It's first thing on a Monday morning and I'm willing to admit it: I wish my band were half as brutal as Dethklok. Their music is the eighth largest economy in the world, you know. (Lesson: I shouldn't fall asleep to Adult Swim on Sunday nights. I had weird dreams involving squidbillies humping mayors and I've had the Metalocalypse theme song stuck in my head all morning long).

Speaking of the most brutal band in the world, my cover band side project French Lick continues to rock the "completely ridiculous private party" circuit this coming Saturday night, as we are playing a benefit for something or other (I'll look up the charity and link to the site this week). The utterly, absurdly ridiculous part is that we're opening for the headlining Gregg Allman. No, no - not the Gregg Allman that works days at the White Hen across from the Porter Square T stop. The legendary one from the Allman Brothers Band. Yeah, that one. Ridiculous.

I don't know what happened to me. Somewhere along the line without me noticing, my life started turning up these incredible opportunities to live out childhood dreams. I've checked almost everything off the "12-year old Brendan" wish list. All I've got to do is save the World Series game 7 for the Red Sox and take a steel chair off the head from Ric Flair and I'll be ready to call it a life.

Sadly, my obligations to my real "not opening for rock royalty" band as well as juggling time with full-time work and full-time grad school mean that this will be my last show with French Lick. Luckily, I'm being ably replaced by Pete "The Applesauce Master" Galea, just in time for another ridiculous charity gig in October with Shaggy. Rumor has it that Pete is actually planning to name his first-born son "Mr. Boombastic," so he's obviously psyched.

Seriously, there are times when my life just doesn't feel real. I suspect Saturday will be one of those times. I'll be sure to give you the full report.