Here's a Friday morning snippet from a recent instant messenger conversation:

Me: A girl just walked into my office with bare feet. Fucking hippies.
Vinny Shit on the Face: Hippies are the Nazis of people who don't hate anyone.

This weekend, the Independent Film Festival of Boston comes to town once again. In only its third year, it has morphed into the dominant film festival in town... and trust me - there are TONS of festivals you've never heard of, mostly because of lack of funding and incompetent organization. IFF Boston is well-run and usually features lots of indie films worth checking out. So get out there and support local films, you fucking jerks! (What? Too hostile?)

My recommendation? Mutual Appreciation, the second film by my talented, Jamaica Plain-residing friend Andrew Bujalski. I was blown away by Andrew's first film Funny Ha Ha when I saw it at a (now defunct) film festival a few years ago. It looks like years later, Funny Ha Ha has got a second life with a distributor and a screening in Coolidge Corner coming up. So yay on Andrew!

Beyond just being a heck of a nice guy, Bujalski is a supremely talented filmmaker, with a gift for naturalistic atmosphere and clever dialogue. His second film (which I haven't seen but to which I am very much looking forward) is about a dude in a rock band. That's about all I know about it except that it features members of the indie rock superband Bishop Allen. At the very least, you know the music is going to be good. I don't think there's any karate in it, though. Too bad - I like karate.

Mutual Appreciation screens today at 4pm at the Brattle in Harvard Square and tomorrow at 3:30pm at the Somerville Theater in Davis.

Warm those credit cards up, because it's time for a serious Scamper shopping spree. Yesterday, Keith set up some new Scamper products on our Cafe Press page. There's some pretty cool apparel over there (I'm partial to the Scamper baseball jersey myself), but I was shocked to find a ringer t-shirt with our photo on it. I'm not going to lie - it freaked me out a little. I don't know - I've never had my picture on a shirt before, so I said to Keith, "Isn't that a little weird?"

Keith, being the wiseacre that he is, responded by creating two new items...

The BrendoBoxers:

and of course, the BrendoThong:



But here's the little fact that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that Keith is out of his tree, batshit insane: these products are now actually available for sale. You can buy a pair of boxers or a thong with my fucking picture on the crotch.

I never thought I'd see the day. Purchase away, Mom.

Want to hear more about Brendo's Big Ass Long Weekend? Sure you do - it'll take your mind off the bummer of the fact that it's Hitler's birthday.

Being the not-quite-heterosexual power popsters that we are, Scamper decided to spend Sunday on a big gay-ass picnic at the park. Let's dip into the Scampicnic photo album, shall we?

When we first arrived at the park, everything was cool. Being the scientist he is, Nate immediately started doing physics tests on little baby Jay Ray...



Mike, on the other hand, was content for hours, because he found the slide...



Then, it was time for some good old fashioned wiffle ball. I, as expected, dominated from the pitcher's mound...



While Alena experimented with a new method of defense...



I tried to explain to her that you don't actually use any gloves in wiffle ball, much less two gloves, but she's from Russia so I don't think she understood me.

I got into a jam, so it was time for Keith "Foulke" Michel to close this puppy out...



Unfortunately for him, he was facing Mike "Big Flapi" Mirabella, who went yard on his ass...



All around, it was a Scamperrific day. Thanks to Stacy (not pictured) for taking all the pics. Yay spring! And yay Scamper!

Hope all my luvey little llamas out there in internet world had a nice long weekend, except for those of you in the non-Massachusetts states (i.e. "the dumb states") that don't celebrate Patriots' Day. What the fuck, New Hampshire? They won 3 Super Bowls in 4 years and you can't take one day a year off to celebrate them? Tax-free jerk-offs.

This was a fun weekend for me - on Friday night, I once again stopped by the Comedy Studio in Harvard Square, which is quickly becoming one of my favorite local haunts. Besides my buddies the hilarious Walsh Brothers (about whom you're probably tired of reading in this space by now), there were a couple of other acts worthy of your undivided attention.

First was Val Kappa, a Boston-based comedienne (or is it comediette?). I had seen her a few times before and she never fails to deliver the belly larf to said aforementioned belly. It's difficult to describe her style, because she's such a unique voice - I guess she's got a little Jonathan Katz, Steven Wright and Mitch Hedberg (RIP) in her with a just a touch of Ellen Degeneres and a side order of macaroni salad.

Slightly amusing story - I actually tried my hand at a comedy open mic night about 6 or 7 years ago and Val was on the same bill as me (for the record, she didn't remember me and quite frankly, it stings a little). Whereas I quickly gave up on my stand-up dreams and embarked on my now well-documented life of filmmaking/rock musicing/18th-century gynecological equipment collecting, Val obviously stuck with it and has turned into a real pro. She just got back from a big deal rock star comedy tour of the Midwest and also did a voice for the excellent show Home Movies on Adult Swim on the Cartoon Network.

The headliner of the evening was the Reverend Tim McIntire. How national success in TV and movies as well as boatloads of cash have eluded this guy is one of the great injustices of the modern age. I know that last sentence construction was simply awful, but I'm a little flustered because this guy is that good. Do yourself a favor and check this guy out next time he comes to your town. He's a seasoned, smart and original thinker in the vein of Louis CK. And yes (like me) he's a real reverend and he's available for weddings. His fee for performing the ceremony is a bottle of Jack, I believe. My fee is 12 thousand dollars.

Tomorrow - more adventures from "Brendo's Big Ass Long Weekend," including the long-awaited unveiling of Mike's new nickname! You're all a-tingle, aren't you?

"We had our moment of sanity. It seems that moment has passed." - Terry Francona

Okay, so I hate to be that guy who brings a little reason to the table, but I don't think Gary Sheffield was completely in the wrong for swiping back at a Boston fan in right field at Fenway last night (for those of you under a rock who may have missed it, check out just one of the hundreds of overhyped accounts of the incident hnyaw).

In this day and age of deranged fans and out-of-control drunken maniacs, the professional athlete puts himself in very real danger every time he steps on a field. Ask Tom Gamboa or Monica Seles. Who knows which fan is just there for some drunken fun and which one has a Bowie knife and a Yankee-huntin' itch?

When a fan crosses the line into touching a player on the field in even what can be perceived as an act of aggression, they should be beaten within an inch of their lives. There's simply not the time to decide the extent of the fan's malicious intent. Unfortunately, every athlete should assume that if a fan goes after him, that fans means him very real harm. And that athlete should defend himself accordingly. Even if that athlete is a egomaniacal roid-raging asshole like Sheffield.

Thoughts?

For those of you who haven't checked it out, there is a cool new search feature that Webmaster Keith created - basically, you can find out what bands Scamper played with in our illustrious four-year history. There's all sorts of fun to be had on the search feature, especially when you realize Keith checks the search results every day. Here were some "anonymous" searches from yesterday:

"keith sucks"
"keith is a dick"
"i hate keith"
"i'm just kidding - i love keith"
"i love keith's balls"
"keith's balls are enormous"
"keith smells like balls"
"keith likes to smell his own balls"
"everybody doesn't really love raymond, but in fact loves keith's balls"

Got to love technology.

I don't want to be a person that dwells on only the negative, so I'd just like to point out how great blogger.com has been for the last week or so. Fast, easy to comment and no more server errors - seems like they've got their shit together. Nice work, peeps. I hope I'm not jinxing it.

So, you may be asking yourself, "Hey self - what's Scamper been up to lately? After getting used to seeing them every week in March, I'm really starting to miss those little guys." Fear not - we've been keeping ourselves busy with pre-production on our next record.

At this point, you may be saying to yourself, "Whaaa? But Scamper just released a record in December. They're already coming out with another one? What the balls?" Well, not exactly, Little Miss Latrine Mouth - you see, making a record takes a really really really long time, especially when you work low-paying but emotionally-rewarding day jobs like we do. So over the next 6/12/18 months or so, Scamper will be piecemealing the second record together. A few songs here, a few songs there, here a song, there a song, everywhere a song song.

Last week, I had my first-ever session with uber-producer Tom Polce, after which I felt like I had been run over by a musical freight train. Working with Tom is, shall we say, intense. He's not only an amazing musician that blows any member of Scamper out of the water, but also has an energy and joi de rock bordering on the retarded. For some reason when I look at Tom, the word savant springs to mind. And I mean that in the best possible way.

When we were done with our first session, my head was fighting over two competing thoughts: "Wow, I really suck a giant giraffe phallus at bass" and "When they're finally done, these songs are going to be as awesome as sucking a giant giraffe phallus." I just hope I survive the Tom treatment and live long enough to hear them and suck that proverbial giant giraffe phallus.

Another one bites the dust: congratulations to my friends Moodie and Dawn for getting engaged yesterday. I've got to tell you, friends - this is starting to get ri-goddamn-diculous.

Actually, this one's a pretty good story. Moodie managed to score tickets to yesterday's opening day/ring ceremony. He said that he would be damned if the Red Sox got a ring before Dawn did, so he hid one in a Cracker Jack box. Though the Red Sox waited 86 years, the lovely Dawn had to only wait 8 years and 6 months. Congratulations, kids.

In other news, there are still a few people left in the world not engaged. What are you waiting for, people? Pair the fuck up.

An overheard conversation between me and my dad this weekend:

My dad: If your mother and I have a living will, will you make sure our wishes are executed?
Me: Sure, no problem. I've been wanting to pull the plug on you two for a while now.

Sorry for the short one, but it's insane at work right now. Jobs. Who needs 'em?

Funniest thing said by Mike Mirabella during Scamper rehearsal last night: "Brendo, listening to your bass playing tonight was like watching an angel come out of a mermaid's vagina."

Now, on to more pressing issues. Tonight is the world premiere of the Red Sox-themed Farrelly Brothers movie Fever Pitch. Now, I'm not one to tell anyone else how to live their lives, but for the record - I will be boycotting this film.

Like many of you I'm sure, my life changed on October 27, 2004. As I watched the Red Sox celebrate their victory on the field at Busch in St. Louis, I felt the past and future meet and the anxieties of a lifetime melt away. I watched Pedro and Schilling and Manny and Lowe and Tek and Ortiz and Millar - guys who I felt like I'd spent a lifetime with over that summer - embrace and pour champagne over each other. Without a trace of irony, I can say it was one of the most important days of my life.

And then I saw Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore kissing for the cameras. On the field. On the fucking field!

I generally hate it when people mythologize sports and make athletes into something they're not. The "outrage" at steroid use in baseball is laughable. But still - having actors pretending to be happy on the field during a seminal moment in this city's life was a disgrace. I'm mad at the Farrellys, I'm mad at the Red Sox and I'm mad at Major League Baseball. So I won't be seeing their movie.

And Jimmy Fallon is a talent-free hack. Discuss.

Big congratulations to my little brother Colum who just got engaged last night to his longtime girlfriend Katie. This latest development officially reduces the number of people in my life that aren't engaged or married to... well, I guess that just leaves Mike and Nate. Although you can't really count them, because they're technically "life partners."

Speaking of Nate, he and I are apparently physically unable of going a Wednesday night without stopping by the Abbey Lounge. Last night, there was a "new band" night going on and as usual, Nate knew the buzz of who was worth seeing. We arrived late (exhausted from our marathon lovemaking session), so we only had the chance to see the last two bands. Luckily, they were both worth it.

First was Static of the Gods. You may recognize Chuck the bass player from Scamper's oh-so-long-ago rotating bass player show at Harper's Ferry, where I made my shorts-sporting Scamperrific debut. The singer Jen has a really lovely voice and their songs are oddly hooky. For their last song, they featured a semi-synchronized jump, prompting Steve to turn to me and ask, "Want me to draw up a cease and desist letter?"

Following them, four very tough-looking badasses called Swim Team hit the Abbey stage, looking to kick ass and take a name or two. Not unlike your favorite power pop heroes, Swim Team employs a bit of a "two front man but one of them is kind of a side man" setup. Chris and Doug sang/spoke most of the songs in unison - a technique I usually hate, but somehow their voices are so similar it seemed to work for me.

In my completely uninformed and slanted musical opinion (I still think music hasn't been the same since Loggins and Messina broke up), both these bands are worth keeping your ears on.

Congratulations to our new buddies and residency-mates Furvis for advancing in the WBCN Rock and Roll Rumble this week. We would have been there to support you, but we're bitter, bitter men who resent the youth, promise and success of bands such as yourselves. But we like you guys. So congratulations!

And now, an excerpt from a conversation I had with Madden last night:

Me: I'm getting really sick of this whole "working" thing, man.
Madden: Yeah, me too. I'm thinking of getting into pimping.
Me: You're the nicest guy in the world. You think you have the disposition to be a successful pimp?
Madden: I'd have a soft pimp hand.
Me: Interesting.
Madden: I see myself as more of an incestuous father figure.
Me: (laughs for about 20 minutes)

Some highlights from Greeber's wedding in Chicago this weekend:

- Friday, we headed out of the house around 9.30am. Before we got in the cab, I double checked with Joe (who booked the flight) that he had the flight info. Reasonable question, right? This caused Grumpy Morning Sarah to respond "What - you couldn't print out the email with the flight info yourself?" Nice. Literally one minute into the trip and we're already snipping at each other. By the time the cab ride to the airport was over, I tried to subtly let Joe and Sarah get checked in ahead of me. Fifteen minutes into the trip and I already needed some "alone time."

- We arrived in Chicago in time for the rehearsal dinner, which was at Lalo's - a Mexican restaurant that used to be owned by Michael Jordan. It was an odd mix of decor - it may have been the margaritas, but I swear I saw a giant photo of MJ dunking while wearing a sombrero. Speaking of margaritas, there were lots and lots of them consumed. I'm told I managed to get through my toast without embarrassing myself, although I'm pretty sure I did call Gordon and Karen "Mr. and Mrs. Roper."

- The next day was the wedding and it was predictably beautiful and classy, as one would expect from said couple. The appetizers were an explosion of flavor in my mouth. Gordon sang a song for Karen and it was by far the best song he's ever written. Just an amazing performance that brought the house down. Overall, a very nice night.

- Being that there were a bunch of musicians at this wedding, people of course wanted to get up and play with the band. Best man Eric and Gordon's dad got up to play a blues song and I (needing to at least be near the center of attention) walked up to join in on bass. I approached the bass player had the following infuriating conversation...

Me: Hey, I'm going to jump on bass. Do you mind?
Him: Yes.
Me: What?
Him: I don't let anyone play my bass.
Me: But... you're in a wedding band.
Him: (shrugs)

Have you ever heard of a wedding band refusing to let someone play? Bizarre.

- The reception party ended around 2am. Add daylight savings time to that and it becomes 3am. To catch our flight, we would have to leave the hotel at 5am. I decided to stay up and party on through, while Joe and Sarah opted for the "grab a few hours of sleep" option. Of course, when I returned to the room at 4.15 all drunky poo, I decided to pace around, sit on the bed and have a loud discussion with myself. "Should I even bother to sleep for 45 minutes? It hardly seems worth it. I think it would make it worse..." to which Sarah rolled over and said, "Brendo, stop talking." She was apparently not having the same sleeping inner monologue that I was. She was just trying to sleep.

- We managed to get to the airport and arrived at our gate at 6.45 - 25 minutes early for our 7.10 flight. We walked up to the gate and some employee with nothing better to do tried to play a "The plane's already left" joke that isn't funny even when you have slept the night before, which we hadn't. Then, we had an even more homicide-inducing conversation with the ticket taker, who acted like we were holding up the plane:

Her: I called all the rows. Where were you guys?
Sarah: Why - what time is it?
Her: 6.45.
Sarah: The flight leaves at 7.10, right?
Her: What - did daylight savings mess you up?
Sarah: Um... no. It's 6.45. We're 25 minutes early.
Her: Hurry up and get in there. I hope they haven't shut the doors.
Sarah: (clubs woman to death with a garment bag)

So once again, a nice relaxing weekend ends in murder, thanks to the incompetence and overall annoyingtasity of the airline industry. The lesson? As always - don't fuck with Sarah Spencer.

Thanks to Gordon's and Karen's family for allowing me to be a part of their celebration. And, of course, congratulations to the happy couple who, although on their honeymoon in Hawaii right now, loyally check my journal every day. Congrats, guys!

A long, tiring weekend for your chum Brendo. Lots of travel, lots of alcohol and lots (and I mean LOTS) of toasts. This wedding had more toasts than last summer's much anticipated wedding of IHOP and Bickford's. (Get it? Because they serve toast at both those places.) I'll give you more details of the Chicago nuptials of the new Mr. and Mrs. Greeber this week. And yes - they went through with it. Some of you out there owe me some money.

But first - let's talk a little baseball, shall we? As you should know, last night marked not only Opening Night of the 2005 season, but also the first time the Red Sox and Yankees have seen each other since Game 7 of the 2004 ALCS. It was the mostly highly-anticipated, emotionally-charged sports event of the year. How did I deal with the tension?

I went to bed in the 7th inning.

Now, keep in mind that I don't think I've EVER given up on a baseball game in my life. The idea that anything can happen until that very last out is what makes the game such a glorious obsession for me. So why did I give up on this, one of the biggest games of the year? There were a few factors involved:

- The previous night in Chicago, I had employed the always ill-advised "I'll just stay up and drink until my morning flight" technique. I was beyond exhausted. I was exhursted. I was exblathered. I was so tired I was making up words.

- David Wells vs. Randy Johnson: not exactly the Sox-Yankees matchup I had envisioned last fall. Both Fatty McGee and Tall-Tall Moustachio looked really weird in their team's uniform. It looked like an exhibition game between two rival carnivals or something.

- This is the important one: I think I'm free. While watching the Yankees rack up an early lead, I didn't punch a single wall, swear once or wish death/testicular mutilation to any member of the Yankees. In fact, after Derek Jeter gave a brief interview about how last year, the Sox were the better team and deserved to win, we had the following exchange in my living room:

Me: "You know - I don't even really hate Jeter anymore."
Sarah: "Me neither. He makes it pretty hard."
Joe: "Yeah, he's a class act."

What? What was happening to us? Going to bed during a Yankees-Sox series? Calling Jeter a "class act." Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaa?

I've got to say - I just feel better about baseball. It's a source of pleasure for me now instead of a source of anxiety and stress. I don't know how long this will last, but for now, I'm going to enjoy the sleep. Go Sox.