My mother always said I shouldn't talk to strange women in bars. Last night, she was proven right once again:

Strange woman: So - you're in a band, huh? What do you play?
Me: I play bass.
Strange woman: The bass player, eh? How does it feel to always get the pretty girl's best friend?
Me: Um... okay, I guess.

Do we think this is true, friends? Is there a specific instrument that gets all the broads? I'm talking in general - not so much in Scamper. Everyone knows that in Scamper, chicks almost exclusively dig the drummer.

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).

Normally, I'm a strong believer in "what happens at the bar stays at the bar," but I have another story from the wedding weekend that's just too good to keep private:

After Joe and Sarah rode off on his motorcycle to cheers and well wishes, a bunch of us went out to a bar to celebrate their nuptials in their absence. Justice-of-the-Peace-for-a-day MCat rewarded himself for doing such a great job officiating the ceremony the way he rewards himself for everything: by getting silly drunk.

While we were at the bar, the slightly-slurring but always-handsome MCat got his swerve on with an exotic-looking young lady. Things seemed to be going well for him until she just suddenly up and walked away. I went over to MCat:

Me: Wha' happened?
MCat: I don't know. She just walked away.
Me: Well, what did you say?
MCat: Nothing. She was telling me that she was from Argentina and I started talking about the theory that Argentinians were involved in 9/11.
Me: Wow - she didn't like that? What a shocker.
MCat: (still oblivious) Yeah, I know.

Classic.

Another one bites the dust - Joe and Sarah actually went through with it. They are now officially Mr. and Mrs. JDog. Congratulations, kiddies.

It was a great weekend, beginning to end. Some highlights:

- At the rehearsal dinner, Maura (the uber-hottt maid of honor) and I played "Sing the 80's TV Theme Song." She claimed to be unbeatable so I quickly stumped her with my very first try (Throb, a little known sitcom about a record company co-starring Jane Leeves as "Blue." Bow before my massive loser skills). The grandparents at the dinner were, in a word, bored out of their fucking skulls.

- The morning of the wedding, I pulled the classic, almost cliche, best man save when Joe and I were about to leave for the ceremony:

Joe: Let's go.
Me: Do we have everything?
Joe: Yup, let's hit it.
Me: Do we have the ring?
Joe: (embarrassed silence)

- The ceremony itself was original and beautiful. They got married at an old movie theater we all (Sarah grew up one town over from Joe and me) used to go to as teenagers. Joe made a tear-jerker of a movie/slide show to play before the ceremony. A brass quintet played Beatles songs. Our friend the MCat, with the help of a few valium, managed to officiate the ceremony without having a patented MCat Freakout or his signature move - the MCatplosion (TM).

- When we saw the stunning vision of Sarah coming down the aisle, Joe turned to me and said, "This is going to be a rough one." Damn straight. The whole ceremony was a raw and emotional half hour for all of us. I've never had two people I'm this close with get married before. It was a little hard to keep it together. My main focus was to not distract from the couple's powerful and touching exchange of vows with my laughably unmanly sobbing.

- At least I got through my toast without crying... oh wait, I wept more than an oversensitive 4-year old on National "Your Favorite Puppy Dies" Day (it's a Canadian holiday). It was tough - I knew I was going to say some emotional things and I knew I was going to tear up a bit, but it all hit me at the worst possible moment: right there on the microphone. No one seemed to mind, although Joe's dad did call me a "fag." He insists he meant it in the best possible way.

And with that, my best man duties were finally complete. It's hard to express in words how honored and thrilled I was to stand by as two of my best friends declared their burning love for each other. It was an amazing experience that I'll never forget. So thanks for everything, guys.

After having slept about 3 and a half hours the night before, Joe's alarm goes off unexpectedly on Saturday morning. He finds a CD with "Play Me, Asshole" on the label. He puts the CD into his player to hear the Mission: Impossible theme with the following message:

"Good morning, Agent Welsh. I trust your sleep was restful. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to continue your bachelor weekend. What - you thought it was over? Some bowling, cheap Chinese food and fake tits? You knew your best man had a little more in store than that.

Meet your agent out in the car in the driveway and await instructions. Be warned - this agent is VERY handsome. Try to avert your eyes as to not be blinded by his shining handsomeness.

This message will self-destruct in 5... 4... 3... okay, it's not going to self-destruct. Just get your ass out to the car, dick."

Joe stumbles out to the car to find yours truly. I start up and drive. He has no idea where we're going. For the ride, I created a CD with a few musical clues - including "Viva Las Vegas" by Elvis. Joe heard that song and said, "Awesome! We're going to Foxwoods." But when we turned off the highway to head to the airport, he finally figured it out:

That's right, my friend - we're going to Vegas.

Like any trip to Vegas, it was too much of a whirlwind to really describe, but here are a few (edited) highlights:

- Joe's boy Glen played blackjack with William Hung. You'd think there'd be more to the story than that, but there just isn't.

- When we were playing blackjack, we renamed the chips according to their colors. The green $25 chips were "kerms," the red $5 were "apples" or "fire engines" and the $1 blues were "dolphins." We forced the dealers and all the other people at the table adopt our lingo. Oh, and in case you were wondering, the popular $6 bet was a "hot dolphin." Figure it out.

- At the worst breakfast in the history of eating, our friend David ordered prune juice, just to throw off the wait staff. Then, he pulled our waiter aside and conspiratorially asked, "Is this prune juice bottomless?" The waiter was nonplussed.

- Although we weren't imbibing in any substances, the effects of sleep deprivation were seriously fucking with us. Around 6am we started making "joke bets" - throwing hundreds of dollars away on stupid, unwinnable bets - David doubled down on a 21 ("I choose to look at it as an 11"), stayed on 7 and split kings. We wasted hundreds of dollars and we thought it was hilarious.

- At one point, just as the sun had come up on old Vegas, I stepped away from the table and went outside for some air. I stood in the middle of the street and just started giggling. Uncontrollably. I couldn't stop. People were staring. I was doubled over in a giggle fit. I thought to myself "This is what insanity must feel like."

I know, I know - reading other people's Vegas stories is boring. It's the classic, untranslatable "Trust me - it was really funny"-type situation. But it was a great weekend - Joe was the big winner, turning 3 kerms of my money into about 15 kerms of his money.

I'm off tomorrow to fulfill my best man duties. Next week, I'll be sure to fill you in on the details of the blessed event and whether I seriously gay out during my toast. The smart bet is yes - I'd put at least 4 kerms on it.

After the Joe Welsh Appreciation Dinner, some of the boys head to a local purveyor of female nudity. I won't bore you with the details of who does what with whom (except to say that Pete has ZERO sense of my taste in filthy whores), but something funny happens on the way to the forum:

I am walking around the place, trying to find the hottest girl to dance for Joe. I spot a petite blonde that seems eminently qualified for duty and tap her on her shoulder. She turns around, looks at me for a second and says, "Oh my God - are you from Hanovah?"

I respond, "Uh... yeah."

She squeals, jumps up and down and says, "I'm [name deleted]. I went to high school with you. You told me you had a crush on me when we were in the nurse's office. You had wicked bad pneumonia."

This story is absolutely true - this lovely young lady, who I never would have recognized with her bleached blonde hair, heavy make-up and clear high heels, was one of my many unrequited high school crushes (I was attracted to the "rescue me" thing - don't ask). This nurse's office encounter was the only conversation I ever had with her and she remembers it in vivid detail. I am utterly shocked.

"That's so funny," she continues, "You have to get a dance from me now." At this stage, I almost go into renal failure. A girl I couldn't get in high school wants to show me her hoo hoo for a twenty spot? The pale teenage virgin deep inside me just did a little backflip. This was the motherlode.

But the evening is not about me. I say, "That's Joe Welsh over there. Remember him? You should go dance for him." That's right, people - I pass up living the dream for my buddy Joe. I don't care what anyone says about me from here on in - I'm a hero. An American fucking hero.

If it had ended there, it would have been enough. But wait - there's more. As this beautiful lady is stripping for Joe, she's talking at length about all these people from high school (all of which Joe hated, of course), putting a drastic crimp in the mood. Then, out of nowhere, she starts in on Leonardo Da Vinci and how he invented drugs to control the population and how she figured it all out...

That's right - Joe not only got a lap dance from a hot girl from our high school, but she turned out to be a complete paranoid schizophrenic. It's like I had planned it all along. It was just too perfect.

Oh, you think the story's over, but it's ready to begin...

Sorry to have been away from you all for so long, my little succubi. I was preoccupied with the planning and execution of Joe's bachelor party. My crippling fear of ruining any surprises prevented me from posting anything at all.

Overall, the weekend went off without a hitch. Really, the only problem child of the weekend was me, who was so stressed about everything going perfectly that I lashed out at every non-Joe person around me. The members of my band took a particularly large brunt of my angst. But hey, that's what a band is for, right? To be verbally abused for no reason. Sorry, fellas.

Friday night, the bachelor party did a little bowling and then headed to a cheap Chinese restaurant for a "surprise" dinner with a gender-mixed group of Joe's friends, including his lovely betrothed Sarah. Of course, it wasn't a surprise at all because I accidentally sent Joe an evite to the damn thing. I am, as always, a big sweaty retard.

But there were still surprises in store - we played a game that I invented called "Love or Punishment." Here's how the game went:

Before the game, I asked Sarah ten questions. Joe had to match her answer. There were ten people in the audience with envelopes. If Joe got an answer wrong, he would pick one and that person would read an embarrassing story about Joe. It was fuuuuuun. Things the group learned about Joe:

- He farts a lot.
- He is not shy about said farting.
- Don't be mean to him at a party at your house. He'll do stuff.
- Don't bump him from a flight. He'll do stuff.
- Did I mention the farting?

After the game, Pete set up a slide show with "inspirational" quotes from Joe's Diary over at the Fooled By April site (Fooled by Whom? I think they used to be a band). Just check out the archives to see what a positive motherfucker Joe is. Imagine some choice quotes over some inspiration photos of flowers, landscapes and bald eagles. Hilarious stuff.

Then, it was time for some actual nice stories. A few toasts, a few tears and a few more farts later, we could officially deem "Joe Welsh Appreciation Night" a smashing success. But the weekend wasn't over. Not by a long shot...

I walked into the ATM last night to count my millions and I saw a handwritten note on the little counter where they keep the deposit envelopes. It read:

"If you are as upset as I am about these new non-hygenic envelopes that are required to lick, you should call Bank of America and complain at 1 800 blah blah blah..."

This struck me as a very funny thing about which to be "upset." I imagined some uptight crazy white lady (I mean come on - it had to be an uptight crazy white lady, right?) standing there, fuming. "You mean I have to lick the envelope now? This is unacceptable. Unacceptable!" Did you ever notice how frequently uptight white people use the term "unacceptable"?

Anyway, this note struck me sort of funny, so I wrote my own note, reading:

"Or you could actually do something useful with your time. You know, your choice..."

... and left it right next to the note. Of course, the irony is that by leaving a note about how the first note was a waste of time, I was actually wasting my time.

The lesson, as always: I like to lick things.

A story I forgot to tell about the bachelor weekend:

Joe and Jordan decided to buy BB guns, because Joe and Jordan are emotionally-stunted idiot manchildren. But also, BB guns are really fun.

We were staying at a nice cottage on a lake, so Joe set up a few targets on the beach at which to shoot, the most prominent of which was the latest copy of Latin Inches (which I viewed as a manifestation of either Joe's subconscious hatred of gays and Hispanics or his irrational love for the metric system). We just sat in lawn chairs, drank beer, smoked cigars and shot BB guns. It was, in a word, wicked fucking fun.

But in the cabin next to us, a family with young kids were swimming. Now, we were being safe and weren't shooting anywhere near the kids, but I'm sure the parents looked over, saw a bunch of guys with beers and guns and got nervous. As well they should.

If the dad or mom had come over and said, "Look guys - could you not shoot those guns here? We've got young kids." We would have of course apologized and stopped shooting the guns and felt like the troglodyte tools that we actual are. But did they do that? No.

They called the fucking cops.

Remember when calling the cops used to be the last resort? Now people use it as a way to avoid confrontation. I can't tell you how many times I've had the cops come and break up some innocent fun, just because the neighbors didn't have the sack to ask me to stop. Come on, people - I thought we were supposed to hate the cops. What the fuck?

Apparently, strippers hate me. Or maybe they really love me, but in that OJ "I'll show you my love by beating the shit out of you" kind of way. Either way, I rarely have an encounter with a stripper that doesn't end in some sort of bodily injury for me.

Last October at Madden's bachelor party, a lovely stripper raised my left arm above my head (sort of sexy), leaned in (very sexy) and bit me on my tricep four times very hard (not sexy! not sexy! not sexy!). I had four huge purple bruises on my arm for weeks. It was ridiculous. And of course, the indignity was multiplied when I had to explain the bruises (I think I'm constitutionally unable to lie. Thanks, Dad!) to my friends, co-workers and mother. Swish.

So the odds of me being singled out by a stripper for physical harm again were pretty slim, right? Within minutes of the strippers arriving at Pete's bachelor party, one of them climbs on my lap (very sexy), stands up on my thighs (sort of sexy) and stomps up and down on my thighs with her high heels (not sexy! not sexy! not sexy!). I screamed at her to get off me, but that only encouraged her. The other guys at the bachelor party of course thought it was hilarious, as I definitely would have were the abuse happening to someone else. But I was pissed.

After I walked outside and fumed for a few minutes, I came back in. While the stripper didn't apologize, she and her friend then did some other stuff to make me forgive them rather quickly. Strippers - I can't stay mad at you.

Speaking of Madden, everyone say "Happy Birthday" to the little fella. He's getting very VERY old, so speak loudly. He has a hard time hearing through the Depends he wears on his head.

I'm still exhausted from Pete's bachelor weekend. Man, who thought blowing 12 guys would be that tiring? And that donkey was very ornery - made it a lot harder to keep a straight face when Gordon was in the bloody diaper.

Okay, it wasn't all that wild - but it was a lot of fun. The three best men (that's right, THREE!) did a tremendous job planning a bunch of events. The highlight certainly had to be the "Nerd Olympics." They dressed Pete up in a nerd outfit (all of the items which came from his own wardrobe, I'm sure) and made him do all sorts of Pete-tailored nerd events, such as:

- riding a unicycle
- decoding anagramed names of fantasy baseball players
- high level calculus
- doing a magic trick
- naming every KISS album in order (Pete, of course, aced this one)

Unsurprisingly, Pete proved himself to be quite a proficient nerd. The prize at the end of the event was provided by me: a copy of Latin Inches magazine. I've been going to so many bachelor parties lately that I've gotten really comfortable walking into a store and buying gay porn. Doesn't phase me at all anymore. So if anyone needs some good man-on-man literature, I'm your hook-up.

Tomorrow: strippers and why they seem to hate me so much.

This weekend, I'm off to Western Massachusetts for the bachelor weekend of Pete a.k.a 12-Gauge. I expect it to be a classy, "wine and cheese" affair with no debauchery whatsoever. If there's one thing in this world that Pete Galea cannot stand, it's dirty, dirty whores. He hates them.

"Get those fake tits away from me!" he's been known to say on many occasions, "I don't love dirty whores more than life itself AT ALL!"

I'll have a semi-full, probably heavily-edited report of the good times on Monday. Until then, keep your dirty, filthy sluts away from Pete. He's just not interested, okay?

I've got nothing today. Absolutely nothing. I'm blocked up harder than... a really blocked up thing. See? I couldn't even come up with a good metaphor there. That's how bad I am this morning.

But the only way to get through writer's block is to write through it. That's what they say, right? Write through the block. Let's give it a try, shall we?

Okay, writing writing writing. Let's write. Come on, Brendan - you've got this. You're the man. You can write the shit out of this journal. Do it! Do it!

I think the problem is I haven't been sleeping well the last few days. I put the air conditioner in last weekend and while it's much more comfortable as far as temperature and humidity, it's a constant stream of cold air at my head. I think it'll just be an adjustment period. I seem to remember having trouble sleeping this time every year after I put in the A/C.

Wow - that last paragraph was absolutely horrible. Who gives a shit about my air conditioner? What a boring, pointless journal entry this is turning out to be. I suck. I'm such a horrible writer! No one will ever love me!

Okay, get a hold of yourself, Brendan. That sort of negative thinking is completely counterproductive. You're still a good writer. Right? I mean, how does anyone really know they're good at anything? "Good" is such a subjective term. Am I a "good writer" or a "good person"? When I was a kid, adults used to say I was a "good little eater." It sounded like a compliment at the time, but now I'm not so sure.

All right, I think it's probably about time to land this puppy. Was this an interesting view into the mind of a struggling writer or just a self-indulgent gimmick to get through yet another day? I guess I'll never know. Unless people put comments and tell me how much they love/loathe me. I'm pretty sure Joe is going to make some anonymous death threat. That guy's got a lot of anger.

And.... done.

Before this week's World Series rematch of the Red Sox and the St. Louis Cardinals, I called my friend Brian - a die hard Cardinals fan and creator of the excellent, but now defunct Redbird Nation site - and said "I just wanted to say good luck: this is by far the most important series that these two teams will ever play. A mid-week interleague series in June. I hope we can still be friends."

After the Cardinals took the first game, Brian wrote me an email saying simply "We're even."

To which I responded, "Forget it. I don't think we can be friends anymore. Every time I look at you, I'll see that Morris/Sanders suicide squeeze (which I'm sure will come to be known in baseball lore as "The Play" because of the sheer magnitude of the consequences.)"

Brian wrote back, "He's Reggie Fucking Sanders in New England now, right? And I have a blown-upcopy of 'The Play' in a frame over my mantelpiece."

No point to this story, really. I just thought it was funny.

All this talk of bands breaking up got me thinking - how do you think Scamper is going to end? You always hope for a stylish, triumphant final gig like Fooled By April's last waltz this weekend. They did it about as good as you can do it.

Somehow, I don't think the end of Scamper will be nearly that pretty. How will Scamper die? Here are a few possibilities:

- Death by meeting. Keith calls yet another of his eternal "band business" meetings. He just keeps talking and talking and talking for eight straight days. Slowly, the three other formerly active, energetic members of the band morph into dehydrated, hallucinating lumps of clay, no longer able to function. Keith doesn't notice for four more days, as he is absorbed in his well-labelled pie graphs representing the shrinking percentage of fans who think the song "Sophie" is "really gay."

- Death by eyeliner. Photos from our most recent show end up in the right hands on Madison Avenue and the inevitable happens: Nate becomes the new Maybelline girl. All phone calls to him go unanswered and the only time any of us ever see his beautiful high-cheekboned visage is up on the billboards. The query "Maybe he's born with it..." is finally answered.

- Death by murder. During a particularly heated rehearsal, Mike finally snaps and strangles all three members of Scamper. Since he is wearing drummer's gloves, there are no fingerprints to link him to the crime. He gets off scott free and starts up his new band, the "I Murdered Scamper and There's Not a Thing You Can Do About It Trio." Featuring Marc Roderick on bass.

Any other ideas?

Big ups to all the many many of you fine people who made it out to the Paradise this past Saturday for the big Scamper/Fooled By April show. It was such a thrill to walk on to that Paradise stage and see such a packed house. One of the very cool moments in my life. So thanks for that.

Of course, it was a bittersweet evening as Fooled By April packed it in after four years of being together. I managed to hold it together for most of my set, only choking up a little bit as I introduced Joe to join us on stage. But when I got off stage and gave Jordan a hug, the floodgates open. I just started sobbing like a little bitch. Seriously. It had to be the single gayest scene at the Paradise since Andrew Ridgeley blew one of the Pet Shop Boys in the green room in 1982.

Fooled By April were predictably great, opening with their new songs and playing a smattering of favorites throughout their four year career. They did an a capella harmony on "Student Movie," which of course got the waterworks going again. Then, Nate and Alena saw me crying, causing them to start crying and then furthering my crying. It was a big ol' poofy cry circle. Not that much fun, but perfectly natural, so don't judge us, jerks!

It's funny how quickly life goes by. For months, we've been gearing up for this big night and it happens and we enjoyed it and basked in the emotions of it. And then it's over. And it's on to the next thing. I'm not sure if it's depressing or hopeful or what.

It's just weird - four years of Fooled By April seemed to flash by in a second. Let's enjoy things while they're around, friends.

All week, I've been trying to share memories, thoughts and feelings about the life and death of the band Fooled By April. I fear I haven't done a very good job, because it's really hard to process a lot of what I'm feeling. As you can probably tell, this is more than just a band break-up to me.

When I returned from LA in the summer of 2002, I wasn't in the greatest shape in just about every way. My year out there had been lonely, disheartening and in my mind, I was basically a quitter and a failure. I got back to Boston and started hanging out with my high school buddy Joe's band - Fooled By April.

At that time, they had graduated from the crap gigs (a month before I left, I was at Joe's first show with the band at the Sky Bar on a weeknight) and started their rise in the Boston music scene. They were playing great shows and sounding really really REALLY good. Just being around their music made me feel better about being home.

More importantly, they quickly welcomed me into the family. In those days, being around Fooled By April, supporting them, hearing them play - it felt like I was a part of something. They were on to something and they were really going for it. It was inspiring. I was happy just to help them load gear, work the light board or sell merch for them. They were doing it and I was along for the ride.

When I found out they were going to the prestigious South By Southwest music festival, I asked them to follow them for a documentary to which they quickly agreed. It was a crazy, stressful, insecure time for the guys and I was there to share every moment. Documenting someone's life is a very intimate experience - being entrusted with feelings and vulnerabilities is a real honor. It brings you closer to people. I felt like we were brothers.

I ended up with a film of which I'm really proud, probably the thing I'm most proud of in my artistic life. When I sold out a screening at the Allston Cinema (now a lovely Staples store) and stood in front of 150 people cheering my movie - still one of the great moments of my life - the four members of Fooled By April stood right there by my side. Exactly where they belonged.

Fooled By April led me to being in Scamper, both through the bands' unique symbiotic relationship and the way Fooled By April inspired and reawakened my love of/need to perform music for people. You can ask Nate, Keith and Mike about this - there would be no Scamper as it is today without Fooled By April. There certainly would be no Brendan in Scamper.

Quite simply, this past 3 years have been the richest, most productive and most joyous years of my life. And at the center of that joy is the band Fooled By April. They've meant more to me than I could really express. And while I celebrate them individually and the exciting, separate adventures their lives are about to enter, I will mourn the loss of them in my life.

Joe, Gordon, Pete, Jordan - thank you for making my life better through your music, your spirit and just who you are. It is my honor to share the stage with you tomorrow night at the Paradise for your last show.

There's one avenue of my Fooled By April memories that I've sort of neglected - the music. Makes sense, I guess - I tend to focus on the people, the good times, etc. But there's the music.

I've seen by far more shows by Fooled By April than by any other band... including Scamper. Not to mention every basement rehearsal I hear rattling through the floor boards at my house. FxA music has been the soundtrack of my life over the past 3 years. And while my favorites may have changed over the years (early on, I moved toward "A Motion" whereas now I'm a "Confidence Man" man), the songs have consistently had the same uplifting joyous effect on me, no matter how many times I've heard them. I simply don't get sick of FxA music.

When I finished shooting principal photography on the documentary, I had spent about two and a half months living and breathing Fooled By April music. After I got that last shot, FxA and I had earned a well-deserved break from each other. There was one problem - they had a show. And even after all that time together, I just couldn't miss a Fooled By April show.

Because there's just something magical about their music. It's not just well-crafted, well-played pop. There's something meaningful inside it. Gordon's soul and Joe's fury and Pete's balance and Jordan's raw musicality combine to make something greater than the sum of their parts. It just makes people happy.

It's made me happy for the past 3 years. And now, I'm a little sad that there won't be more Fooled By April music in the world.

Please don't miss your last chance to see Fooled By April - this Saturday June 4 at the Paradise.

Fooled By April Memory #347:

When Pete Galea was a younger man, he was like a lot of fellas (myself included) in the sense that he didn't have a ton of luck with the female species. But when he joined that jiggly pop quartet known as Fooled By April, everything changed for our boy. He became a super delicious (although follicly-challenged) stud muffin.

When Pete went on his first tour of the Midwest, he sent me an email with a highly detailed account of his initial taste of "rock band on the road" debauchery. It was, in a word, gross. In fact, the events of that tour are far too extreme for even me to write about in this space... and I ended a journal entry with "Suck my dick, Mom!" But the best part was when Pete ended the email with a simple sentence:

"Find three fellas and start a band. Seriously."

Fooled By April Memory #562:

During the winter and spring of 2003, I spent almost every waking hour with the band, following them for a documentary about their trip to South By Southwest music festival. I was always around the band - it felt like I was attached to the guys at their shapely child-bearing hips. Seriously, it was quite a bonding experience and the five of us came through it closer than brothers.

Or so I thought... until I was hanging out at a bar with Jordan a few months later and he turns to me and says, "Dude - what's your last name?"

I was shocked. "What?"

"What's your last name?"

"You don't know my last name? We just spent the last three months together."

"I just forgot it."

"Why don't you check the credits of the documentary I made about your ungrateful ass?"

"Fuck you."

"No, fuck YOU!"

Memories... light the corner of my mind...

Your last chance to create your own Fooled By April memories - this Saturday at the Paradise.