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Scamper is playing a show tonight. As you all know, I usually pimp the living Buddha out of a show, but here's the problem: you can't come to the show. You're not the sort of person that we want there, stinking up the joint.
Unless of course you are a freshman at Tufts University. In which case, come on in! Pull up a stool and partake in the radio-friendly power pop. While you're at it, please enjoy this complimentary basket of bruschetta.
During rehearsal last night, Mike informed us that he is going to use the money we earn at this gig to buy a sweater for when it gets cold out. So look forward to that.
Have a safe long weekend, all. And remember - you're not allowed at our show. Consider this Scamper's way of giving you a giant "F you."
As you may have noticed, Thursday is usually my Not Even Close to a Celebrity Fit Club
weigh in day. However, my scale was packed away this morning (I'm moving tomorrow) and I didn't have a chance plop my girth down upon it.
Ultimately, it's a good thing, as I consumed enough fried cheese this week to clog that tunnel that the Chunnel train goes through (Note: I'm not sure if the train or the tunnel is called "the Chunnel" and as always refuse to do even the most basic of research when posting this journal).
Now, you may be disappointed in the lack of a weigh-in this morning, so as my penance, I present to you this picture of a panda sliding down a slide:
Please note how much thinner I am than a panda. Thank you.
If there's one thing you people should know about me, it's that when I eat jalapenos, I have incredibly weird, intense, and realistic dreams. That's the essential information I need to get across here.
Last night, my dream had me involved with Celebrity Boxing
for some reason. I had a choice of my opponent - I could face either Danny Bonaduce, Jerome Bettis, or friend of Scamper Vinny Shit on the Face.
Factoring in the "crazy" factor, I went with Bettis. I'm confident I made the right choice. Too bad I woke up before the first punch was thrown.
Yesterday, I yelled at a guy from Greenpeace. That was the sort of afternoon I was having.
As I was walking down a street on the way to work, a guy with a Greenpeace t-shirt smiled and said "Hi" to get me to stop and talk to him. I smiled back and said, "Sorry - on my way to work."
And then things turned ugly.
As I continue to walk, I hear this snot-nosed punk say, "Sure, no time to save the rainforest. You
have to go to work."
I stopped in my tracks. I had been "sleeping" in a sauna-temperature room without air conditioning all weekend. Needless to say, this was not the day to cross me. I swiveled around, stomped back to the guy and said, "You know, I don't owe you an explanation as to why I'm not stopping and talking to you."
He was shocked. Apparently, people aren't usually petty enough to call him on his bullshit. "I don't think you owe me anything."
"Then why are you giving me attitude for not stopping?"
"I'm not giving you attitude."
"It seems to me like you were giving me a little attitude. And I support Greenpeace. You're hurting the cause."
All he had to say for himself was "All right."
As I turned away, I was fully aware that after I was out of earshot, he and his little soulpatch probably had a nice laugh at Grandpa Brendo's expense. Perhaps even the irony wasn't lost on him that I spent much more time bitching him out than I would have had I actually stopped to talk about Greenpeace.
So was I the asshole here? I usually don't bother wasting my time on someone like this, but his entitled nu-hippie attitude is part of the reason more moderate, reasonable people are turned off environmentalism (a post for another day). It was education time. When you're out on the street trying to raise money or awareness for a good cause, you should be super polite, even when they don't want to talk to you. Right?
Fucking $2 PBRs. You'll be the death of me.
Time for my weekly weigh-in.
My weight last week: 211 lbs.
My weight this morning: 212 lbs.
Oops. Gained a pound. Still, not exactly a tragedy. My exercise schedule this week wasn't terrific, but I've still been eating pretty well. Actually, I'm fairly comfortable at this weight, so I haven't been pushing myself all that hard. Still, I'll try to pick up the cardio this week and do better, my disappointed Harveys.
In other slightly VH1-related news, the Scott Baio show has gotten almost unwatchable. In the beginning, the bad acting and set-up "conflicts" were sort of charming in their fakeness. But it's gotten out-and-out ridiculous. This past week's "break-up" with his friend Johnny looked like an improv exercise from a freshman acting class.
Luckily for us, Bret Michaels continues to deliver. God bless him and keep him.
Hooray, blogger's finally working! Yip yip!
Some of you may remember my little fender bender
a few weeks back that send me screeching across a few lanes of traffic, fucking up my already fucked-up fuckbox of a car. While repairing the damage to my car was irritating to say the least, the most shocking aspect of the whole ordeal was my complete lack of an adrenaline rush on impact. I felt nothing. I was completely calm the entire time.
Fast forward to last night. I was walking down a well-lit city street, listening to a book on tape (Ann Coulter's "Liberals Can Suck My Adam's Apple") on my Sony walkman when a car blindly started back into me. Luckily, I was nimble enough to jump back and slap my hand down hard on the trunk of the car to get the woman's attention, causing her to step on her brake and avoid breaking both of my legs.
When the woman who nearly maimed me finally stopped and rolled down her window, what hateful yet justified bit of vitriol did I spew at her?
"Be careful. You almost hit me."
Aw snap! I got her, huh? Seriously, that's all that came out of my mouth. And what's more - once again, NO adrenaline rush whatsoever. I was completely calm and collected the entire time.
I think my fight or flight response is broken. If I were a gazelle I would have been cut from the herd by now.
Speaking of gay sex acts, do you think when one guy gives another a shortened, half-hearted Dirty Sanchez, shouldn't it be referred to as a "Gay-dolph Shitler"?
Took me all yesterday afternoon to think of that one. That AND "nap-arations" in the same week? I'm on a wordplay kick, people! Respeck!
Good morrow, young squires. I am recovering nicely from the birthday weekend, thank you for inquiring. I actually took it comparatively easy this time around, trying to make myself feel younger and more free by hanging around with my lame friends who are married and have kids. Of course I was ready for a nap much quicker than they were.
I don't know if I can really express my love for napping in a way that will make you understand how much I truly love napping. Napping is my Graceland.
I like all sorts of naps. Short mid-afternoon naps. Long weekend naps on the couch watching golf. African-American naps. Jew naps. My love for naps is completely colorblind and doesn't discriminate against any of the clearly inferior naps (i.e. "napping on the wing of a 747 during takeoff").
I'm always up for a nap. And what's more, I don't know if there's a time I remember in my life ever when I wasn't
ready to nap at a moment's notice. Maybe that time when I was running from that grizzly bear at Yellowstone. Even then, when my thigh muscles were burning and churning as I sprinted through the thickets, fearing for my life, I distinctly remember thinking, "Christ, I'd moider for a nap right now."
Come to think of it, I could really eat up a nap right now. In fact, I can honestly say that at this moment napping is what I most want to do in the world. Is that going to happen? Nooooo. Not as long as the "be awake-anistas" are forcing me to retain my consciousness for at least the next seven hours. It's wrong and outrageous and wrooooooong.
It's time to do something about this. We've been beaten down enough by the anti-nap coalition long enough. It's been generations since we have been allowed to nap freely like our Neanderthal progenitors. Now, napping is a rare breed. I bet many of you reading this don't even take
naps. That's how far you've strayed from your natural napping roots.
It hurts me that this has happened to you people. Someone must pay for this oppression. That's right, it may cost me, but I'm going to go ahead and say it:
We demand nap-arations.
Let's get political, soldiers. Who's with me?
I thought I'd send you to the holiday weekend (that's right, my birthday is now legally recognized as a day of reflection on both the state and federal levels) with the official Most Depressing Thing I Saw On TV This Morning As I Was Getting Ready for Work:
I was watching the E! True Hollywood Story
of Saved By The Bell
in which they were interviewing a producer or executive or some such moron from the glory days of the show. Trying to explain the lack of ratings success of the prime time Saved By The Bell: The College Years
, said executive opined: "Well, I think the viewers got confused when they saw reruns of Zack, Slater, and Screech in high school at 6 o'clock and then in college at 8 o'clock."
Now, here's a little quiz: what is the most depressing part of this whole thing?
a) A TV executive/producer thinks so little of the intelligence of an audience that she assumes people will be confused by the concept of reruns
b) She's probably right.
c) I watched the entire E! True Hollywood Story
about Saved By The Bell
You have an hour. Pick up your pencils and... BEGIN!
It's my new favorite time of the week - I humiliate myself by reveling in my fitness failure!
Brendo, last week your weight was 212 lbs. Your target weight loss was 3 lbs. Please step on the scale... (dramatic music)
Your weight this morning is...
Well, I lost 1 pound. I didn't quite hit my target weight, but a pound is better than nothing. I ate pretty healthy, although there were once again too many beers consumed. But hey, it's summer and lah-dee lah-dee lah-dee, Brendo likes to pah-tee.
Still, only a pound lost in my second week on the program isn't encouraging news. Usually, the first couple of weeks of a diet are the easiest time to lose weight. From where I'm looking, 199 seems miles away. I'm getting a little discouraged and feel like I'm one high-calorie bender away from burying my face between the succulent bosoms of deep fried and caramel-dipped.
How about some words of encouragement, team?
Meh. It's the dog days of summer. You guys don't need a blog every weekday, do you?
Didn't think so.
Here's another photo from the outfield at Fenway Park. Joining Madden, Jeremie, and myself is the incomparable Joe "Who's Your Daddy?" Welsh.
Speaking of Fenway and the Red Sox, my dad's answer to every Aflac trivia question during the top of the inning is "Who gives a shit?"
He's almost always right.
I finally got around to seeing The Simpsons Movie
and I must say - it was really terrific. It captured a lot of what used to be great about The Simpsons
without falling into the smarmy, self-referential, "pat yourselves on the back for getting that reference, you superior people" vibe that made me switch the channel around season 13 or so.
Without spoiling anything, the movie is very Homer-focused, as it should be. Essentially, it works as a really long, really good Simpsons episode with some "bigger" (i.e. more expensive) visual effect moments. But the movie looks really good and manages to keep up that Simpsons pace for the entire 90 minutes without losing steam.
Emotionally, it doesn't cover any new ground, but revisits the central relationships of the show - the different members of the family dealing in their own ways with Homer's inability to be a decent husband/father. The relationship conflicts have been done before many times in the nineteen seasons of the show, but the movie thankfully doesn't commit the cardinal sin of later seasons: betraying well-established characters for the sake of a cheap joke (cough Family Guy
Most of all, it's just really funny. It's an unequivocal Brendommendation. (That's "Brendo" and "recommendation" combined to make up a new, awesome word).
I don't have a ton of photos from my trip to Fenway for the Police show, but here's how close we could get to the Green Monster:
That attractive bunch is Madden, Kris, myself and Jeremie. And yes, Jeremie's t-shirt consists of Optimus Prime convincing you to stay in school.
Hopefully, I'll have more photos next week. Have a safe weekend, friends.
It's time for this week's Not-Actually-A-Celebrity Fit Club
weigh-in. You ready? Okay!
Last week's weight: 215 lbs.
This morning's weight: 212 lbs.
I lost three pounds! Woo hoo! Yip yip! Where's Maureen McCormack to give me a congratulatory handie?
To be honest, I was a little surprised that I did so well. I had a few factors working against me:
- my schedule limited my exercise time to only 4 days this week.
- I enjoyed a delicious lobster and ribs feast for my mother's birthday last weekend.
- I exceeded my allotted weekly limit of beers by about 20.
Still, I managed to drop my target weight, bringing me within 13 lbs of my target goal of 199 lbs. The great thing is that I was never hungry and I was actually eating more than I usually do. I just replaced most of the bad foods with fruits and vegetables and lots of fiber. I'm terrific!
My target weight loss for Thursday, August 16: 3 lbs.
I don't know if I can do it. What say you, Harveys?
Normally, I don't tell you what to do because quite frankly I'm not the boss of you. But here's what you're going to do this morning:
1. You're going to click on the following link: www.comedycentral.com/openmicfight
2. You're going to vote for Myq Kaplan. He's the little fella in the middle.
3. You can feel free to watch his video and laugh if you'd like, but only AFTER you've voted for him. This is how democracy should and eventually will work.
4. For the rest of the day, whenever anyone says the word "memo," you will visualize a little pink piglet enthusiastically humping the back of the head of whoever is talking.
If Myq wins this contest, he gets to open for Hanson and Bon Jovi.
The pig thing - well, I just want to get you fired. Go ahead - try to avoid giggling when that visual pops into your head at the most inopportune time.
Apologies for my unannounced absence yesterday. Quite frankly, I was in shock from the unexpected and brutal shaving of Nate's sideburns.
If you didn't know about this shocking news, well... I'm glad you heard it from me. For three plus years, Nate's sideburns have been a constant fixture in our lives, giving us comfort when life seemed unbearable. When things were bad, Nate's sideburns were always there. I'm not going to lie - I've been hurt before. A lot of facial hair has let me down throughout the years. But never Nate's sideburns. They were old school like that.
Personally, I remember when I was literally in the gutter trying to sell a 1985 version of Battleship with missing pegs to support my horse habit. Who was it that found me, cleaned me up, and set me up with that interview for that job as personal shopper at Bloomingdale's? That's right - Nate's sideburns.
Nate's sideburns once single-burnedly stopped Elton John and Tim Rice from remaking The Godfather 2
as a Broadway musical. And who very recently orchestrated the Kevin Garnett trade to the Celtics? Nate's sideburns. And really... they were the funniest damn sideburns you ever met.
I'll miss you, Nate's sideburns. Perhaps now would be a good time to share some of those famous "Nate's sideburns stories" that have become legend in the bars of Clifton Park, New Orleans, and the parts of Thailand where the pedophiles go on illegal child sex tours.
Christ, it's hot.
That is all.
Okay, so here's the deal: you all know what a fan I am of the show Celebrity Fit Club
. The smiling expertise of Dr. Ian. The warm sexy support of whichever hot-ass psychotherapist they bring on. And of course, the gruff motivational style of Harvey Walden IV. Let's face it - it's a formula that works. Look at Bruce Villanch. He looks terrific
I want to take advantage of this formula and drop a few pounds. Now, obviously I am not quite famous enough to be on the TV show. Plus, the show usually features celebrities well past their prime and Scamper's reign as Boston's local rock heroes is still soaring.
But there's no reason I can't use the Celebrity Fit Club
model to lose weight. So I went out and bought the Dr. Ian Extreme Fat Smash Diet
book. As for the therapist part, let's just say I've got it covered. But what I need is a Harvey.
That's where you assholes come in.
Every Thursday for the month of August, I'm going to do a morning weigh-in with you all. I'll give you an update on how I'm doing with my eating and exercise program. Your job will be to motivate me with constant positive reinforcement and call me on my bullshit when I'm copping out. Think you can handle that, my little drill sergeants?
Okay, let's begin.
Beginning weight, August 2: 215 lbs.
Target weight for August 30: 199 lbs.
Sixteen pounds in four weeks. Pretty ambitious, I know. I don't know if I can do it. What say you, Harveys?
EDIT: in my zeal, I realized that losing 16 lbs in 4 weeks probably isn't the healthiest thing in the world, but I do want to get under 200. So I'm already pussing out and giving myself a few more weeks.
NEW target weight for September 20: 199 lbs.
Sixteen pounds in seven weeks isn't so bad. Anyway, fuck you guys.
If those of you in the Cambridge/Somerville area heard the wailings of true love lost in the air, don't worry - it was just my friend Christine reacting to her imaginary boyfriend Kason Gabbard being traded to Texas for Eric Gagne. Their imaginary relationship had its problems, mind you (such as his nasty chew habit). But all in all, I really thought those two kids were going to make it work. Now, the odds are against them. You know how hard long distance imaginary relationships are.
As for me, I think Gagne is a good move with an eye toward the playoffs which always seem to feature close games decided by the bullpens. I wish they had picked up a fourth outfielder with some pop, as Wily Mo just ain't cutting it for me anymore.
Or maybe he should just start taking some steroids. Steroids for Wily Mo!