Tonight. The Middle East Upstairs. Scamper. Wheat. Ben and Vesper. You know the drill.

Next week, I'll be away from computators and PDFs and robits and all the things with little lights that buzz and blink on and off to remind you to shut them off. I'll be at my tri-annual macrame weaving festival/Est meeting.

So sadly, you're free on your own recognizances next week. No recap of the show on Monday. You're just going to have to come to the show and see all the really cool stuff that happens. Try not to act surprised when the llama shows up.

Have a good rest of June, ladies.

It's officially the first day of summer today! Hip hip! Come celebrate with us at the Middle East tomorrow night, will you? I promise to rub lotion on each and every one of you.

The good news is that Scamper actually managed to find roughly 45 minutes when we are all in the same time zone, so there might even be a bit of this "rehearsal" thing we've read so much about in the news lately.

It's a lucky break, really. From 7:17 to 8:08 tonight, Keith takes an hour off from his booming "naughty silkscreening" business while Nate has a scheduled night off from his toughman competition training. Mike has agreed to put down the crack pipe (or as he calls it "Sweet Lady Numby Numb") for a few minutes to sit in on drums.

As for me, I figured might as well take advantage of the writer's block I've been experiencing on my new historical fiction novel about Thomas James Dildo (the inventor of the first robot rapist made of hickory wood) to cram in a little Scamphearsal.

Don't thank us. We do it all for you.

It's time for the full-court pimp, people. Here's the deal: Friday night is only two nights away. There's tomorrow night and then all of sudden there it fucking is! Right the fuck on top of you! Aaargh! It's Friday! I don't have tickets to the Scamper show at the Middle East! What am I going to do??? My life is ruined! Double aaarrgh!

But wait - what's this? It's the Brendo time machine. He can send us back to Wednesday morning. We can get tickets! Hooray! We're so happy and stress-free! Thank God for the Brendo time machine! Let's go see the Civil War next!

I'm sorry, you can't. The Brendo time machine is not a real time machine. It's just a metaphor for getting your tickets in advance for this sure-to-be-popular Friday night show at the Middle East with Wheat.

I'm sorry. I know you wanted to meet Lincoln. I didn't mean to get your hopes up.

As I was watching the finale of this year's Celebrity Fit Club (conclusion: Marcia Brady and Tiffany are boinkable once again! Huzzah!), I saw a promo for the latest variation on the Flavor of Love formula: Rock of Love featuring twenty skanky women vying for the affections of Bret Michaels from Poison. A few thoughts:

1) VH1 is the greatest.

2) Shouldn't they have named this show Pick Your Poison?

3) I don't think this round is going to be as good as Flavor of Love. All the girls I've seen in the promos so far are really hot. Part of the fun of the original was watching Flavor Flav drool with equal fervor over both the few attractive and many repulsive women that comprised his questionable coterie. Sure Flav wanted a piece of cute little Toastee... but he'd break off a piece of Like Dat's derriere too. Horse-faced New York made it to his final cut twice! A woman shit on the floor and he kept her for another round! She shit on the floor! On a dating television show! And Flav commended her for "keeping it real"!

I'm sorry - I just don't think Bret Michaels is going to provide us with the entertainment value that Flav provided. And my final point...

4) They picked the wrong member of Poison! Uh... do the words C.C. DeVille mean anything to you people? He's practically the rock and roll version of Flavor Flav. You dropped the ball on this one, VH1.

Oh, but don't get me wrong - I'll still watch.

In order to capitalize on current trends, Scamper is turning our show this Friday at the Middle East into a dating reality show. That's right - one of you lucky ladies has a chance to go home with Mike Mirabella.

A little hint: he, like Flav, is a bit "forgiving" in the "floor shitting" department.

Don't forget to stop by the Abbey Lounge this evening to see Nate flex his ever-strengthening solo muscles with Dave Mirabella. Early free show for queeahs. That's what the sign on the door says, anyway.

Speaking of the other Mirabella, our man David stopped by for an impromptu session with The Jist this weekend. He added a whole new dimension to the "faking our way our way through cover songs then quickly falling apart when the chords change" technique: wanky guitar soloing. It's true what Margaret Thatcher once said: a little wank can cover up even the most blinding incompetence. The Jist was never jistier!

Oh, but don't forget that The Jist's other project - "Scamper" - will be playing a rock and roll show this Friday at the Middle East Upstairs with Wheat. Get your tickets early - there's a chance that due to literally no rehearsal time, the Jist may be forced to make an impromptu appearance. Can you say "trainwreck"?

Don't forget to stop by the Abbey Lounge on Monday night to see long time lovers Nate Rogers and Dave Mirabella finally consummate their musical lust for each other. It's early, it's free and (shhhhh) it's going to be really really good. Don't tell anyone. It'll be our little secret.

In other news, I missed the premiere of Li'l Bush because I was busy painting my toenails to match my drapes. Anyone see it? Did they skewer our president good? I bet there were a few jokes about how he says "nucular." I never get tired of that shit.

Man, why do I hate this show so much? I haven't even seen it. I'll do some soul searching over the weekend and get back to you on Monday. Be safe, penguins.

Dear City Bicycle Enthusiasts,

You are a danger on the roads. You don't follow any of the prescribed rules. You behave like a car one time and a pedestrian the next, based solely on whichever is convenient to you at the time. You run red lights, drive up one-ways the wrong way, and generally make yourselves a nuisance. God forbid you have to wait at a light with the rest of us convicted murderers a.k.a. people who(gasp) drive cars.

And you do it all with a smug hippie attitude, like I'm supposed to worship your tofu-scented balls for single-handedly saving the earth. Your righteous anger that the cars on the road owe you special treatment because you're dumb enough to cross six lanes of traffic with just a thin layer of plastic protecting your skull is as annoying as it is wrong. You are the problem.

I'm sick of you. From now on, I'm going to behave like a car sometimes and a battering ram other times, based on whichever is convenient to me.

Just thought I'd give you fair warning, assholes.

Sincerely,

Mike Mirabella

If you haven't checked out the SHOWS section lately, our man Nate is once again going solo, sharing the pub stage at the Abbey Lounge with his new boyfriend Dave Mirabella on Monday June 18th. See you there! Note: by "See you there!" I literally mean "You'll see each other there but not me because I won't be there because Nate's a jerk!"

We've got our own show later next week (Friday the 22nd at the Middle East with Wheat). I'm pretty sure I'm going to be at that one, but I haven't fully decided yet. Tickets are cheaper in advance and it might sell out and don't try calling my cell right before the show asking me to get you in and blah blah blah blah.

In other news, T-minus 12 hours or so until the premiere of Li'l Bush. Everyone excited about this one? It's going to be satire!

All of those of you who are sad that The Sopranos is finally over, worry not: the premiere of Li'l Bush is on Comedy Central tomorrow night! He's like the real Bush, except he's little! The commercials make that show look hilarious. He's little but he sounds just like the big one! He's not the big one, though. He's the little one! Ha ha HA!

Speaking of The Sopranos, I've been wrestling with how I feel about the finale. Without ruining it for anyone who hasn't seen it, I think the last scene was a pretty amazing piece of filmmaking with tension comparable to the Italian restaurant scene in The Godfather. And the scene with Phil Leotardo and the SUV and the "say goodbye to grandpa"? Ho. Ly. Sheeet.

While I'm still digesting a lot of the episode and the dramatic choices, there's one thing for sure: there were never any creative compromises on The Sopranos. It was the unfiltered vision of a true artist. David Chase made a dense, sometimes uneven, occasionally confusing tale with a relentlessly dark world view. Because he was free to do what he wanted, he made something truly unique that will stand the test of time.

Again, why is it so hard for Hollywood to do this? All the networks have to do is give control to a smart, creative person and not interfere. At the worst, you get an interesting failure (like Lucky Louie or Extras, for instance). At best, you get The Sopranos or Larry Sanders or Curb Your Enthusiasm. You know what you don't get? The fucking pablum mediocrity of committee thinking. You don't get Friends.

I know, I know - Friends was a cash cow. A lot of people liked it. Blah blah blah. I'm talking about the creative soul, people. Don't slow my irrational rantings down with your "real world."

Speaking of Real World, I caught an episode of the Vegas reunion. All the girls have gotten way too skinny and gross except for Brynne, who's still really sexy but doesn't act wild and get naked anymore. It's true - you can't go home again.

I actually managed to sneak away from the craziness of my stupid overbooked life and hit the movies yesterday afternoon. Two things I know:

1. Popcorn is good... because it tastes good.

2. Knocked Up is as awesome as I hoped it would be.

It seems like writer/director Judd Apatow is making movies specifically for me. I half expect the next one to be called Here's Another Movie You're Really Going To Like, Brendan, quickly to be followed by its sequel Here's Another Movie You're Really Going to Like, Brendan Part 2: On the Move.

Apatow's work hits my sensibilities perfectly: the combination of smart yet juvenile humor with realistic human characters and relationships. Really - is that so hard, Hollywood? There's only one guy able to pull a well-written comedy off in that entire stinkhole of a town?

You know what's been annoying me? Every time I read or see an interview with Seth Rogen (who is terrific in the movie by the way), the focus is always "Wow, you're about to become the next big comedy star, huh?" No one asks about the movie or about his work. It's all about how this "vehicle" is going to get him "heat" in "the industry."

When did people outside of "the business" start caring about this shit? Why do I give a flying rodent fuck how much money a movie makes? I care whether I actually liked the movie or not. It pretty much begins and ends with that. But they print the weekend grosses like they're baseball scores. It's gotten to the point where we have been manipulated into thinking that "hit movie" equals "good movie." Something's only good if it's popular? So Friends was the funniest show ever?

I've said it before and I'll say it again - I hope that city and everyone in it melts in a rolling sea of piss-flavored lava.

I, like every hacky screenwriter and novelist, have always viewed baseball as a great metaphor for life.

For those of you who missed it yesterday, Curt Schilling had a no-hitter going into the ninth with two outs. This would have been a gem in the storied career of Mr. Bloody Sock. A no-hitter. A near-perfect performance.

So when Shannon Stewart shot a meaningless single into right field breaking up the no-hitter, I must admit - I laughed my ass off. Not because I didn't want Schilling to be rewarded for his achievement with a place in the history books. But because that moment is what life is all about. I thought to myself "Now there's a feeling I can relate to." That feeling of "almost."

Now, that may seem depressing or pessimistic view of both baseball and life. But here's the thing: the most amazing part of the story of Schilling's almost no-hitter hasn't happened yet. It happens in five days when he gets on the mound and tries again.

Life isn't perfection. Life is imperfect and hopeful and crushing and hilarious and tragic and absurd. And somehow we all find the strength to live through that disappointment and ask for the ball again when our turn in the rotation comes up.

If yesterday's game doesn't get you to love baseball, I don't know what to tell you. Thanks for the ride, Curt.

You know who I wouldn't like to be all that much? Whoever's replacing Bob Barker on The Price is Right. Can you imagine stepping into the shoes of someone who's been beloved by the American people for over 50 years? And I thought the chilly reception I got when I first replaced Marc Roderick in Scamper was bad. (I've forgiven you all for the tomato throwing and nuclear Indian crotchburns, by the way. Forgiven... but not forgotten.)

Obviously, the next host is going to be resented by little old ladies across the heartland. I think CBS should embrace this potential negative reception and go all the way with it. Can you imagine the reign of boos that would come down from the rafters if Rod Roddy announced:

"And now, the new host of The Price is Right... John Rocker!"

Or maybe they could get Mike Tyson. Are you telling me you wouldn't be a little more compelled to watch Plinko if there were even an outside chance of someone getting bitten and/or raped? Ratings juggernaut.

I know good TV. And that, people, is good f'ing TV.

I've been a little busy lately, so I've been shamefully neglecting my TV watching. I am left with this question: why didn't any of you tell me that they were reunited the Las Vegas cast of The Real World? It's like you don't even know me anymore. I'm not sure what this says about our relationship.

For those of you who missed the original, the Las Vegas season of The Real World was this one season-long porn gangbang interspersed with impossibly stupid people that hate themselves having psychotic arguments. It was the perfect storm of schaudenfraude. I couldn't have loved it more.

Finally, MTV has done the right thing and reunited these seven unstable narcissists in Vegas for a brief two-week action-packed idiotfest. I caught part of the opening "Where are they now? What are they doing?" episode. Answer: they're nowhere. They're doing nothing.

Much to my disappointment, they all claimed to be older and wiser. They promised the camera that they would refrain from the outrageous behavior that they displayed during the first round in Vegas. And for a second, I almost believed them... until they showed clips of all the fighting and fucking from the upcoming season.

You are what you are, Las Vegas cast. And I, for one, couldn't be happier.

With this and all the havoc Dustin Diamond has been spreading around Celebrity Fit Club this season, I'm thinking about quitting my job. There's just not enough time in the day to watch all this TV awesomeness.

You know what I'm sick of? People's birthdays at work.

I'm eating cake like every other day now. I work in a building with over a hundred people. By sheer numbers, it's going to be someone's birthday roughly every third day. How much cake do these people have to eat? The human body was not designed to eat cake 33% of the time.

You're probably saying to yourself, "Then just don't eat any cake, dickweed."

Nice theory, but you forget one thing: cake is delicious. How am I supposed to walk by a cake for 8 hours without taking a little taste? Where's your big "don't eat the cake" solution now, dickweed infinity plus one?

Yup.

Consider yourself lucky if you have never seen me eat a lobster. It's a sight to behold.

This weekend, Vinny and his lovely bethrothed Kristen invited me to their friends' annual lobsterfest party. Apparently, it's a yearly summer tradition and yadda yadda yadda. I heard the word "lobster" and then the "wa wa wa" from Charlie Brown's teacher. I was going to eat lobster. That's all that mattered. I have a theory that none of my relationships with the opposite sex have worked out because lobster will always be my first and only true love.

As I sat down at a table of strangers with the lobster on my plate, I immediately said, "Look, I'm just going to go ahead and apologize for the person I'm about to become in the presence of this lobster. Things are going to get emotional and maybe a little too intimate for some of you to handle. So if I make you uncomfortable, I am sorry. But there's nothing to be done."

They laughed. They thought I was joking.

After the act of devouring the lobster was completed, I looked around the table. No one wanted to make eye contact with me. There was a mixture of horror, confusion and a smell of lost innocence in the air. The air of powerful sexual hormones hung in the air like so much humid summer stink. I can't be sure, but I think my overpowering erotic destruction of the lobster may have forced a few pre-teens in attendance into premature menarche.

I apologize for nothing. It was lobster, people.

You know what I learned this morning? My college experience was nothing like Saved By The Bell: The College Years. No wacky hijinx, no ex-football player RD, no AC Slater. I was robbed, people.

You know what else I learned this morning? Opie and Anthony just aren't funny. I mean, they're not horrible or anything. They're just kind of dull and say the obvious joke every time. Always in that faux sarcastic voice. I've been giving them a chance for the past few months because they have a lot of funny comedians on the show, but I think I'm done. Don't hate them. Not offended by them. Just bored.

The third and final lesson of the morning? When you have a dream that you're Magnum PI, your waking life is guaranteed to be a disappointment. No matter what cool shit happens to me today, nothing could compare to being Magnum last night, tooling around Hawaii, punching guys out, kissing Erin Grey in her prime. I was totally badass. Real life continues to disappoint.

That's actually a lot to learn before 10am, don't you think?