As I was pondering what I should do Friday for my big 500th post, it hit me: I've got a secret. Well, it's not so much a secret as it is a revelation. And if I've learned anything from the fine work of Mr. Maury Povich, nothing equals ratings like a revelation.

Now, normally I don't like to delve into private things on this space. Hell, I even changed my name to keep you filthy paparazzi from digging through my garbage cans to lick the remains of the sweet Hot Pockets within. But maybe the nostalgia and emotion of nearing 500 posts on this journal is starting to get to me, but I feel like sharing.

Honestly, one of the great parts about being in this band over the past 2+ years has been the little community we've built here. A few hundred of us gather around this little journal every Monday through Friday and either laugh about the ridiculousness of the world or argue about meaningless sports games or discuss the important issues of the day or good-naturedly and sometimes not so good-naturedly insult the living hell out of each other. I can honestly say that writing for you people the past 498 non-consecutive days has been nothing but a pleasure.

So on Friday, I feel safe enough to talk about something that I've never discussed in public before. That's all I'm going to say for now. Stay tuned.

You know what I just discovered this morning? This is my 497th post on the old Scampernet. By my calculations, that means that barring illness and/or writer's block, the big 500th post should clock in around Friday morning.

500 posts. It's quite an accomplishment, especially considering that when I first started negotiating to join up with Scamper, I was given this journal as a throwaway bargaining chip in return for a clause in my contract promising to never wear my lucky assless chaps in public again. Christ, I miss the feeling of sticky banana-yellow leather against my skin.

But hey, this journal has been a lot of fun, too. There have been good times. Oh, the times, they have been good. Remember that episode when I caught Hawkeye and Trapper John drunkenly carving their initials on that Korean kid's spleen right before he died? And what about the Right Said Fred reunion that took place right here on this journal? And who can forget 9/11?

Yes, it's been a long and storied run here on the old Brendan's Journal. So much so that I believe a little celebration is in order. I want the 500th post to be the biggest, baddest post-a-mania of all time. Any ideas, kids? How I should commemorate my 500th post?

As we screech to the end of a long and relatively rock-free January, you can all rest assured that spankin' new Scamper shows are on the horizon. In fact, the Boston Herald is already hyping the Luxury CD release show in a few weeks. Fo!

Any press is good press, but check out the subtle dig at us in the third paragraph of that article:

The first night, Feb. 23, brings in Scamper, The Appreciation Post and Violet Nine to start up proper. The following night is the real whammy, as Appomattox, The December Sound and Hooray For Earth will give the Luxes a run for their musical money.

Surely only the most egomaniacal and emotionally needy among us would read that seemingly innocous paragraph as an insult. Welcome to the craven world of being in a band. We take that throwaway comment as a virtual slap across the face with a used latex glove. It cuts deep, friends. We wept in the strong yet supple arms of Violet Nine for hours and hours last night.

The good news is that a fire has officially been lit under our collective keisters for this show. We'll show those bastards which night in fact is the "real whammy." Oh, we can whammy with the best of them. There's going to be whammies flying all the fuck over that piece on February 23. Peter Tomarkin will be rolling in his watery grave.

Meanwhile over in an actual newspaper, my friend Naomi was profiled in The Boston Globe for her expert balloon twisting as well as her documentary which was accepted into South By Southwest film festival this year. Congrats, Naomi!

With the off week before the Super Bowl, this is the first Friday in a while I don't have any football predictions to make. But that doesn't mean my superb prognositcating skills should go to waste. Here's what's going to happen this weekend:

- New Red Sox right fielder J.D. Drew will strain his right rotator cuff signing the back of the first of his ginormous paychecks. Don't worry, Boston fans - he will recover in time to report for spring training. To avoid this problem, Red Sox GM Theo Epstein will pay Drew the rest of his salary in cash. Before opening day, he will get a hernia lifting his giant money sack and be out for the season.

- Feeling that this year's batch of contestants aren't satiating his lust for humiliation, American Idol judge Simon Cowell will start making day trips to outpatient clinics to further crush the dreams of the mentally ill and retarded.

- In local news, the male population of the city of Boston will technically be female for the next couple days as the bitterly cold weather will turn all of our previously external organs inward.

That is all. Have a good weekend, friends. Stay warm.

You know what I haven't talked about in a while? Music. This is ostensibly a band's website so let's talk some rock and roll, huh?

As Scamper prepares for the next batch of shows, we're discussing the always controversial "what songs should we cover?" issue. I'd say in the two and a half years I've been in this band, somewhere around 93% of our time has been spent arguing about cover songs. We just can't seem to get on the same page on this one.

In general, our musical tastes usually are usually in synch. For instance, we all love N' Sync. But for some reason, when the subject of cover songs comes up, our normally jovial rehearsal turns into a scene from Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Mike and Nate insist on covering obsure indie rock bands I've never heard of with names like Oxycola and Venn Diagram Conspiracy. Keith hasn't heard any music made before or since 1994. And as for me, well if Sebastian Bach didn't write it, I ain't singing it.

As you can see, our pickle is in a bit of a conundrum. So in true Who Wants To Marry A Multi-Millionnaire? style, we're turning to you, the fans.

Here's are the candidates so far:

- Theme from Starlight Express
- Billy Ocean's "Get Out Of My Dreams, Get Into My Car"
- Mike's midi cell phone ring (composer unknown)
- Alan Jackson's "Where Were You (When You Heard Arrested Development Got Cancelled)"
- The Star Wars cantina song with Keith rapping verses of 3rd Bass' "The Gas Face" over it
- Anything by Color Me Badd

Any ideas to help us out, chumps?

I didn't watch the State of the Union last night. Of course, this is no different than any other year, as I don't usually watch the State of the Union ever ever ever. Even if I happen to agree with the particular president, I still skip it.

I wish I had some super cynical reason why I avoid what is ostensibly one of the more important features of our democracy. I mean, sure - I'm not a fan of this president. And no, I don't believe a thing that comes out of his mouth. I'm aware that every word he says is carefully selected and pre-marketed through polling groups, so the chances of him speaking about anything beyond pandering rhetoric are slim to none. The president's speeches are not designed for me - they're specifically tailored for that "undecided" group of people somewhere in the black hole of America that make the difference in elections. He's speaking to them, not me because in the giant political machine, I don't matter.

I'm well aware of all these things. And yet that's not why I don't watch the State of the Union. I don't watch because... well, it's just boring. I'd rather watch two episodes of Dog the Bounty Hunter followed by an hour of mediocre professional wrestling.

Is there something wrong with me? I'm reasonably smart and I vote and I care about issues. But I just don't want to waste my time listening to the president's (not just this one - any president's) bullshit. And I don't want to spend my free time watching people yelling at each other about fake "hot issues" on CNN or CNBC or Fox News. To me, political TV isn't all that different than pro wrestling, except on Monday Night RAW the acting is slightly better and there's at least a decent chance that the good guys will win in the end.

Just as I was sitting here at work, feeling bad about the Pats loss and contemplating a long winter, the girl sitting next to me sighed and said, "My life can't be coming to this."

I responded, "What's wrong?"

She said, "I'm making a dog cake for my dog's birthday."

Yeah. Life isn't so bad out there, is it sports fans?

Beh. My football predictions got downright shitty this week, huh? And what's worse, the Pats blew an 18 point lead and lost. Beh, beh and double beh.

If you can't count on Peyton Manning choking in a big game, I just don't know anything anymore.

Beh.

The football season is coming down to the wire, kids. Should I put my 6 for 8 playoff record on the line by making a few bold, yet sexy predictions for the championship games? I think I shall.

NFC Championship Game: New Orleans Saints at Chicago Bears

This is the point where I make my traditional "What if other sports were more like pro wrestling?" joke and predict that during a crucial fourth quarter drive, the entire referee staff will be looking the other way while the Seattle Seahawks sneak in from the crowd and waffle Bears quarterback Rex Grossman with a vicious steel chair shot to the head. By the time the refs see what's up, it's too late. Saints win.

That joke just doesn't stop getting funny for me.

Prediction: Saints: 24 - Bears: 17

AFC Championship Game: New England Patriots at Indianapolis Colts

Last week, my reverse triple jinx did wonders for the Pats. They snuck by a superior San Diego team. You're welcome, Boston.

This time, I don't think the Pats are going to need my help. The "rejuvenated" Indy defense is about to be exposed in a big way. Laurence Maroney is about to have the biggest game of his career. The storied Colts offense has not shown up at all during this playoff run and while I think Peyton Manning and Marvin Harrison will have a decent game, they just can't match up to our boy Brady who will sit back in the pocket and pick them apart, taking occasional breaks to run to the sidelines and bone your girlfriend. Why? Because he can.

Prediction: Patriots: 28 - Colts 20

Have a good weekend, all. I'll be shaking a tambourine tonight with French Lick over at the Sit N' Bull Pub in Maynard if you want to stop on by.

Quick follow-up on my research regarding the great "cash vs. debit card in the grocery store line" debate: I spoke to a professional.

A delightful young lass named Arielle (no relation to my ladyfriend Arielle, although that would be unusual because people are rarely related through first names) was ringing me up at my local Stop and Shop last evening. As is usually the case, the mouthbreather in front of me was having oodles of trouble manipulating the card reader on the debit machine. After about 24 frustrating minutes, he cleared out and I ventured to pose the cash vs. debit card question to young Arielle. I received the following response and I quote:

"Oh my God, cash is so much quicker. I wish everyone would pay with cash."

But people, my case is far from rested. I don't expect you to take my or Arielle's word for it. Next time you're in line at the supermarket, ask your cashier which method of payment he or she prefers. After all, who knows more about this subject than the people who deal with it every day for excruciating eight-hour shifts? Report back here with data.

I'm feeling pretty good that my hypothesis will stand. But please prove me wrong. I love science.

This weekend, yet another nook of the haunted house that is my psyche was revealed. The lady and I were invited to a housewarming party with a 1950's housewife theme. In short, I had to get dressed up and quite frankly, I felt a little silly about the whole thing. I grumbled about it like the little bitchbag I am, but in the end I'm nothing if not a sport. So I squeezed into my most uncomfortable 1950's-style three-piece suit and headed over to the party.

After socializing for about an hour or so, it hit me like a bolt of greased lightning: this was a 1950's party.

I could be the Fonz.

Upon stumbling on this revelation, any normal person would have probably said, "Oh well, I had the idea too late. Now it's time to enjoy the party." But in case you haven't been paying attention for the last 400+ non-consecutive days, your buddy Brendo ain't no normal cat. For about five minutes, I became absolutely obsessed with the idea of being the Fonz until I just couldn't take it anymore. I was bursting with a burning case of Fonzitude.

I snuck out of the party and literally ran home to put a pound and a half of pomade in my air, pop in the contacts and don the Fonz's signature jeans, white t-shirt and leather jacket ensemble. That's right - in a span of about an hour, I went from whining about dressing up to making a dramatic costume change. In short, I'm an idiot.

Later in the night, a rousing game of "Celebrity" broke out. I took the opportunity to put "The Fonz" in the bowl about 55 times. On average, people had to give the clue about thrice per round. Every time it came up, I threw up my thumbs and said, "Aaaaaaaayyyyy!" All. Night. Long.

I honestly have no idea how you people put up with me.

I'll take a 3 for 4 in football picks if it means the Pats get to go on to the AFC championship game against Peyton "Everyone Has Done a Complete 180 and Will Pick the Colts At Home To Win and NOW I'll Choke" Manning. Hee hee.

Being the insecure idiot manchild that I am, I spent most of Sunday night and Monday bragging to my girlfriend Arielle (who doesn't care a lick about football) about going 6 for 8 in playoff picks so far. I don't want to get into details, but there may have been an "I'm awesome at football picks" dance involved. After enduring my smug superiority, she suggested a new career direction for me:

Arielle: You should be a professional gambler, honey.
Me: You really care about my well being, don't you?
Arielle: Well apparently, you're really good at it. Or at least that's what you've been talking and dancing about for the past 14 straight hours.
Me: I don't think I'd be any good at picks if there was any real money on the line, because I'm a giant pussy.
Arielle: You shouldn't waste your talent. You should be one of those guys that picks the teams for other people to bet on. What do you call those guys?
Me: The Mob?
Arielle: Yeah. That sound perfect for you.

Later in the day, I found a hefty life insurance policy taken out on me hidden in her room. Hmmmmm...

Time for another weekend of playoff football. Last week, I went 3 for 4, although that Dallas game was a flukity fluke fluke. So gentlemen, start your wagering!

Saturday:

AFC Divisional Game #1: Indianapolis Colts at Baltimore Ravens

I don't know, kids. I'm sniffing a bit of an upset here. Colts quarterback Peyton Manning doesn't usually royally choke until everyone expects him to win. I'm getting this eerie feeling in the pit of my scrotie that since the Colts are already underdogs, losing this game wouldn't be emotionally devastating enough for Mr. Commercial Face. Last week, the Colts looked pretty solid. I feel like they need another solid game so that the press can start sucking Manning's proverbial johnson for a while.

THEN he chokes.

Prediction: Colts: 13 - Ravens: 10

NFC Divisional Game #1: Philadelphia Eagles at New Orleans Saints

Hey, do you guys remember that hurricane that hit New Orleans that caused a bunch of poor people to be homeless and the federal government basically left Americans to die and a whole bunch of shit was supposed to hit the fan and people were going to get fired and then Kanye West said President Bush hated black people and we all thought that was wicked hilarious and then some other stuff happened that I don't remember? What ever happened with that?

The people of New Orleans' pain ends this Saturday.

Prediction: Saints: 21 - Eagles: 14

Sunday:

AFC Divisional Game #2: New England Patriots at San Diego Chargers

Grrr... argh... so hard to pick this game... Tomlinson is so good... rahaarrr... Belichick and Brady crush in the playoffs... Marty Schottenheimer is terrible in the playoffs... graahaarassar... don't want to jinx Pats... but what about a reverse jinx or the dreaded "triple double reverse jinx with a side order of potato salad"... GAH! CAN'T PICK! WHY IS LIFE SO HARD ALL THE TIME?

Okay, I'm going to be a man and make a pick. Last night, I had a dream that a last-minute blocked field goal attempt gave the Patriots a 23-21 victory. But my dreams NEVER come true. Have I ever met Ponch and/or Jon? I don't think so.

So as much as it pains me to do so, I'm naturally going to assume that my subconscious mind had the right score, but the wrong team. I'm sorry, Boston.

Prediction: Chargers: 23 - Patriots: 21

NFC Divisional Game #2: Seattle Seahawks at Chicago Bears

This game seems to be the upset pick du jour among the spundits. People are spending a lot of time armchair psychoanalyzing Bears quarter back Rex Grossman, so much so that they've fooled themselves into believing the Seahawks have a chance. No way - the Bears are the far superior team. This one is going to be a romp.

However, Rex Grossman does have a case of borderline personality disorder with a hint of restless leg syndrome.

Prediction: Bears: 24 - Seahawks: 10.

Have a great long weekend, friends. Talk to you again on Tuesday.

Quick update on what's happening in Scamperville (two bergs over from the District of Boobytown). Some serious hot guitar licks are fixin' to be laid down by Nate and Keith this weekend over at Woolly Mammoth Sound on Boylston Street. Scamper has never used this particular studio before, so we'll be sure to leave our signature Scamper stink all up in the joint.

In other news, I got a haircut.

Yup.

(Things are pretty slow around these parts lately.)

Last night featured yet another bar trivia victory for Team Awesome a.k.a. any team with ME on it. Actually, I didn't have much to do with the victory, as team captain Tricia assembled a killer squad of diverse brainiacs who did our best to most definitely bring sexy back... to Tuesday night bar trivia.

The eeriest moment of the night came when the question was asked "Including the Gulf of Mexico as an ocean, how many states are touching an ocean?" One of our team members Mat, who apparently was (no joke) the national Whig party vice presidential candidate at one point, took literally about 2.67 seconds to calculate and came up with the correct answer. The boy knows his United States. It was genuinely astounding in its Rainman-esqueness.

While he raced the correct and ultimately winning answer up to the host, we played the whole "distract the other teams" game by loudly pretending to work out the answer: "Let's see, there's British Columbia, New Blumberg, Tirry Tarry and don't forget about the Commonwealth of Boobytown." The joke was on them - Boobytown is actually a district, not a commonwealth.

Anyone want to go for the correct answer without use of the internet? As always, we're on the honor system here.

From George Carlin: New Rule: I'm not the cashier! By the time I look up from sliding my card, entering my PIN number, pressing "Enter," verifying the amount deciding, no, I don't want cash back, and pressing "Enter" again, the kid who is supposed to be ringing me up is standing there eating my Almond Joy.

Yesterday afternoon, I was trying to stop in to the grocery store quickly to pick up a few things before I headed over to class. I should have known that this would never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever happen. You just can't go to a grocery store and be out quickly anymore. There are too many X factors.

Lord knows I try. When I'm scanning the checkout lines to figure out which one will go fastest, I pull on every stereotype I know and do some serious profiling. If I even smell a hint of coupon on you, I'm not going anywhere near your ass. If I can find a single guy paying cash, I'm following his ass through the hole like Corey Dillon.

But yesterday, I got sloppy. I was in a hurry, so my radar wasn't up. I got behind a young mother struggling to put $9 on a debit card and $7 in cash. On the other side of the conveyor belt was a trainee named Raj. It was the perfect storm of incompetence. It really was a sight to behold.

That's all. Carry on with your days.

Well, I went 3 for 4 in my playoff predictions this weekend, but I was the only spundit to correctly call the Belichick-Mangini man-hug, so I'll bump myself up to 4 for 4. Who's going to stop me? You? You, Lieutenant Weinberg?

While I didn't manage to talk to the post-surgery JDog, we did exchange a view pornographic voicemails yesterday afternoon. Word on the street is that he came through the surgery like a champ and is now kicking it old school on painkillers for a while at his luxurious Rochester compound. Feel free to send get well greetings/taunts to joe@fooledbyapril.com.

In other news, I was at my parents' house yesterday afternoon, flipping between the ponderous NFL pre-game show and the sneak preview of the new VH1 reality show I Love New York. My mother looked up from her sewing for a moment and engaged me in the following deep and spiritual conversation:

Mom: Wow. She's really ugly.
Me: Yeah, she is.
Mom: Why would anyone want to win her?
Me: I don't know, mother. I don't know.

Sports fans, it's the most exciting time of year excluding of course the bi-annual Valvoline Presents the Scandanavian Multi-Phase Pube-Measuring Championships in March 2008 (the smart money this time around is on Sven "Deceptively Coily" Swissengaard): the NFL playoffs. It's time for some predictions. Take this shit to the bank, all you little Jimmy the Greeks and Jenny the GFEs.

Saturday:

AFC Wild Card game #1: Kansas City Chiefs at Indianapolis Colts

See, here we've got a match-up of two high powered offenses which means lots of scoring and very few bathroom breaks. But that's okay - you can hold it. Hold iiiiit! See? It's not that bad.

In this one, I'm going to say Colts quarterback Peyton Manning is going to go absolutely apeshit when he realizes that for the first time in the entire season, there was an entire 90-second commercial break during the second quarter without an ad featuring his smug balding horse face. Then, he's just going to start hucking it all around the place. I like that word - "hucking." I'm going to bring that one back into the regular rotation.

Prediction: Indianapolis: 412 - Kansas City: 373

NFC Wild Card game #1: Dallas Cowboys at Seattle Seahawks

On paper, I see the Cowboys as the superior team. But this is the NFL, people - the games aren't played on paper. They're played on a synthetic grass-like surface made of an amalgam of vulcanized rubber, the dreams of little crippled boys and shredded paper.

Now, Dallas has a lot of factors working against them: seeming chaos in the locker room, an untested rookie quarterback, an overrated jerk-ass of a head coach and of course a wide receiver who refuses to make a catch without having his agent negotiate with the ball mid-air. In other words, Dallas is due for a fall. My gut tells me it won't happen until next round, though.

Prediction: Dallas: 24 - Seattle: Pi

Sunday:

AFC Wild Card game #2: New York Jets at New England Patriots

Here's the one we've been looking forward to all week long. Bill Belichick vs. Eric Mangini. The teacher vs. the student. Obi Wan Kenobi vs. his lesser known wiseass little brother Abraham "Pizza Face" Kenobi. It's a grudge match.

The Jets are a good team, but not quite good enough. I think it's going to be a tough defensive struggle with Jets dreamy quarterback Chad Pennington throwing at least one critical interception to Asanti Samuel. The only way the Jets stand a chance is if the Patriots return to their Novemeber butterfingers form during which they were fumbling more than Fumbles O'Fumblehugh, lieutenant mayor of Fumbletown, Arkansas.

Now, a lot of sports pundits (I like to call them spundits) have been making the story about the deteriorated personal relationship between the two head coaches. Will Belichick and Mangini shake hands after the game? My prediction: they will not shake hands, but upon seeing each other, they will realize what true affection is between them and all will be forgiven. They will embrace in a macho man-hug, followed by a seemingly innocent peck on the cheek. Suddenly, a wave of passion will overtake their bodies and they'll drop to the turf, making rough but tender love to each other right there on the 50 yard line while a disgusted Phil Simms tries to remain professional in the commentary booth.

Rest assured, Pats fans - Mangini will be the bottom. (Go Pats)

Prediction: New England: 20 - New York: 14

NFC Wild Card game #2: New York Giants at Philadelphia Eagles

The Eagles are arguably the hottest team in football right now with the reemergence of a balding but still surprisingly virile quarterback Jeff Garcia from off the scrap heap. On the other hand, the Giants have a few things going against them: 1) their coach is a tool, 2) their locker room is a fucking circus and 3) they're Vinny Shit on the Face's favorite team. This third factor will arguably be the most influential on the outcome of Sunday's game, as Vinny short-sightedly decided to use all his sports karma building that Yankee dynasty during the beginning of this decade. As a result of his hubris, his beloved Giants and his adored Knicks will NEVER win. NEVER!

Prediction: Philadelphia: 28 - New York: 12

Next week, we'll see how I did and also check in with an update from the master of ladder match, JDog.

Do you ever have imaginary conversations with people? Maybe I just have a fantasy life that's more active than normal, but I find that it tends to happen to me more and more often lately. After a seemingly simple conversation ends, I replay it in my head, punching up the dialogue that I should have said.

For instance - as I walked into my work building this morning, a woman asked me to point her to the restroom. So I told her, she thanked me and the interaction was over. Simple enough, right? But then I had the conversation again, this time in my head. And it went a little sumfin like this:

Woman: Where's the restroom?
Me: #1 or #2?
Woman: What?
Me: #1 or #2?
Woman: Why?
Me: Well, this building has separate restrooms for each one.
Woman: Really?
Me: Swear to God.
Woman: (embarrassed) #1..
Me: Okay, that's around the corner, first door on the left
Woman: Where's the #2 room?
Me: There really isn't a separate bathroom.

And then I walk away. Isn't that interaction more interesting my way?

Some bad news, rock fans. Our boy Joe (smelly lead guitarist from the now legendary defunct Boston band Fooled By April) had a bit of an accident while he was doing some roof repairs to his new house and fell about ten feet off a ladder on top of his wife Sarah, completely shattering his left elbow and sending him into "pain like I've never known." He goes into surgery this afternoon to have pins inserted in the bone, so let's send him some good vibes.

I spoke to Joe last night and he's in good spirits, although that was probably the painkillers talking because Joe is hardly ever in good spirits. But there are a few good things to come out of this otherwise bummer of an accident.

First, from what the doctors can tell, there will be some permanently lost range of motion but his pyrotechnic guitar playing style should be ultimately unaffected after he heals up in a few months. In fact, if anything the surgery will make him even more wankier. It's simple science, people.

More importantly - despite having 200+ lbs of falling JDog crashing down on her, Sarah was remarkably completely unharmed. And let's face it - she's always been the Loggins to Joe's Garfunkel. She's been carrying that couple for years.

And now that we know everyone is basically okay, we can openly mock him for falling off a ladder on top of his wife. It's a great visual, really. I like to imagine it with a silent movie-style piano playing in the background. But you could also go with the Three Stooges or Looney Tunes theme. You know - it's a personal taste thing.

Finally, in a bit of "good news/bad news" - I checked with the doctors and they are not (I repeat, not) going to fit Joe with either a cool bionic robot arm or the transplanted limb of a serial killer/chronic masturbator. Wouldn't that make a great movie? A guy gets a transplanted arm that won't leave his junk alone? Get me one of the Warner brothers on the phone.

Get well soon, douchebag.

Happy New Year, my hungover little revelers. I hope jolly ol' St. Nick brought you all the materialistic gifts your money-grubbing fingers could unwrap and that Rollins the New Year's Panda brought you all the attractive herpes-free make-out partners to shove their pink naked tongues into your salivating mouths at midnight.

As for me, I made a few new year's resolutions. Want to hear them? Of course you do:

- In 2007, I will finally go see a specialist and do something about my long-time problem of attention deficit dis... hey, look - boobies! Over there! On the internet! Wait - what was I talking about? Oh, right - I really like Cocoa Puffs.

- In 2007, I will track down and shake the hand of the man or woman who invented Cocoa Puffs. Seriously - who doesn't like Cocoa Puffs? They taste wicked good.

- In 2007, I will convince my band to quit all this "radio-friendly power pop" shit and dedicate our time to performing a series of high society jewel heists which result in many hilarious comedies of errors in which I get mistaken for the high poobah of Lichtenstein while Keith get sent to prison to do hard time with a certain Mr. Gene Wilder. I'm thinking Michael Winslow could play one of the fellow inmates who keeps fooling the warden with his hilarious sound effects. Also, Keith gets raped in the butt. A lot.

- In 2007, I will spend more time learning about America's true national treasures: our celebrities. I have been terribly lackluster about keeping up with who's dating whom. Also, I have no working opinion about the state of TomKat's baby, Brangelina's latest lovemaking session or the love child of Copperdill (from what I understand, it's the hot new romance between David Copperfield and Phyllis Diller).

- In 2007, I won't be taking any more of your shit. Seriously, I'm so sick of you.

How about it, troops? Anyone else have any new year's resolutions?