Tonight is the night. Scamper. Aloud. The Middle East Upstairs. It promises to almost be too much rock. Like, it might get weirdly sexual. I hope you prepare yourselves for that outcome, because it's looking like about a 67% probability.

Personally, I'm planning on wearing a beige Army shirt and trying to subtly work my way into Aloud society. I'm getting a little ick-say of amper-Scay.

In other news, I prepared for the gig tonight by hitting some late night karaoke. Some highlights:

- A guy selected Boy George's "The Crying Game" and did it spot-on perfect. It might have been the most perfect karaoke moment I've ever witnessed.

- JDog and I attempted a duet on "The Girl Is Mine" by Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson. It started off okay, but then degenerated into a manly slapfight when both of us wanted to sing Michael's part.

- Maura knocked some Bon Jovi out of the park, like the true karaoke pro that she is. Nothing really interesting about this part of the story, but I know she'd get mad at me if she didn't get the mention.

- Funniest joke of the night: as a truly ENORMOUS guy (I mean, easily pushing four bills) gets up to sing, Joe turns to me and says "That guy goes into the Ground Round and says, 'Uh... I'll just pay the price on the menu, thanks.'" Killer.

See you all tonight at the Middle East. If you don't come, you're a jerk.

Many thanks to the millions of screaming Beatles fans who came out to the Abbey last night. For those of you unfortunates who missed it, some highlights:

As an homage to the Fab Four early years, Scamper got decked out in shirts and ties. While we looked as snazzy as all fuck-out on stage, it also happened to be the hottest, muggiest, most miserable night of the year. Last night, I did me some serious sweating. I sweat so much that YOU lost weight.

One of the bands pulled out at the last minute, so we had around 45 minutes to fill. Of course, we were instructed to play 5 Beatles songs and we selected them all from the early years ("Please Please Me," "I Saw Her Standing There," "You're Going To Lose That Girl," "I'm Happy Just To Dance With You," and "All My Loving"), all of which are approximately one and a half minute long. So we had ourselves some time to kill.

We contemplated playing our entire set 4 times, but opted instead to reveal the secret shame of Scamper: "Sophie" is actually a lost Beatles song called "Yoko" that we renamed and claimed as our own. It felt good to get the guilt off our chests, although we apparently now owe Michael Jackson $412,583.

Thanks so much to Neil for putting the show together and the Abbey for having us last night - it was really a blast.

But wait - there's another show? Tomorrow night at the Middle East Up? That's just crazy talk, Brendo!

But it's true. We're playing with Aloud, who have become my favorite band in Boston (now that these assholes have broken up). Another little Scamper secret: we all have a hidden crush on one of the members of Aloud. Try to guess who - I think you'll be pleasantly surprised (clue: his name is Henry).

The Beatles show at the Abbey is tonight tonight tonight!

Scamper has been going all-out to create a truly authentic Beatles experience for y'all. Remember that famous Beatles show during which all four members were exhausted and bitchy and John's guitar broke three times and Ringo stopped drumming and claimed he "forgot how to use his hands" and George couldn't remember any of the words to the songs and Paul had the beginnings of a really gross beard because the Beatles had a moustache show a few weeks later? Remember that famous show?

Yeah, we'll be reenacting that one. Or at least that's what I'm predicting will happen, based on last night's Scamper rehearsal. Ouch.

Down deep, I have a feeling we'll pull it together and put on a good show tonight, but I'm not going to lie - the potential for a spectacular blazing failure is running a close second in the likely outcomes. So that could be fun, too. Don't miss it.

As usual, I'm very late on the technology train, but this iPod thing is pretty amazing. JDog got me an iPod shuffle as a wedding gift for being the bestest best man ever and (after the requisite month of trying to figure out how it works before handing it off to Joe to make it work for me), I've finally got the thing up and kicking.

I went running with it yesterday and I've got to tell you - that little thing rocks my socks off my ass. It's like a whole new world. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, gets you through that first four laps like Britney's "Toxic." Also, Fooled By April's new song "Building for the Breakdown" is a great jogging pace as you head for that two-mile mark. I even listened to a little Scamper - "Sophie" soared into my ears as I collapsed on the ground and had to be defribulated. The EMTs, however, seemed partial to "Wait Wait." They also stole my wallet.

You know to what else I was listening? That's right - the Beatles. It sounds great through the iPod, but it will sound even better coming from our mouths and fingers (and in Mike's case, his balls) at the Abbey Lounge tomorrow night. We're on early, so come... early.

Wow - the Beatles show at the Abbey Lounge is right around the corner - this Wednesday night. Beatles shows really sneak up on you, don't they?

Scamper is going all out preparing to Beatle it up. We've already fired Mike "Pete Best" Mirabella and replaced him with someone much funnier.

Also, Alena has abandoned her current post as doting Russian mother and become a Japanese performance artist. Let's just say she's around... a lot.

And by special request, we're actually playing the show from Keith and Alena's bed. They won't leave. They say they're only trying to get them some peace. Hippies.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, I'm still the cute one.

A bit of real-life dialogue to get you through your weekend. On Thursday night, I am at ye olde local publick houseee ordering a round of tasty adult beverages for myself and my pals when a woman in a red cowboy hat approaches me. She is in her late 50's and, in a word, gross.

She immediately begins to run her hands across my arms and chest. The following conversation ensues:

Her: Hey sexy, are you married?
Me: Yes, I'm married to the sea.
Her: Oh. (beat) What?
Me: I'm married to the sea. I'm a sea captain.

As I walk away with my beers in hand, I hear her turn to another woman and say, "That guy is married to the sea."

One more quick one - on the commuter rail last night, a teenager attempts to get on the train. The conductor looks at his ticket and refuses, leading to the following exchange:

Teenager: But the big fat guy at the last station charged us an extra dollar and punched the ticket wrong.
Conductor: (smiles and shakes his head) Yup - that's Bobby for you.

The teenager then watches helplessly from the platform as the train, carrying perhaps the least helpful MBTA employee ever, pulls away.

Sometimes during the typical day, I have funny instant messenger conversations. Here's one from yesterday with good old Madden:

Madden: It's always been a dream of mine to own a boat.
Me: That sounds good.
Madden: Sail it into Boston Harbor, pick you up and sail it out to the middle of the Atlantic and sink it.
Me: Uh, ok.
Madden: And as the boat sinks and I hold you in my arms regretting the fact that I never took swimming lessions, you'd hear me yell "Curse you Poseidon, CURSE YOU!!!"
Me: Sounds like a plan.
Madden: I'm pretty sure Aquaman would save us though, right?
Me: Aquaman's not real, Madden.
Madden: What?
Me: Sorry, not real.
Madden: Come on - I just saw him this morning pushing a shopping cart under the expressway bridge near the South End.
Me: That wasn't Aquaman.
Madden: It wasn't?
Me: Nope. I'm pretty sure it was a homeless guy.
Madden: So which one is Aquaman? I'm confused.

Man, if I had a dollar for every time I had to explain to Madden the difference between superheroes and the homeless, I'd be a rich fucking man.

Funny. Funny is fun.

Not to get all politickin' on y'all, but I think President Bush really dropped the ball by not nominating my friend Vinny Shit on the Face for Supreme Court Justice. I mean, come on - he's the obvious choice. His two main platforms:

- Eliminating abortion and reducing the gun-buying age to the second trimester. "Let's give our littlest citizens a chance to defend themselves."

- Not only legalizing cock-fighting, but making it an Olympic sport. My prize rooster (named Alex P. Keaton) will finally be recognized as the gold-medal caliber athlete that he is.

Come on, Mr. President. Your choice is obvious.

There was some discussion over on Joe's Diary about how his getting married wasn't very "rock and roll." For a moment, let's ignore the general dumbness of this idea and leave this sort of weighty discussion to the deep thinkers on the Noise Board (Oh snap! No, I didn't!), because it got me thinking: do I do anything that's rock and roll? I mean, at all? Ever?

I'm not so sure. Let's take a gander at the events of my day yesterday and scan for any traces of rock-and-rollitude:

- Woke up at 8.27am. While this is clearly not a very "rock and roll" time to wake up, it is a mere 33 minutes from when I have to be at work. I'm devil-may-care like that. Hell, sometimes I even show up for work a few minutes late. Why? Because I'm 100% Grade-A bad-ass.

- Had a meeting with my boss in which we calmly and rationally expressed concerns about job performance. Hmmm... I guess a real rock and roller a) wouldn't have a job and b) would tell the purveyor of the job to take said job and shove it. I didn't do any of this. But I did use the word "fuck" a few times. That counts for something, right?

- Ate a salad. This is a toughie. I guess the only way to be really "rock and roll" about eating a salad is to pull a Jimmy Page and eat it out of a 16-year old groupie's hoo hoo. I certainly didn't do this. I just ate the damn salad. I did use extra croutons, though. It was lovely.

- Sat in my car and practiced Beatle harmonies. I'm sure the Beatles did this at some point, so it's got to be at least a little rock and roll. I guess you'll all have to judge for yourselves when you attend the Beatles show at the Abbey on Wednesday July 27th. There's a plug for you.

- Jogged for a mile. While taking care of your health is not very rock and roll, it should be noted that when I sweat, I smell a lot like Meatloaf. And I guess a little like actual meatloaf.

- Studied for a test. Hey, some of the greatest rock and rollers in history are also towering intellecutals, like Ted Nugent and Gene Simmons. Side note: Pete Galea has had two letters published on genesimmons.com. He's very proud of this fact, as well he should be.

- Watched wrestling. Okay, there's no way to sugar coat this one: I'm laaaaaaame. But it was Edge vs. Kane inside the steel cage! I'm only human, people!

In short, I guess I'm not very rock and roll. I think I have to work on my self-destructive habits a little bit. Tomorrow, I'm putting bacon bits on the salad. Don't try to stop me. I'm fucking nuts.

Hey kiddos. Sorry about last Friday - Blogger apparently had another meltdown.

I forgot to mention last week that I'm hella-excited about the debut of VH1's Sunday night "Celebreality" television programs. Let's go over the line-up, shall we?

- The Surreal Life 5. They're really scraping the bottom of the barrel for "celebrities" this year. There are grand total of 7 celebrities, three of whom I've never heard of (Carey Hart, Caprice, Janice Dickinson), one of whom I've technically heard of, but not really (Omarosa) and 3 of whom I'd consider, at one time, were famous (Pepa, Bronson Pinchot and Jose Canseco).

The first two episodes have been, in a word, tremendous. Before Jose Canseco shows up, the scumbag producers inform the cast about his domestic abuse and battery charges. The ladies in the house are understandably concerned to be sharing a house with him... for about five minutes. Then, they see his muscles and of course all want to fuck him. Just another piece of data for the article I've been working on for Girls Are Dumb Magazine (it'll be in the October issue, I believe).

In the second episode, they bowl against a team of mentally retarded kids, one of whom Janice Dickinson calls a "retard." She calls another one "Rainman." There's just one word for this: entertainment.

- Hogan Knows Best. In a pale imitation of The Osbournes, we follow the boring exploits of Hulk Hogan, his HOTTTT sixteen-year old daugther and the rest of the family. When this show was announced, everyone assumed that it was a dream come true for me: dumb reality + 80's wrestling = Brendo in heaven.

There's just one problem: I hate Hulk Hogan. I've always hated Hogan, even when I was a little kid. I rooted for every one of his opponents on Saturday Night's Main Event (call me crazy, but I thought both King Haku and the Mighty Hercules had a shot). Every one of his matches was exactly the same and everyone I know that's met him/worked with him says he's a total dick. So fuck that guy and fuck his fucking show.

- Celebrity Fit Club 2. Two words: shirtless Gary Busey. Two more words: Jani Lane crying about his lost youth. Treeeeee-mendous.

Anyone else have any thoughts on the early seasons?

This weekend, I was chatting with loyal and handsome Scamperooty-Tooty-Fresh-and-Fruity fan (we've really come up with a better nickname for our fans) Tony about the upcoming Beatles tribute show July 27 at the Abbey Lounge.

"Are you going to get Beatle haircuts?" he asked, handsomely.

"I actually kind of already have one," I responded lavisciously.

He looked at my head and responded perkily, "Yeah, you kind of do!"

And then we made out for 20 solid minutes. Okay, that last part didn't happen (it was really only about 10 minutes), but I realized midway through that the story was going nowhere and decided to spice it up a little.

Speaking of the Beatles show (July 27), do you know who's birthday it happens to fall on? That's right our own Mikey Mirabella. He'll be turning 13 and finally sprouting his own pubes (the ones he wears now are clip-on pubes). So after you come see us croon some early Beatles tunes at the Abbey, be sure to buy him some liquid libations, pat him on the back and blow him (ladies only - Tony and I tried to convert him, but no dice).

I think I'm taking a mulligan on this morning. First, I wrangled with an angry phone call - getting yelled at and called incompetent is a lovely way to wake up. Top notch.

Then, I wrangled with an angry label printer for about a half hour. This printer decided today was the morning to act like a fucking jerk. Printers. What dicks.

Finally, I spilled tea all over my lap. But that's okay - it was nice and cold... because I didn't have time to drink it because I was wrangling with an angry printer for a half hour.

Not. My. Morning.

Who wants to go home and crawl back into bed with me?

A conversation between Joe and me:

Me: I'm going to cut the brake lines on your motorcycle.
Joe: I will give you a hundred dollars if you can FIND the brake line.
Me: I think I can do it.
Joe: It's a complicated machine.
Me: So is my mind.

When I got home, I immediately took him up on his challenge. I didn't get it right away, but did manage to in fact correctly identify the brake line on my third attempt(for the record, it was the one attached to the hand brake).

Since I didn't get it on the first try, Joe wasn't compelled to give me the hundred dollars. But he did give me a consolation prize - a kick in the exhaust pipe. I can't wait until he leaves.

So when did buying a cell phone become a harrowing, all-day ordeal? I went to the store with a pretty simple goal in mind: replace my existing craptastic phone with a more functional one and re-up my slave-like plan for another 2 years. Easy enough, right?

Two. Hours. Later. My brain was swirling with what was fair, what was flexible. How many text messages do I typically use? How many minutes after 7pm? How many after 6pm? I don't know! I just don't know!

After I finally survived my marathon session and got my new phone, I asked the Perky Yet Unshaven Sales Guy (PYUSG) to have my numbers switched from my old phone to my new phone, prompting the following exchange:

PYUSG: Okay, I'll send it to the back to be switched.
Me: Great.
PYUSG: So if you want to wait or come back, it'll be about an hour.
Me: Great. Wait - an hour?
PYUSG: (perkily) Uh huh.
Me: I can do it by hand in less than an hour.
PYUSG: (hands me both phones with attitude) Fine. Enjoy your day.

Just to spite him, I didn't enjoy my day.

Yesterday, I was walking around the institute of higher education which employs and now sort of educates me, feeling pretty bummed out about the state of the world. Then, I noticed something that picked up my spirits a bit.

As I entered my classroom, I noticed that on the sign outside the door, someone had removed the C and the L, so it just read "assroom." I'm not going to lie - it made me chuckle. There might have even been a chortle involved.

Later in the day, I was running at the gym and noticed someone had done a similar yet more imaginative job on the letters of the "Electrical Room," turning it into "Electric Poo." Game, set and match. Well played, kids. Well played.

One more quick one before the weekend: if you read the front page of this site (and have seen Keith's brilliant photoshop job), you already know that Scamper is playing a Beatles tribute night on July 27 at the Abbey Lounge in Somerville. As such, we have been (wackily enough) playing a lot of Beatles songs lately.

You know how sometimes you have the wrong lyrics in your head for a song and no matter how hard you try, you just can't get them out? Here are the actual lyrics to the Beatles "If I Fell":

Cause I've been in love before
And I know that love is more
Than just holding hands

Unfortunately, I can't stop singing:

Cause I've been in love before
And I know that love is more
Than just a one-night stand

Do I really think the Beatles were singing about one night stands in 1963? What the fuck is wrong with me?

Jesus, another bombing. I know we have some readers/fans/friends and family in London, so I hope you're all ok.

I guess this is the world we're living in now. I don't really know what to say.

Despite the fact that Joe's wedding was over a week and a half ago, I must still be experiencing some residual best man stress, because I'm still having anxiety dreams about it. Last night, I dreamt that Joe was the best man at MY wedding (I don't know who I was marrying, but I assume it was Henry Winkler or something. Oh, like you wouldn't pledge eternal love to the Fonz. Don't judge me, bitches).

For my big dream bachelor party, this is what my buddy did for me:

- Got a Sonny and Cher impersonator to perform in my driveway for me.

- Told me that he'd call me when it was time for dinner and never did.

Two things strike me about this dream. First, I was disturbingly excited when I thought it was the real Sonny and Cher coming to my driveway. When I figured out that they were just impersonators, I was quite disappointed.

Secondly, the dream version of Joe is a real dick. I mean, the real version is too, but I think he'd at least spring for a Fonzie impersonator or something.

You like these little windows into my idiot mind, don't you?

Administrative note for my peeps: my journal entries for the next six weeks are going to be late on Tuesdays or Thursdays, as I am bettering myself and taking a class in the mornings. Ironically, it's a "How Not To Disappoint Your Readers With Late-in-the-Day Blogging, You Inconsistent Dick" class (advanced level). So suffer but don't hate me, monkeys.

Quick movie review: Batman Begins is pretty kick-ass. It certainly rescued the Batman franchise from the big gay wonderland of which Joel Schumacher seemed to have visions. It's not quite as perfect as Tim Burton's first two movies, but it's very close.

The darkest, scariest character in the whole damn thing is Batman himself, which is the way it should be. The dark, wounded nature of the character has always separated him from other superhero fare, and the Christopher Nolan version certainly plays the darkness aspect up. Christian Bale is one of the best actors in movies right now and he brings a self-destructive thrill-seeking element to Bruce Wayne that makes perfect sense. Most of the actors are good and even the freshly insane Katie Holmes doesn't mess things up too bad, although most of the movie's "eh" scenes feature her.

On a side note - man, what a tragedy she's turned out to be, huh? I used to think she was so sexy until this recent silliness with that nutjob Tom Cruise. I haven't been this disappointed since Lindsay Lohan got all skinny and gross. Scarlett Johannson and Kirsten Dunst are next, I just know it.

Anyone else see the movie? What did we think, eh?

Monkeys, you know I try to keep this journal on the light and fun side, but this is going to be one of those mornings. So be warned.

Last year at this time, Joe and I witnessed the murder of a 16-year old kid outside our house. Those of you who used to read the now-defunct Broken Gates Film site or Joe's Diary read all about it. We were the first ones on the scene and saw the carnage first hand. It was pretty affecting, to say the least.

Last night, they had the annual 4th of July fireworks in my neighborhood, the event during which the fight and murder happened last year. As I drove through the blocked off streets, I was on edge. It took me a few hours to figure out why - that this was the night.

The utter senselessness of it still bothers me. A bunch of stupid assholes started a fight and it ended in a couple of dumb kids getting stabbed. One of them died. I think the thing that bothers me is that the victim never got a chance NOT to be a dumb kid. 16 years old shouldn't be the end. He didn't even have a chance.

Ryan Sullivan, I didn't know you at all. A weird twist of fate threw us together and I watched you die. I just hope that the first and only 16 years of your life were better and more fun than the only moments I saw.

Sorry to bum you guys out before the long weekend, but just promise me you'll have a safe one and I'll see you all on the other side.