T-minus 4 and a half days until the big Paradise show with Fooled By April, so get your permission slips ready.

When something important in your life is ending, you tend to have all these "this is the last time..." moments. Last night, as I listened to the guys from FxA run through their set in the basement and Pete's bass lines rattled my floor like they had so many times before, I'm not afraid to admit - I got a little emotional. This was the last time I would get my own private Fooled By April concert.

Bravely, I opened the door and walked down into their sanctuary. As the boys were packing up their gear, they looked up at me. I smiled and said, "You know - this is the last time I'll hear you guys play in the basement. It's sort of sad."

Their reaction? "Shut the fuck up." Apparently, they're dealing with enough of their own emotional baggage that they don't need my gooey crap poured on their mop-topped heads.

Still, this band has meant a lot to me over the years both as musicians and friends, so I'm going to use this space this week to post some thoughts, relive some FxA memories and generally eulogize my buddies. I encourage you to share your own Fooled By April stories by either posting on our message boards, in my comments or especially in Joe's Diary hnaw. We'll all have a good cry cry about this and feel a whole lot better.

And for the love of God, don't miss this show.

About ten days ago, Joe tells me "You're the worst blogger ever," seemingly out of nowhere. I couldn't tell if he was just being his typical jerkhole "insult Brendan for no reason" self or whether the quality of my writing had gone down so much that, as a friend, he just had to say something. Then, the amount of hits and comments started to creep down and I started thinking - has the inevitable actually happened? Are people finally bored of me? Have they had enough of my daily dose of dick humor and have started spending their mornings doing something healthier and more productive than reading my journal, like ass calisthenics (they're like regular calisthenics, except with your ass)?

As it turns out, some of you that have been using bookmarks to reach me directly were unable to get to the updated site. You all probably thought I was inexplicably taking the last ten days off from blogging (probably because I was too busy with my ass calisthenics regimen). "What a jerk," you were thinking, "Brendan thinks he's better than us now. I hate him and will punch him in the throat next time I see him."

Well, fear not. Although I do think I'm better than you, Keith (who is better than all of us combined) has fixed the problem and your bookmarks should get you your fresh daily slice of Brendo pie once again.

And just in time - there's a big week in ScamperNation coming up. The Paradise show is a week from tomorrow. So go back and catch up so you're ready for some serious whoring. Have a great long weekend, all.

Some of the instant messenger conversations that made me laugh while I was at work yesterday:

(Keith and I discuss higher education)

Me: I have my first class in 7 years tonight.
Keith: That's great. Do you have a notebook?
Me: No, I've got to go get one.
Keith: You should get a Garfield notebook.
Me: Oh, I'm going to. Don't you worry about that.
(hours later)
Me: They were out of Garfield notebooks.
Keith: That's too bad.
Me: So I got a Heathcliff notebook.
Keith: Oh, that Heathcliff. He truly is the poor man's Garfield.

(My fellow unpaid screenwriter friend Nick and I discuss the perils of the Hollywood system)

Me: Well, you've got some interest in that script you wrote. That's good.
Nick: Yeah, but that's nothing.
Me: It's not nothing.
Nick: I've got some interest in building a tree house - doesn't mean I have the money for the plywood.
Me: Uh... okay. I don't think I really get that analogy.
Nick: On the other hand, I can't build a screenplay in Hanover (ed note: my home town) and see your mother naked, so I guess it's a little different...
Me: Okay, I see where this analogy is going... and I like it!

See what fun we have on instant messenger during the workday? Join us.

Oh, and I think I've pretty much maxed out on jokes about my mother this week. Leave my poor long-suffering mother alone, for God's sake.

I feel so pampered after my evening of luxury at the U2 show at the Garden last night. A private room with food, drinks, bathroom, couch, erotic massage with hand release... if you have a chance to see a concert for free in a luxury box, I recommend taking advantage of the opportunity. The staff really goes that extra mile for the luxury customers. As a joke, I asked the suite's butler to murder someone in the cheap seats for my amusement. He came back with a severed finger. Now that's good service.

After I got over the initial "wow, isn't this awesome?" and "I'm too poor to deserve this" pangs, Kings of Leon started. It seemed to me like this wasn't an ideal venue for them. They're probably a good live band, but the Garden was just too cavernous to really enjoy them. I couldn't shake the impression that they would sound a whole lot better in a smaller club, a fate that I'm sure awaits them after the U2 tour.

Then, it was time for the main event. My feelings for the band U2 have always been sort of conflicted. On the one hand, I think they have a handful of really rocking tunes (the first half of The Joshua Tree is a monster and I like the new poppy "Vertigo" stuff). On the other hand, they're a little bit bloated and obnoxious about the whole "biggest band in the world" thing. On a third hand, a part of me sort of enjoys the fact that the biggest band in the world is four Irish dudes. On yet a fourth hand... well, Bono makes it a bit tough to root for him. He doesn't exactly seem like a "regular guy."

Once they hit the stage, all doubts were erased. They are who they are for a reason - U2 delivers the goods. I felt sort of the way I did when I saw Kiss - it wasn't so much about the music, but about the spectacle. You just sort of have to accept the cheesiness of Bono's stage moves and go with it. And if you're too cynical to enjoy 40 thousand people jumping up and down to "Where The Streets Have No Name," then what do you like? Huh?

In a delicious bit of irony, every time Bono started talking about ending world hunger, I stood up from my seat and gorged myself on the free food. You know - in solidarity against starvation.

How does everyone else feel about U2? How about world starvation? Are you for or against? Pick up your pencils and... begin.

So in yet another example to file in the "How the Hell Did I Get In This Situation?" bin, my new buddy Wyc (part-time drummer of the Captain Miles Band and, oh yeah, owner of the Boston Celtics) drops me an email last week reading "I have a luxury box for Tuesday's U2 concert - everything's on me." Um... let me think about it. I was planning on rotting in my rat-ridden Somerville hovel tonight, but sure - I'll spend the evening in a luxury box. Why not, right?

I plan on being really obnoxious to all the working stiff peons who actually paid the exorbitant ticket prices to see the show. I'll probably spit on a few poor people, maybe have my butler slap a few of them around for my amusement. You get a butler in the luxury box, right?

I'll give you a full report tomorrow, if I'm not too exhausted from discussing world debt relief with Bono (My solution? Eliminate the Kennedy half-dollar. Think about it, maaaaaaaaaaan).

A conversation between my mother and me this weekend:

Mom: So I went on your website yesterday. My God.
Me: What?
Mom: It just doesn't sound like my Brendan.
Me: What are you talking about?
Mom: It's so offensive.
Me: What's offensive about it?
Mom: Shooting cocaine into your penis?
Me: Actually, I think it was heroin.
Mom: Oh, that makes it much better.
Me: They're just jokes. No one takes it seriously.
Mom: I guess I don't get that sort of humor.
Me: Look, stop stifling my creativity.
Mom: I'm not stifling your creativity. I have a right to my opinion.
Me: Now, every time I have a good dick joke, I'm going to think twice about posting it because my mom is reading.
Mom: Well, maybe you should aim for a little more than dick jokes.
Me: Well, maybe you should suck my dick, Mom!

Okay, that last part didn't happen. But seriously, stop reading my journal, Mom. You're stanking up my mojo.

I hope your day jobs aren't as craptastic as mine. That is my sincerest hope for all of you.

I just can't manage to stay away from this journal even though I'm busy at work. You keep pulling me back in. I'm so dedicated to you people, dammit!

The other night, Joe and I were watching this show on the Discovery Channel called "The Deadliest Catch" about crab fishermen. It's an extremely dangerous (read: stupid) job and on this particular episode alone six dudes were killed on the job. Six. Dead guys. For crab.

In the course of watching the show, Joe pointed something out: hey fellas - they've got this product out called "imitation crab." It tastes pretty the same as real crab except, and here's the important part, no one dies. The crabs don't even die. Why are you risking your lives for crab, you bunch of fuck-tards? Lobster, maybe - but crab? Jebus.

Near the end of the show, a man was overboard and the captain was on the radio, talking to the coast guard. The coast guard asked, "Can we get a description of the man overboard?" Uh, yeah - well, he's this guy... and he's in the ocean. Does that pretty much narrow it down for you? Um, he's six foot drowning. Does that help? You coast-guard fuck-tard?

Okay, I'm completely spent on my "Deadliest Catch" material. You've been a lovely audience. Be sure to tip your waitress and try the crab. It's delicious and only 84 fuck-tards died bringing it to you.

Looks like I've got a little window in the work-related shit storm, so I have time to tell you one more quick little story from this weekend's charity event (scroll down to get the background if you haven't read already):

After the show, we were loading our gear out out of the hotel ballroom when a woman in a cocktail dress - whom I recognized from her enthusiastic if arhythmic dancing in front of the stage earlier in the evening - stops me and says, "Hey, it's the band. I'm a drunken fan."

As I laughed and thanked her, she threw her arms out, gesturing for me to give her a hug. I looked at her and shrugged. Sure, why not? You guys know me - I'm always up for a friendly hug.

When I moved in to give her a chummy squeeze, she whispered in my ear, "Yeah, get your sweat all over me." Jesus fucking Christ. She was getting this excited over the bassist in a cover band. I smiled politely and beat a hasty retreat. Freaked me the fuck out.

Oh, she was like 60, by the way. Just thought I'd add that ever-important little tidbit into the story.

I doubt I'll have a chance to update the rest of the week, so have a nice weekend, all.

If you haven't read yesterday's post about this weekend's charity event, just go ahead and scroll down. Go ahead. The rest of us will wait...

You done? Man, you're a slow reader. You should get that shit tested.

Okay, so after Joe and I shocked the other members of the band when they walked into the hotel room to find us sitting on the bed in bathrobes, we all got changed and headed down to the ballroom.

After our Spinal Tap-like odyssey through the kitchen, we arrived behind the stage to see Mike Barnicle and Lenny Clarke auctioning off some very expensive items. Actually, I think they were auctioning - Clarke was doing a hell of a lot of yelling, but it wasn't completely clear about what. Hearing that guy's voice is liking having your pubes caught in a rusted, malfunctioning electronic de-pubenator.

Finally, it was time to hit the stage. Joe and I did ourselves so much rockin', that we actually became blurry:



A few songs into the set, I was unceremoniously dumped out of the band. John Henry, the Red Sox owner and the evening's honoree, was asked up on stage for a tune. He grabbed my bass with his ashen hand and had at it. If you look close, you can see me in the background, playing a stirring cowbell:



Then, it was time to be joined on stage by former J. Geils Band frontman Peter Wolf:



On stage, Peter is as energetic and exciting a performer as ever. It's easy to forget when you see this skinny, Tim-Burton-in-50-years-looking guy that he was a HUGE rock star. Hit records, covers of Rolling Stone, the whole deal. When he hits the stage, it's the late 70's again. He jumps around, works the crowd - a real pro.

Off stage, however, the guy is a very strange little man. Perfectly nice, but just odd. You know that "yamma gamma frootala toota" gibberish that he made famous in his live performances back in the day? That's how he really talks in real life. It's wild. Joe and I had a joke that he was going to keep calling us ridiculous names:

Peter: Nice job on bass there, Gabba.
Me: Actually, my name isn't Gabba. It's Brendan.
Peter: That's not what your friend Yabba told me.
Joe: Me? You're referring to me? I'm Yabba?
Peter: Zamma lamma froota la boota...
Joe: That's not English, Peter. If you're trying to communicate with us in some way...
Peter: (growing angry) Froota la bootala!

Overall, it was a terrific night that I'll remember for a long time. Thanks to everyone who set it up and allowed me to be a part of it all.

My crappy job is going to be very busy the rest of this week, so I don't know how often, if at all, I'll get to post journal entries. I'll try my best, though. To make it easier on me, how about this - if you've got a funny or interesting story, joke or insult, shoot it over to me at brendan@scamper.net. The floor is yours.

Wild weekend for the JDog and myself - we played in a cover band at a charity event in the Grand Ballroom of the Fairmont Copley Hotel for the Bridge Over Troubled Water Foundation, which I'm pretty sure raises money for Art Garfunkel's anti-hair frizzing products. Some highlights:

All the other guys in the band besides Joe and me do pretty well in the old "finances" department, so they plunked down the $1500 a plate for the dinner and got all tuxed out. We, the two penniless scumbags, were not even allowed in the door. As a rule, the rich fart in our general direction. Luckily, the band got a hotel room to change out of their tuxes and gave Joe the key to it. Big mistake.

See, Joe is a Zen master in taking advantage of free shit. He was born without a shame gene (and, come to think of it - without a "hy"gene). We get up to the hotel room and the first thing he says is "I'm going to take a bath." Of course you are. Why wouldn't you? While he stripped down and drew himself a soothing bath, I got on the horn and ordered some delicious room service.

When Joe came out of the bath (in a very fetching white towel robe and plastic shower cap), he looked so relaxed and pampered. It got me thinking. I looked at him and said, "Do you think I have time to soak in a bath?" to which he responded "Brendo, I don't think you have time to NOT soak in a bath." Good solid logic. It was bath time.

As my creaky old bones soaked in the piping hot water, I heard a knock on the door, followed by some mumbled arguing. Then, Joe knocks on the bathroom door and says, "Brendo... do you have any money?" Of course I didn't. I was soaking in a bath, for God's sake.

Apparently, the room was marked as "cash only," so we couldn't charge anything to the room. So the hotel guy, who was apparently VERY snippy, taunted Joe by showing him the delicious peking duck pizza and brownie a la mode and then took it away! Outrageous!

Joe and I wreaked our horrible revenge on the Fairmont family by emptying out the minibar (final score: Brendo - 4 beers, one can of Pringles, one cannister of nuts. Joe - 3 Diet Cokes, a Red Bull, a Snickers and a giant jar of gummy bears) and doing a very low-rent version of "trashing the place." Basically, we threw a few bottles on the floor and wiped food on the robes. It was strangely satisfying while simultaneously being very fucking lame.

This is getting long - I'll continue tomorrow with a report and photos from the actual show. Stay tuned, donkeys...

At the risk of taunting the gods of vertebrae here on this Friday the 13th, my back is feeling a lot better today than earlier in the week. Thanks for all the back care tips and offers of back massages, especially all the fellas who sent photos of their "techniques." You really meet a lot of nice guys on the internet, don't you?

Speaking of internet, my friend and filmic auteur Andrew Bujalski has a big interview and feature on his movie Funny Ha Ha on nerve.com. If you haven't seen the movie, it's been held over for another week at the Coolidge Corner theater - check the site for showtimes. The movie is apparently splitting screen time with Kung Fu Hustle, according to Andrew "presumably on the theory that no one can tell the difference anyway."

That's all I've got this morning, really. Slow news day. I'll be sure to give you all an update on the charity gig with Peter Wolf, et al on Monday morning.

Anyone got any exciting weekend plans?

Another one to file in the "How the Hell Did We Get Into This Situation" Bin, Joe and I are playing a black tie benefit with the Captain Miles Band on Saturday. John Henry, owner of the Red Sox, is being honored for his charity work. Wyc Grousbeck, the owner and CEO of the Boston Celtics, is sitting in on drums. Peter Wolf, front man for the J. Geils Band, is sitting in on vocals. And then there's Joe and me. Weird. I'll be sure to give you a full report next week.

I had a dream about it last night. I was on stage and all the Red Sox were in the audience. I kept making jokes about Bellhorn and they were going over great.

"Mark Bellhorn was so excited when he won the World Series that he said (mumble mumble mumble)."

Any time a joke bombed, I'd go back to Bellhorn. "Quick - somebody put a spoon under Bellhorn's nose to see if he's still breathing." It was killing. Bellhorn was my go-to guy.

I just hope Bellhorn is there on Saturday. If not, we're in biiiiig trouble.

You know what's not as much fun as people say it is? Lower back pain. My good goddamn my lower lumbars are screeeeeaming.

Just when I was getting all cocky about lifting weights, jogging and getting back into shape, my body gives me a not-so-subtle reminder of what a flabby pile of gristle I've been for the past two and a half decades. If anyone knows a good masseuse or someone who can illegally prescribe very powerful painkillers, give me a wingle.

In other news, the scampernet boards are alive with the sound of healthy debate and silliness. Yesterday's top two threads were "Is there a God?" and "Which is your favorite Scamper t-shirt?" Be sure to head over and weigh in on both pressing topics.

And yes, I've been pretty silent about the announcement in Joe's Diary about Fooled By April's last show. Rest assured, I have a lot of thoughts and feelings to share and will do so in due time (as soon as I sort through them all). But for now, I'll just say this: June 4 at the Paradise is going to be one hell of a show.

Last night, we hit ye olde ballparke for a lovely match between the Hometown Red Stockings and the Oakland Athletic Squadron. Some highlights:

- In my never-ending attempt to slowly take over Keith's identity, Alena was my date for the evening. So far, I've dated his wife, put pictures of his baby up in my office at work, memorized the first seven digits of his social security number and almost mastered his signature (I keep putting that extra "a" in "Michel" - why can't he spell his name like a normal person?).

- JDog and Spenco rounded out the foursome. The evening was a combination "last hurrah at Fenway"/celebration, as Spenco has decided to attend medical school in.... (drumroll)... Rochester, NY. And like a little pussywhipped, no-backbone-having-bitchface, Joe is going to follow her there. Just because they're going to be "married." What a fucking fag.

- Joe and I usually assign stupid nicknames to each of the Red Sox players (Manny is "Yam Yam," Bellhorn is "Ding Dong Honk," etc.), so we argued for a few innings whether to name Jay Payton "Jayples" or "Pay Pay Head." Punches were thrown. Results were inconclusive.

- When Oakland's reliever Keiichi Yabu was announced into the game, Alena started giggling uncontrollably. Apparently, "Yabu" is a swear word in Russian. It helps to have a bi-lingual curse word translator around, especially one with no maturity whatsoever.

- I screwed up my back a little bit when I was jogging this weekend. You know what's a good cure for a bad back? Sitting in seats designed for the average man in 1908 and arching your neck to see home plate. Jesus. My back is screaming this morning.

- After the game in which the Sox gave the A's a 13-5 trouncing (Joe observed that the "A" stands for "Aren't Very Good At Baseball"), we headed out to Yawkey Way, where Jerry Remy briskly walked right by us on the way to his car. He must have called the last pitch, dropped his headset and sprinted out of there. The game wasn't over for more than a few minutes and he was already done with that shit.

Overall, a fun evening at the park. Do they have the Red Sox in Rochester? I don't think so, you fucking jerks.

People, it's big ole shill time, so those of you who easily feel shame for others may want to turn your heads:

This morning, Scamper has released for public consumption "Wait Wait" - the latest single from our record Leave Your Glasses On. As of this moment, the song is available exclusively at our My Space page.

Why are we doing this? Well, it seems that some of you out there in cyberland don't have our record yet. What, as they say, the fuck? You come here to scamper.net every day, have a good hearty larf at my journal, maybe post a silly comment on the message board and go about your day. And yet, do you spend a single dollar to support Scamper? No! No you don't, you cheap bastards! You think well-crafted sugary power pop just magically appears under your pillow for free? And you think you can just take my big wheel and give to the poor kids? You're the worst parents ever! I didn't ask to be born! I hate you! I hate you!

Um... that was a little weird. Not sure what happened there. Okay, but seriously - we really want you to own Leave Your Glasses On. It's essential for your record collection, so we're also offering this super-awesome deal: with every purchase of the CD, you get a FREE Scamper t-shirt (while supplies last)! Free shit. Everyone loves free shit, right?

So be a pal - go to our store and buy a CD. And... I'm spent.

Weird thing I saw recently: there was a guy at my gym on Wednesday working out in distinctly non-gym clothes. He was lifting weights in a plaid button-down shirt, dockers and penny loafers. It really bothered me, for some reason. Get yourself some gym sweats and stop freaking me the fuck out.

On tap for this weekend: Jordan Valentine, the supremely talented artist who created the oh-so-sensual posters for Scamper's March Abbey Lounge residency (copies of which are available for sale in our store hnyaw), is showing a collection of her work at said Abbey Lounge on Saturday night. The Scamper poster will be on prominent display - be sure to stop by and tell her that Scamper sent you. It will get you nothing, but I just want to see if anyone does it.

That's all I've got today. Anyone have any good tequila-soaked Cinco De Mayo stories to share?

For my day job, I work in an environment in which there are a lot of college-age humans hanging around (some might even deign to refer to it as a "college"). As a result, I'm still lucky enough to encounter those annoying little quirks unique to college campuses. Specifically, buttons and ribbons and other such nonsense. Yesterday, I came back from lunch to find three co-workers leaving the building with big red buttons on their lapels.

"What's with the buttons?" I asked, handsomely.

"We're against violence," they responded, unironically.

"Wow. Are you sure you're ready to make such a bold, controversial stance?" I joked, wise-assedly.

When I was in college back in the early 1930's, things were no different - buttons and ribbons for every cause under the freakin' sun. A buddy of mine used to wear a ribbon on his jacket - when people asked him what it was for, he'd say "Ribbon awareness." They'd look at him, confused. He'd continue, "You know - to raise awareness for ribbons." Always a good larf.

One day my senior year, I walked into my dining hall to find balloons attached to half the chairs. A sign read "Each balloon represents someone who was sexually assaulted in the United States" or something like that. A sobering reminder of a serious problem, right?

Well, you would think so, but here was the problem: there were colorful balloons everywhere. It had the complete opposite of the intended effect on our moods - we were getting all giddy and silly. It was a fun and festive environment - so much so that when I arrived at my usual table, a friend flashed me a big smile and said "Happy Rape Day!"

C-c-college!

I'm bored today, so let's check out what's going on in the ol' worldwide interweb, shall we? Brendo's link of the day is:

There's plenty of fun to be had over on BobAndDavid.com (the Mr. Show guys). They don't update all that often, but when they do - hooeey delilah!! Watch out!

Bob Odenkirk and David Cross themselves contribute to the site sparingly, but they're smart enough to have their funny friends do recurring features. Doug Benson - one of the few guys on those VH1 I Love The... shows that actually manages to be more annoying and punch-inducing than Michael Ian Black - has actually found a format in which he's funny - movie reviews. He's a little bit hit-or-miss, but sometimes he slams one out of the park. My favorite review ever was for Spy Kids 2, in which he wrote "I'm going to wait for this one to come out on DVD so I can masturbate in the privacy of my own Circuit City."

My personal favorite feature of the site is Patton Oswalt's Talent Showcase, in which Patton shares these treatments that a fan "Eric Blevins" sends him. Usually, they're grammatically incorrect and hilariously over-the-top bloodbaths centering around the ass-kicking character Slade Ripfire, with titles such as "Soon Your Ass is A Bloody Glove for my Hand and a Tore-Up Boot for my Foot."

The most recent one is a kung fu epic entitled "Stalking Ching-Chong Pather vs. Hiding Muscular Chicken on Fire" where every character has the name Pow Ling (or Pau Ling or Pauw Ling). Very funny stuff... although I probably just gave away the funniest part of it, so you don't really need to read it. Oh well - Oswalt also updates his blog fairly frequently at PattonOswalt.com - worth checking out.

Speaking of websites, someone came up to Keith at the last Scamper show at the Middle East and said, "I really like your website. So much information and so well-organized." I think he squirted in his pants a little bit, he was so happy. You would think he'd be that pleased when someone compliments his actual music, but that's why he's our unique little boy. So I just wanted to give a shout-out to the man who designed and upkeeps this site and does a balls-out job of it. Kudos for Keith, friends?

Movie review time - this weekend I finally saw The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Like all the other pale friendless teenage virgins in my band, I was a huge fan of the book series when I was in high school. So I was anticipating this one for a while.

The verdict is a resounding "eh." All the jokes from the novel were in there and the performances were okay (I'm a big Martin Freeman fan since The Office and Zoey Deschanel gives me a man pain in my man places), but there just wasn't much to it. The absurdist philosophy of the novels got lost in the "aren't we clever?" jokiness of the whole thing. The actors weren't given much interesting stuff to do and the love story was grafted on and seemed out of place. But still - there were some laughs and some cool effects. I'd give it a thumbs right smack dab in the middle.

The best part of my movie-going experience was that I saw it with Keith and Alena... and Alena absolutely haaaaaaaaaaated it. I've never seen someone so angry coming out of a movie. She hated the movie so much that not only was she angry at the filmmakers, but loudly questioned her entire marriage to Keith on the basis that if he thought she would like the movie, he must not know her at all and they should get divorced immediately. It was, in a word, awesome.

Speaking of awesome movies, did anyone see the "Rosie O'Donnell acting retarded" made-for-TV movie this weekend? I missed it. Please give us a full report, if you can.

Thanks to all the good folks who came out for the Scampertastic show at the Middle East Upstairs on Friday. A good time was had and then rewinded and had again. Those of you who didn't make it - may your genital hair be infested by tiny microscopic robots bent on world domination. Because that would suck.

Some highlights from the show:

- During dinner before the show, the band played a new game called "Let's Team Up on Keith and Try To Get Him to Admit For Once That He's Wrong About Something." This was really fun for everyone... except Keith. Nope, he didn't enjoy that one so much.

- The band before us was Jetlagger, who were reuniting after over 3 years apart. They brought tons of fans out to the show, which was terrific. I was a little worried that since Jetlagger was so much heavier rock than us that a) a lot of people would leave once we started our unique brand of sugary power pop and b) the people that did stay would thoroughly hate us and throw big heavy wrenches at our heads. Luckily, a lot of people stayed and seemed to really dig us. The one guy that did throw a wrench at us was just mad because his girlfriend was falling in love with Mike. So it was a typical reaction to a typical good Scamper show.

- This show marked a lot of firsts for the band Scamper. It was the first time that Mike wore his brand-spanking new drummer's gloves. He not only managed to play rock solid beats without cutting his finger open (for once), but also went 3 for 4 with 5 RBI.

It was also the first time Nate wore his now-infamous "Steve Guttenberg" t-shirt, which was given to him as a gift from the band for doing such a bang-up job setting up the March residency at the Abbey Lounge. It just says "Steve Guttenberg." That's it. And why wouldn't it? Makes perfect sense, no?

- After the show, the other Scamps left to their wild "rock and roll parties" and "7-month old babies," but I hung out for the rest of the show. Max Heinegg & The Nervous and the Bon Savants were both excellent. Overall, it was a weird, eclectic night of rock that somehow managed to work.

I know I'm a little late on this "big announcement," but here it is: our next show is Saturday, June 4 at the Paradise Rock Club with Fooled By April. It is their CD release show and should be the show of a lifetime. You cannot miss this one. Mark it on your calendar right now, poopie.