Not to get all Seinfeld on you, but: why is it newsworhty that the "world's oldest person" dies? Isn't he just going to be replaced by the next oldest living person? Can't we just all agree that there is always an "oldest living person" and get over it?

I'm in a weird space this morning. In my dream last night, I was watching the Red Sox game and Jerry Remy and Don Orsillo started talking about the Scamper Moustache Show. All excited, I called Keith to tell him. With a slight waver in his voice, he said that the reason we're getting all this media attention is because I'm being replaced on bass... by WWE champion John Cena.

Then, I woke up with a huge boner. Anyone want to analyze that one?

In case you didn't check out the HOME page or the NEWS or even the comment BOARD, I've got a bit of bad news for the fans: Scamper is pulling out of the Salem show scheduled for this Thursday. Thanks to the wacky and wild winds of Hurricane Katrina, Keith is stuck in the middle of Alabama and won't be back in time for the show. So we out.

The good news (if you like Keith and want him to live, that is) is that he and his family are safe and sound. But the lines of travel are cut off, so he's stuck down in that God-forsaken country for a few more extra days, trying to avoid locals who only want him for his pretty mouth.

We hate to cancel shows, but it was either that or go on without Keith. Last time we played as a trio, Mike and I did nothing but synchronized disco moves to John Mayer songs while Nate rubbed crimson clay all throughout his chest hair. We just get confused without Keith up there. He's our moral rudder.

So our apologies to all that were planning on making it to the show, but hey - now we all have Thursday off. What are we doing, bitches?

My brain is a little fried this morning - this weekend, approximately 1/16th of the entire world's beer supply was poured into my belly. Completely against my will, mind you. I take zero responsibility for my actions, especially my controversial late night jukebox selections at the pub. But if you can't enjoy "Rich Girl" by Hall and Oates in your drunken state, why do you drink at all? Clearly there's no joy in it for you, sir.

Speaking of controversial music taste, I only watched a bit of the MTV Video Music Awards because I'm old now and I was busy reading my leatherbound Andy Rooney transcripts. But was it me or did Kelly Clarkson knock that shit out of the park? Damn. That was a serious rocking performance. Completely caught me off guard.

On a bit of a tangent, why is it that when I hear black people talk about God (as Destiny's Child did on the show last night), I don't get that same feeling of dread that I do when white people break out the G-word? When Puff "Puffy 'P. [Diddy]'Daddy" wears a "God is the Greatest" shirt, I find it genuinely charming. If the same shirt were on, say, Toby Keith, I'd get that serious "uh oh" twinge in the pit of my stomach. That feeling that some shit was about to go down. Historically speaking, God + white people = generally a not-that-good result for non-white, non-God people. White people - we ruin everything.

And did you notice that black people walk like this and white people walk like this? Aw snap!

Big-ass birthday shout-out to my boy Hogg, who turns the big 3-2 today. He celebrated his 32nd birthday this week as any upstanding adult would... by moving back in with his parents. I wish I were joking about that. It's a temporary situation, so you can feel free to make fun of him - he'll be dulling the pain with a few giant glasses of liquor tonight. Drinks are on me, buddy.

Speaking of celebrating, last night I was priveleged enough to attend an evening of karaoke with not one but TWO sexxxy temptresses - MFlight and KFunk. When they weren't distracting me with their smooth dance moves and their delectable pig-tailed hottness, they were ripping it up old school on the karaoke mic.

We played a game called Suicide Karaoke (known in some circles as Karaoke Roulette) in which we secretly pick songs for each other. The singer doesn't know his/her song until it happens. Very fun, scary stuff.

Of course, all of us rose to the occasion like the karaoke studs and studdesses that we are. KFunk put on a stirring rendition of The Police's "Roxanne." While she was ever-so-slightly short on actually "knowing the song," she more than made up for it in shimmer. Then, it was my turn to do my best version of "Freedom '90" by George Michael. Not to brag, but by the time I was done, there was not a dry pair of pants in the joint.

Finally, the main event was about to be upon us - Maura's turn. She didn't know it yet, but she was about to knock "Carribbean Queen" by Billy Ocean clear out of the goddamn park. But the unthinkable happened: the karaoke host said that there was one song left... to be sung by him.

Which brings me to my point: what the fuck is the deal with these motherfucking cockass karoake hosts? People are there to sing and listen to their friends sing and get drunk, not listen to your pathetic version of Linkin Park's "Undertow" for the 265th week in a row (worst. karaoke choice. EVER.). They're just like pub trivia hosts - sad, power-tripping little weirdos that derive a passive aggressive thrill out of controlling who sings next. Pa-thetic.

Have a good weekend, friends.

Well, folks - it's finally time for the photo essay of the 2nd Annual Jim and Brendo Day of Fun. Fa! I know you've been waiting with your breath held and your pants down for the photos, so here goes nothing. Warning to those of you with sensitive natures - be prepared for yours truly's absolutely ATROCIOUS beard:

The first step on our day of fun was a road trip to Maine for some sweet August lobster. When we sat down at the restaurant, Madden was so excited that he reacted in the most natural way possible - by wearing his menu as a hat:



Then, he broke all land speed records for chowder eating by consuming both corn AND clam chowder:



He's an American hero. I, on the other hand, couldn't wait for the lobster to come out. I was so impatient that I started chowing down on the menu:



When the food finally arrived, my lobster suddenly got frisky and tried to attack me:



Whereas Madden had a hard time with the concept:



Our bellies full of sweet delicious crustacean and melted butter, we tried our luck at a dog track in New Hampshire. We walked in to discover by far the most depressing place on earth - smoking overweight miserable gambling addicts toiling their afternoon away. There weren't even any dogs running - it was just people watching races on TV monitors and rotting. It instantly sent shivers up our spines. I was sure glad that I didn't have a gambling problem:



Madden, on the other hand, scratched his gambling itch and lost everything. His house, car, wife and two cats now belong to a 400-lb. Dominican named Jesus:



After the dog track, we took a surprise detour to the airport and flew to Japan, where were were contracted by an international espionage agency to rescue Princess Ku-Pow, the beautiful coquettish daughter of the Japanese emperor. There was a serious, ass-kicking ninja fight with Chinese stars and kais and shit. Ku-Pow was so grateful to us for rescuing her that a hot threeway ensued:

[not pictured]

After that, Madden and I ate sushi. I did the classic "use the chopsticks as walrus tusks" gag. Gets them every time:



When the food finally arrived, my sushi suddenly got frisky and tried to attack me:



Our bellies full once again, the 2nd annual Jim and Brendo Day of Fun concluded. Yayyy!

Not to get all Seinfeld on you, but what is the deal with haircuts? I got a haircut yesterday - is this an anxiety-laden experience for anyone else but me? I HATE getting my haircut. I'm not sure what my major malfunction is about the whole deal, but I simply dread plopping down in that chair.

I think most of it is that I just don't like sitting still for long periods of time with nothing to do except force stilted conversation with the hairdresser. And on a tangent, do I call her a barber or a hairdresser? I mean, I pay her too much for her to be a barber, but saying "I go to the hairdresser" is a bit Little Richard for my taste. I'll feel a lot better about the whole endeavor if we can coin a new term. How about "haircut lady"?

So I was talking to my haircut lady last night and she said that a lot of guys have similar problems with the experience - basically, that guys are giant babies when they get their hair cut. I guess something about sitting in that chair transports us back to childhood follicle-related trauma.

When I was little, my mother took us all to Tony the Barber, the cheapest guy in town. I'm pretty sure he was half-blind - he had giant Coke bottle glasses. If you moved a little in your chair, he would growl instructions in your ear: "Siiiit stiiiiill." Even at that young age, I recognized the quality in the voice of a man who had very likely tasted human blood. I was so scared, I used to sit like a statue, afraid to even breathe. I still hear "Siiiiiit stiiiiiiill" in my nightmares sometimes.

The funniest part is that Tony was the worst barber since Brutus Beefcake. No matter how still you sat, he always ended up nicking the top of your ears with his electric razor. I mean, he'd draw blood every single time. And it hurt like a bitch. When he clipped the top of your ear, you'd yelp and cry. His response? "Siiiiiiit stiiiiiill."

Tony the Barber was a town-wide menace. I used to walk around school and see other kids with the skin shaved off the top of their ears. "Tony the Barber?" I'd ask. They'd just slump their shoulders and walk away, trying to forget their hidden shame. Forget Columbine - our schools had our own terror: Tony the Barber.

So gee - I wonder why I don't like haircuts.

Parumph. The dog days of summer have officially hit. Whereas June, July and early August were a hectic maelstrom of activity, triumph and major life change, things have grinded to a bit of a halt in the land of Brendo. No more bachelor parties, weddings, returns to school, friends moving away, birthdays, moustache shows - the craziness (at least for a little while) has finally ebbed. While part of me is grateful to take a breath and use this opportunity to recharge my mental and emotional resources, it certainly doesn't make for good journal entries. And for this, I humbly apologize.

But what do you want me to do? There's just not a whole lot going on. Late Sunday afternoon, I called my right hand man Vinny Shit on the Face and said, "Can we go get a beer or something? I haven't seen another human being all day." Don't get me wrong - I enjoyed my lazy Sunday of reading, playing with my iPod and watching the Sox game. But what if I came in on Monday with a journal entry reading "Yesterday, I enjoyed my lazy Sunday of reading, playing with my iPod and watching the Sox game"? You'd all be within your rights to string me up.

I don't ever want to be one of "those" bloggers that thinks every speck of minutae in his everyday life is worthy of your attention. Like, yesterday, I totally went to work! Then, I went for a run and it felt sooooo good :) Oh my God, then I read a psychology textbook and totally watched TV and went to bed!

So bear with me, folks. We'll get through the dullness that has become my life. After an absolutely exhausting summer, Scamper is taking a well-deserved week and a half off before our next gig. Judging by the comment volume, you guys are just as disinterested as me. Or maybe you're all on vacation too. Or maybe you totally hate me now OMG! :(

I only have a few minutes to jump on here, as the old day job is a little cuckoo this morning. Here are a few things I saw last week that I liked and in turn, you should see:

- The Aristocrats. It's a documentary about a bunch of different comedians telling the same joke. I won't get into the joke here, but it is FILTHY. George Carlin, Gilbert Gottfried, Sarah Silverman and Bob Saget (yes, that Bob Saget) have delightfully horrific takes on the joke. It's also an interesting study on different perspectives of humor theory from some of the country's funniest people, but blah blah blah - it's a really good dick joke.

- The Wedding Crashers. Finally got around to seeing this one and I laughed a lot. Vince Vaughn, who I usually only find amusing in small doses, carries the whole damn thing on his back. An otherwise conventional film not only survives but thrives on one actor's unique comic sensibility. Oh, and boobs (women's boobs that is, not Vince Vaughn's boobs).

- The Comedy Central Roast of Pamela Anderson. Man, I loooooooooove me some roasts. They really did it right this time, too - they got all the best roasters of the day (Jeffrey Ross, Jimmy Kimmel, Adam Carolla and Sarah Silverman, who is quickly becoming my dream woman), had a great target and made sure the gloves were OFF. Jeffrey Ross turns to Courtney Love and says, "How is it that Kurt Cobain looks better than you right now?" Treeeeee-mendous.

Anything else out there in the wonderful world of television and movies that I shouldn't miss?

Another birthday and another moustache show are in the books. Thanks to all who came out, bought me shots and were repulsed by our vulgar displays of facial machismo. There's at least one photo up on the message board, with more to come I'm sure. Clearly, Nate is the most genetically-predisposed for a successful moustache show, but special kudos go to him for wearing an ungodly green leisure suit before the show as a decoy to throw the audience off the scent of our true top-secret moustache theme for the evening: white trash.

What can I say about the evening? My trucker alter-ego (I've named him Travis) threatened the audience with physical violence and took it very personally when he perceived people yelling "Skynyrd" in an ironic, disrespectful way. We gave away prizes for best audience moustache - a hot rod t-shirt and a crock pot.

But I'll remember the almosts - things we almost did, but didn't get around to pulling. We were very close to talking Keith into playing shirtless and perhaps shoeless. We wanted it clear that were he to stroll into an establishment such as the Abbey, there would certainly be no service.

We also had a bit planned in which Nate pulls out an envelope and claims that the paternity test is in: Keith is Jason's father. I would then fly into a rage and engage Keith in a slap fight while the audience was encouraged to chant "Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!" We didn't do it because we couldn't find an envelope.

Special thanks go to my bandmates and Alena for getting me a great birthday present - the Red Sox DVD with the entire 2004 ALCS and World Series - and wrapping it in a McDonald's bag, complete with half-eaten apple pie. I'm told that Keith had a tremendous time convincing them to give him only one apple pie, even though he got two for the same price, but that is a story for another day...

Last night, I shaved off my monstrosity of a beard to officially sport the moustache for tonight's show. It. Is. ATROCIOUS. I look like former Celtics coach Chris Ford on a coke bender. Not a sexy look. At work today, I've already been called "sketchy," "skeevy" and "boinkable" (that was from an old dude in facilities - he don't see so good).

You think that you have an idea of how gross the moustache is going to look, but you just don't know until you see it hanging there on your upper lip in all its shady glory. Goosebumps. Multiply that times the four members of Scamper. In particular, Nate has promised some genuinely gross facial hair. In short, you cannot miss the show at the Abbey tonight. We go on late.

Last night was Keith and Alena's anniversary so Nate and I (in all our bearded glory) stepped in to watch little Jason for a few hours while they went out to dinner. Because the band that babysits together stays together.

Everything started off swimmingly - we played the "knock magnets off the refrigerator and then point at Nate" game for almost 45 minutes. Then, there was a vigorous round of peek-a-boo, followed by "climb the stairs" and a violent display of throwing coathangers around that would make even the sleaziest back-alley abortionist shudder. In short, the three of us were having a blast.

But it was the calm before the tsunami. At one point, Jason looked around and realized that his mother was nowhere to be found. And the shit hit the FAN. That little guy cried, drooled, screamed and wailed like a champion. Nate and I went through Keith's numbered, well-organized list of "Things that distract Jason," but it was to no avail. Little Jay Ray was crying his little head off and there wasn't a damn thing Nate and I could do about it.

Luckily, Keith and Alena came home a few minutes later and he instantly calmed down (with the help of a little boob action, natch). Try as we did, there was only one thing that he wanted and it was something two bearded gentlemen could not give him: his mommy.

As always, I am in awe of parents. We were there for a total of two hours and the kid wiped the floor with us. That's 24/7 for Keith and Alena. Being a parent is such an amazingly all-consuming job that I have the utmost admiration for people who manage to pull it off. Maybe I'm being overly reflective because it's my birthday (I'm a shameless birthday whore, aren't I?) but seeing parenting in action really affects how you think about yourself and the future. I just don't know if I could do it.

Even though I am a novice, I do have one bit of advice for all the mommies and daddies out there: don't let your babies grow moustaches. It's just bad parenting. See you tonight.

Last night, we descended the stairs to the rock basement for our usual Tuesday night Scamphearsal to make a startling discovery: there was no power. After a few minutes of me flipping circuit breakers and saying "How about now?" to Keith and Nate, we gave up and retired to the living room for a beer-soaked band meeting. I present to you the results of that meeting:

- We came up with a name for our next album - "Scamper: We've Been Drinking."

- We discussed the differences between a moustache show and a Magnum PI show (the main one being, of course, Detroit Tigers hats).

- We determined that most diehard Scamper fans would pay good money to watch Mike bowl.

- Keith used the term "bandwidth" in a distinctly non-technological way, as in "If anyone's got the bandwidth this week, they should help me with this." It was, in a word, nerdy as all fuckabout.

- We discussed the prize for Best Audience Moustache at the Abbey show tomorrow night. It's going to be good. If you don't have a real Groucho, get thyself to ye olde costume shoppe poste hasteeee.

Of course the one thing we didn't do last night was rehearse. So tomorrow night's show should be good. Really.

Well, Madden and I have safely recovered from the 2nd Annual Day of Fun. There were some serious injuries, but luckily no one died this year. I will be posting a photo essay as soon as I can figure out a way to photoshop out the atrocious beard I have going out of the photos. Eesh - I look I was bitten by a really faggy werewolf.

But why would I subject myself and the world to such grotesque facial hair? I do it all for you, my poops. The 2nd Annual Moustache Show at the Abbey Lounge is only two days away. Two days to get those soup strainers in perfect shape. Because here, in the eleventh hour, Scamper has added a new wrinkle:

There will be a prize for Best Audience Moustache.

You know that in the past, when it comes to giving out prizes, Scamper always delivers the high quality merchandise. It doesn't matter if the moustache fake or real, so long as it rocks our world. Ladies are not excluded. You can't miss this one.

Good morning, friends. Just wanted to jump on the old worlwide net real quick-like and warn you all that the day has finally come: it's Jim and Brendan's 2nd Annual Day of Fun.

Those of you who read the now-defunct Broken Gates site may remember last year's Jim and Brendan Day of Fun involved threatening the nerds at the Museum of Science Lord of the Rings exhibit with bodily harm, followed by heavy drinking.

This year, who knows what's going to happen? There are no rules when it comes to the Day of Fun. We have some vague plans involving some lobsters and possibly the smiting of our enemies. Madden mentioned something about a llama. I'm a little scared to get into it, really, but I've shaved my peckeral region. You know, just in case.

If you see us coming, I suggest leaving a wide berth. Because the Day. Of. Fun. Is. ON. Bitches.

If I'm coherent, I'll give you all a full report tomorrow.

Well friends, as of yesterday I am done with my semester at school (my final went swimmingly, thanks for asking) and am officially into the "I have absolutely nothing to do" portion of my vacation.

Here are my plans:

- Go to the movies a lot. Anyone know any good ones? I've seen NOTHING.
- Sleep very very much.
- Read books (okay... pornography)
- Grow my moustache for the 2nd annual moustache show on August 18th.
- Sit around.

Damn, when I see it in print like that, it looks downright depressing. That's how I'm spending my vacation? I'm a boring motherfucker.

Anyone have any good ideas how I should spend the next five days? Whoever comes up with the best answer, I'll actually do it. So get your sick imaginations working, bitches.

As some of you may know, this summer I returned to higher education (or as my dad calls it " that high-falutin' book larnin'"). I'm dealing with the challenges of college classes for the first time since I was a much younger man. It's sort of fun, but also sort of creepy.

Yesterday, I turned in a 15-page paper to my professor (who is three years younger than me, by the by) and turned to the girl sitting next to me and said, "This is the first paper I've done since 1998."

Her eyes grew wide as she said, "In 1998, I was thirteen."

I'm officially "diversity in education." Damn.

I'm off to study for my first final since the late Adlai Stevenson administration. I know he didn't get elected, but damn it - he should have.

The big time moustache/birthday show at the Abbey Lounge is only nine days away, so the members of Scamper are growing some truly atrocious beards. If you haven't seen the full color photo of the brillo-covered badger hanging from Nate's chin, check it out hnyaw. Be warned - you may be aghast at the man's ribly virility.

As for the spotty red porcupine growing from my cheeks, it's starting to get a touch itchy. Last night, I dreamt that I was sleeping on a pillow of pink fiber glass. Oh, and that I boned my Aunt Eleanor. But you guys don't really need to know the details of that one.

It's getting to the point where I'm actually looking forward to shaving this sucker down and sporting the child molestor stash. The few of you out there who have seen me in one: not cute. Get ready for some screaming on the 18th.

I'm taking some time off work starting tomorrow, so updates to this site may be sporadic. Try not to get your panties in a bunch about it - I need a vacation baaaaad.

Just as I was preparing to write a big teary goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. JDog, the glorious bastard shows up in Boston again this Saturday to get his motorcycle. So sorry - no fruity emotional tributes today. And really, fuck that guy.

The smelly cunt did pull off a good line last night, though. We're watching Miami Ink, a documentary show about tattoo artists. Joe gets a hard-on for any show about men doing cool manly things like making motorcycles or tattooing people. I think he's overcompensating, but then again I watch pro wrestling. So fuck me.

Anyway, one guy comes into the shop to get a tribute tattoo done for his best friend who died at a young age. Joe turns to me and says, "If you died suddenly, I'd get a tattoo that read: 'I'm No Longer With Stupid.'"

Good one, asshole. You've still got it.

Oh, and I would say happy birthday to my mom from Saturday, but she's under strict orders not to read this site. But happy birthday anyway, Mom.

I'll get to my gay-ass goodbyes next week. Instead, I will share with you some escapades from last night's office softball playoff elimination game.

Long and short - we lost by one run in the final inning, ending our season. But in more important news, we almost lost the next generation of future Brendos.

I was running from first to second on an easy double play ball hit to the middle infield. Standing about five feet away from me, the shortstop fields the grounder and - for some reason only known to him - fires the ball as hard as he can... right at my crotch.

There was a collective gasp among all the males on the field. I hit the ground and hit the ground hard. After a moment of reflection, I realized - the ball hit me on the inner thigh. It missed my DNA sacks by this much. This much, I say.

Once I was sure that my walnuts were still in their protective shells, I popped right up, full of adrenaline. Hell, I was downright peppy. I was filled with immediate joy that, in the case of armageddon, I could still repopulate the earth. My fellas are intact. Whew!

At the post-game/ball-rentention celebration at the local pub, I ordered a plate of baby back ribs. The waitress said "Sorry - I just sold the last ribs to that guy."

After a near-death experience, I was not going to be denied my ribly reward. I walked over to the guy and said "How much for the ribs?" At first, he didn't actually believe I was trying to buy his dinner from him, but eventually, he named his price: $15 - a 50% markup from the menu price.

I wasn't sure I was willing to pay the exorbitant price hike, but my teammate Honeymoon stepped up with a fiver. The deal was done. That night I got my ribs AND my balls. And that, my friends, is your classic win-win.

Saturday:

As we're about to embark on the hour drive to Pete's wedding in western Mass, Joe and I get a phone call from the groom himself.

"Hey guys, can you bring the bass amp for the wedding?"

"Sure," we respond, "What are you using it for?"

"The PA."

"The PA as in the PA for the actual wedding?"

"Yup."

Well-planned as always, 12-Gauge. Joe and I arrived at the hotel and spent about an hour setting up a kick-ass PA system for Pete and Jennifer's outdoor wedding. Actually, to be more accurate, I set up the system and then Joe corrected all the mistakes I made to ensure that the PA actually, you know, worked.

Right before the actual ceremony, I'm handed a video camera. Apparently, I'm the videographer now. As a former documentarian, I would seem to be the natural choice, but here's the thing - I'm not a very good cameraman. In fact, I'm pretty substandard.

I did an absolutely HORRIBLE job. I was running around, trying to get shots and failing at every turn. Things just weren't going my way. I'm pretty sure I missed them coming down the aisle. Let me repeat that: I was in charge of video taping the wedding and missed the bride and groom coming down the aisle. I felt like such an asshole.

But Pete and Jen were very cool about everything and had a really sweet, touching wedding ceremony and a kick-ass afterparty. As a special 12-Gauge touch, the bride and groom had their last dance to "I Was Made For Loving You" by Kiss. It was tremendous.

Congratulations to the happy couple and thank you for letting me be a part of your special day. Sorry I sort of ruined it.

Tomorrow - Brendo says goodbye to some good friends. Warning: this one's going to get a little fruity.

After much delay, a weekend recap. I'll be finished just in time for next weekend! Hey - stop complaining. The interweb is free for a reason.

Friday:

It was time for our long-awaited show with Aloud. I had been eagerly awaiting this night since I first saw them - I looooooooove Aloud. Despite the fact that their drummer Ross is an infamous premature ejaculator, the fellas (and chick) from Aloud always bring the ruckus.

As we arrived at the Middle East, a homeless guy on Mass Ave started yelling at me about my "Rowdy" Roddy Piper "Hot Rod!" t-shirt. I couldn't tell whether he was pro-Piper or anti-Piper, but I could observe the fact that he had no hands. I opted not to debate him as no matter what the outcome of the argument, I feel I would have won the war. Because I have hands, you see.

After sound check, we prepared to have a band dinner. Before a show, it's a bit of a tradition for the four of us to eat together, talk about which girls are going to come to the show and refuse to sleep with us and generally have a grand ol' male bonding experience. But not this time:

Keith: "I can't eat with you guys tonight."
Us (in unison): "Why not?"
Keith: "I have to read to Jason before he goes to sleep."

In that moment, Keith officially trumped my "reading a psychology textbook while sipping tea in the recording studio" move as the Least Rock and Roll Moment in Scamper History. So congratulations to Keifer on that one.

I missed the first band The Volume because I was making an elongated left coast birthday phone call (Happy happy, J and K!), but I luckily came back in time to see the Silver Lining. Damn, that girl can really throw down. A very fun show, especially if you're into 60's guitar rock and monstrous vocals. Which I am.

Then, it was time for our set. You know I never lie to you people - I did NOT have a good show. The audience was terrific and the energy was high, but the stage sound was so bad that I lost my vocals in a sea of mud and drums. I felt like I was screaming to hear myself sing and probably going sharp. After the show, I said to Nate, "I think that was our worst show ever."

He looked at me like I was batshit insane and said, "Ummm... were you there for our O'Brien's show?"

I immediately felt better. And everyone I talked to seemed to really enjoy the show, so I was happy to be wrong. Thanks to all who came out for the show. You are the best.

Tomorrow, I'll tell you all about Pete's wedding and how I pretty much ruined it.

I'll get to my (now long-)awaited recap of this weekend's many events tomorrow, but there's an address I've got to issue. Scratch that. Reverse it.

People have been asking me: Brendo, what do you think of Rafael Palmiero being suspended for steroids? Well friends, it reminds me of something Grandpappy Clarke used to say. Grandpappy Clarke said that there are three things that will get you through this crazy life:

1) Don't mix dairy and mood stabilizers.

2) If you're a germophobe, a Dominican whorehouse probably isn't the place for you.

3) Never trust a man what wears a moustache.

Here's to you, Rafy. Thanks for creating yet another storm of pointless, childlike moral outrage to distract us from the real villians in this world: the Smurfs. We in Scamper salute you.

Folks, the July 31st trade deadline has passed and good news: I'm still in Scamper.

Peter Gammons reported on a rumored three-way deal in the works with Baby Strange and the Click Five, but all the sides couldn't agree to terms (apparently my inferior skills at synchronized dancing with a keytar was a dealbreaker). There was also a possibility of Nate going to the Charms for a Bon Savant to be named later.

But I'm happy to be in a Scamper uniform for another year. And all the problems I cause - hey, that's just Brendo being Brendo. Live with it, bitches.

I had a crazy, eventful weekend including a gig, a wedding, a move and a whole lot of goodbyes to good friends to recap, which I'll start up tomorrow. I'm exhausted.