I hate nature and everything in it.

Last night, I was driving home at about 11:30pm, trying to mentally shake off the rust-flavored dull that coats my psyche during the typical day. As I pulled around the corner of my suburban street, a medium-sized doe loped across the street in front of my vehicle at a pace a bit too casual for my liking. I slammed on the brakes and honked to spur her to get her little white ass in gear out of the way of my two tons of twisted plastic (I drive a Saturn) and sex appeal.

Thinking my brush with Bambi was over, I started up again only to have another doe leisurely trot in front of me. She seemed even lazier than the first one. I think I saw a bag of cool ranch Doritos and a forged welfare check lodged in her cloven hoof. This was one downright unmotivated deer.

I don't live out on the sticks, people. This is your typical suburban neighborhood. Isn't the wild kingdom supposed to be afraid of development and soccer moms in minivans? Why are they still hanging out on street corners like so many disinterested hoodlums, ready to jump out of the cover of darkness and frighten the bejaysus out of your boy?

Give me one legitimate reason we shouldn't declare deer genocide right now.

One more note on the Scamper Last Waltz: advance tickets go on sale December 7. And I swear - that's all you're going to hear about this little show from me. We won't be obnoxiously whoring over the next few months at all.

In other news, it feels like a tarred-and-feathered boll weevil has lodged itself in my upper respiratory cavity, tickling me into lurching coughing fits every twelve minutes or so. But you'll be happy to know - it's a productive cough. Last night, my cough kept me up for hours building me a cozy breakfast nook and dictating a book of feminist slam poetry. So I can't be too mad, I guess.

Nyquil's a hell of a drug.

Since the blockbuster announcement of Scamper's Last Waltz on February 2, 2008, Scamper HQ has been deluged with your cards and letters, begging for more information. Here's a list of Frequently Asked Questions:

Q: You're aware that calling this show the "Last Waltz" makes you look like giant dicks, right?

A: Totally. Still, we think it's funny, so we're going to stick with it.

Q: Why isn't [INSERT BAND HERE] playing with you? They're so much better than those jerks in Aloud, Harris, and Baker.

A: Ok, so I can't dispute the logic that certain members of the bands Aloud, Harris, and Baker are, in fact, "jerks." Except Henry. He's really more of a "douchebag" than a "jerk."

But seriously, picking bands to share the stage with us on our final night was not an easy decision. Over the years, we've played with a lot of great bands comprised of many great human beings in this town and elsewhere. Still, we couldn't think of three bands that have meant more to us as fellow musicians and friends than the aforementioned gaggle of jerks.

Q: Are you purposely having this show on Groundhog Day so that you have to keep reliving it over and over again and Scamper never really ends because you can only move on when you get it right and you'll never get it right because you suck?

A: Remember the part where Keith let the groundhog drive his car? That was awesome.

Q: Why do you think Pepa of Salt N' Pepa got that ridiculous-looking nose job? It's not like we didn't just see her a few months ago on The Surreal Life Fame Games with her real nose. What - we're not going to notice?

A: Agreed. Pepa looked a lot better with her original nose.

Q: February is a long way away. Will you advertise and send us constant, annoying reminders that the show is coming up?

A: Nope. This is the last we're going to mention it.

Okay, here's the deal:

Hope everyone had a happy and safe holiday except the cast of that Tila Tequila show. Folks, they're not even trying to make reality TV seem real anymore. If you haven't seen it, this shows pits slutty guys and girls against each other, competing for the love of (what I assume is) a bisexual Asian porn star. Now normally, this concept would be right up my alley. But the execution is just so completely fake and ridiculous that it's not even fun anymore. And I've been saying it for a while now, but this show makes the death knell truly ring: girls making out with each other has officially become boooooo-ring.

Speaking of television, I spent a great many hours this holiday with my belly full of apple pie and my eyes glued to VH1. I got hooked into the 4-hour Martin Scorsese documentary on Bob Dylan. Great stuff if you haven't seen it. Of course, the most amazing footage comes from when Dylan "went electric" and nearly got booed off the stage every night by his own fans. People felt so proprietary about the image they thrust upon him as a generational spokesman that their imaginations couldn't allow them to let him change musically at all. People were yelling "Judas!" at him. Craziness.

The weirdest part about it is that his electric stuff with the musicians that later became The Band is sooooooooooooo good. By far my favorite era of his career. And these chumps had the privelege of seeing him in concert during that time and couldn't even appreciate it because of their own hangups. It's like people who are so mad at Barry Bonds for soiling the game of baseball. If I were Bonds, I'd answer every fan criticism with "Look, I'm sorry your dad didn't play catch with you, okay?"

I'd love to talk to one of the fans that booed Dylan now. I wonder if they watch that movie and think, "Wow, I was a giant asshole." Or maybe they stick by their guns, asserting that Dylan with The Band wasn't completely fucking awesome. If anyone within the scope of my meager internet shout knows someone who booed Bob Dylan in the 60's, have them drop me a line. I'm incredibly curious how they feel after history has essentially proven how much electric Dylan kicked the ass of pussy acoustic Dylan.

Speaking of The Band, we're hammering out the last few details and we should have an announcement about Scamper's last waltz this week. I'd be lying if I said I'm not secretly hoping some serious Scamper fan yells "Judas!" at Keith. Hee hee.

If you want something to do tonight besides have an impromptu high school reunion at the local TGI Friday's bar with guys you hated named Nudge (an actual person), check out The Rationales this evening at the Abbey Lounge.

Not only will you avoid seeing how fat/bald everyone got, but you'll also get a preview of what you have in store for you on December 11 with the debut of the Brendan Boogie Band. We're sharing the bill with The Rationales, you see.

Have a safe holiday, everyone. When we return, we will likely have some news about the big Scamper finale show.

PS - I know it's weird that I'm doing all this linking to the site that you're probably on, but remember - I'm double posting now. Get used to it, hoss.

Today, I am a doubly posting son of a beehive. From here on out, I'm going to be posting these journals not only on the Scamper site, but also on the MySpace of my new band, the Brendan Boogie Band.

Now, I'm aware that this might be confusing to some of my slower readers like Susie. "Wait - how can he be two places at once? I'm baffled and frightened!" It's a very simple explanation, kids. Clearly, there's a rift in the space-time continuum and a horny gay wizard gave me a portal key allowing me to "leap" through the fabric of existence itself. See? No need to be scared. Oh, and I have to wear a catheter while posting to the other blog. But I don't want to bog you down with details of that one.

So Scamper people, meet MySpace people. I'm sure you'll all get along famously.

This weekend, my good friend Trashy Trixie decided to host a "Sitcom Thanksgiving" in which she invited a bunch of her friends to her new place for delicious turkey, succulent fixings, and guaranteed hijinx. Not to do anything halfway, 12-Gauge decided that there was one thing essential to every sitcom Thanksgiving: a laugh track.

In his typical obsessive manner, 12-Gauge spent hours seeking out the perfect laugh and applause mp3 clips. When he found just the right tone, we practiced my wacky neighbor entrance a few times:

Brendan (entering): Did somebody say turkey? (applause) Wait - who brought the dog? (laughter)

It was perfect.

When we got to the house, Trixie and the other guests were understandably perplexed as to why we arrived lugging not only the promised key lime pie, but also a laptop with bulky sound system. We were mum as to our intentions. As was our plan, I left the house to make a beer run, giving 12-Gauge enough time to set up the audio for my entrance. Or so I thought...

I returned from the packie and burst into the kitchen. "Did somebody say turkey?"

Silence. Everyone's faces betrayed confused expressions, except for 12-Gauge's. He was punching on the laptop, downright panicky. I tried again, "Wait - who brought the dog?"

Nothing. It was, in a word, awkward. I was just left out there to wilt in the studio light glare like so much sub-par Schneider.

Luckily, 12-Gauge got the applause track working for all the other guests' entrances. They all got the Fonzie treatment while I was left to realize my character clearly wasn't popular enough to make it to the second season. Midway through the dinner, I was sadly replaced at the table by a black sass-talking toddler.

It came to me in a dream last night.

Been looking for some funny go-to thing to yell at bands to try to make them laugh/get the audience to pay attention to you? "Freebird!" and "More cowbell!" just aren't cutting it anymore? What's more, they make you look like an unoriginal tool? No worries - I've got your hook-up.

Last night, I had a dream in which Scamper was playing a show except instead of Keith it was Neil Patrick Harris. As we were struggling to think of what to play next, a lone voice arose from the audience with a gift - the absolutely perfect works-every-time thing to yell during a quiet moment at a show:

"Play Kokomo!"

Right? How could you not laugh when that happens? As a bonus, you get your initial laugh and then you get your second wave ripple laugh when everyone's mind immediately jumps to the iconic image of John Stamos on drums.

And the best part is - it's funny no matter what kind of band is playing! A heavy metal band would think it was funny to play Kokomo, but then again so would an indie pop band. Hell, I bet it would even be funny to yell at a classic rock cover band. I mean - no one would actually play Kokomo, with the possible exception of the Beach Boys and maybe Scamper.

Let's make this happen, friends. Start yelling "Play Kokomo!" at shows. I know for a fact that our buddies Baker and Harris have (competing) cool rock and roll shows tomorrow night. If I don't get reports back on Monday from both Conan and Mike that someone fucked up their set by yelling "Play Kokomo!", I will consider myself a personal failure and probably punch myself in the bread basket or something.

Let's do it, team!

The latest goof from the Catholic Church: Cardinal O'Malley says that the Democrats' support of pro-choice candidates "borders on scandal."

Really? You're making statements on behalf of the Catholic Church and you're using the word "scandal"? I'd have to say that startling lack of PR acumen from a high ranking organization official "borders on retarded."

In other news, C.C. Sabathia wins the Cy Young? Really? I mean, I know you can't count the playoffs and his numbers were slightly better than Beckett's. But come on - Sabathia has already won the Greater Cleveland Area Sweet Potato Pie Eating crown three years running. Hasn't he won enough accolades? Let's give it to poor Josh Beckett. He hasn't accomplished anything important in a few weeks.

Amidst all this success, I find myself morphing into the gigantic asshole sports fan I've always wanted to be. I guess I used to revel in being the underdog. But I've got to say - I'm enjoying being a bully a WHOLE lot more.

Pats are running the table! Sign A-Rod and Lowell! The Celtics are back! Tom Brady's way better looking than you! I'm the best! Muah ha ha ha!

Last night, I had the absolute pleasure of stopping by Q Division recording studio to add a few of my infamous castrati high notes to the recording of the new Rationales record. A few items:

- The songs are fucking dope. You're going love them.

- As I was laying down a few sweet "oohs" and "aahs" into the mic, producer Ed V. spoke into my headphones, asking "Do you think you could you gay those up a little bit?" My answer: "Uhh... I'm in Scamper." I'm your go-to guy for gay.

- As I was singing, I realized something was missing from the recording experience. After a while, I realized what it was: verbal abuse. Ed was being way too nice. I'm used to the adrenaline kick of Scamper producer Tom Polce yelling things like "Are you even trying to sing the right note?" in my ears. I asked Ed to be a little meaner to me, but he just didn't have it in him.

- You'll be able to hear some of The Rationales' kick-ass tunes live on December 11 at the Bulfinch Yacht Club in Boston... along with the debut of the Brendan Boogie Band. Fa!

An amusing quote from the long weekend - Madden and I walked into a barbecue restaurant to hear the waiter give his canned spiel: "This is the condiment bar with six different kinds of barbecue sauce."

Without missing a beat, Madden got this pout on his face and said, "Awww... I wanted seven." Funny.

Speaking of funny, I was flipping through my ol' television and saw a bit of the Kennedy Center presenting some award to Billy Crystal. I assumed it must have been for his charity work or something, but no - it was for decades of being "funny."

I have a question - how much money would you pay to punch Billy Crystal in the face as hard as you could? I think my asking price would be $65.

Stomach flu update: I got cocky yesterday and had three slices of pizza. I knew it was risky, but in all fairness to me - it was free pizza. Mistake. Set me back a day or two. The true test will come this weekend when I try to put alcohol back in my system to celebrate that Nate is in a different time zone than me.

That's all I've got for you today. Cut me some slack - I'm still in a weakened state. Have a nice long weekend, all.

Food poisoning update: I'm back on solid foods, everyone! Hip hip! It's a wonderful day in the Brendohood indeed. I still need my nappy changed, though.

Speaking of diapers, don't forget to visit Joe over at Beards for Babies, America's favorite beard growing/charity combo. The first week has already produced an absolutely display of facial hair and it's only fixin' to get better. A pledge to Beards for Babies is worth it for Joe's weekly newsletter alone.

And while you're going places and doing things, be sure add my new solo project as your friend on MySpace. There's really nothing in it for you or the babies.

The comments feature on the ol' blog has been a little wonky the last few days. Maybe I inadvertently infected it with my stomach flu. I knew I shouldn't have had unprotected sex with my computer. We just got caught up in the moment.

During my morning commute today, I was stuck behind a BMW SUV for about 45 minutes with a license plate that read "CHPQDK." Either the driver's name was "Chip Q. Dick" (which would be an excellent gay porn name, by the way) or he was referring to Chappaquiddick Island in Martha's Vineyard.

Now, this possibility opens up two entirely new possibilities. The most basic and obvious explanation is that the guy is from Chappaquiddick and is proud of his hometown. But what if he is a hardcore Republican and hates Senator Ted Kennedy so much that he chose to remind the world of the Chappaquiddick incident through the universal medium of vanity license plates?

I can just imagine the guy going into the DMV all pissed off at the Democrats, yelling at the clerk "What do mean you don't have 'WHTWTR' or 'LWNSKY'? Fine! I'll go after Kennedy then. I'll show them!"

Just as a sidenote - our own Mike Mirabella's license plate reads "BLZ LVR." The weird thing - he didn't ask for a vanity plate. That was the combination randomly assigned to him. Odd.

Thanks to all who called and texted me with concerns for my safety while I was in the Dominican Republic. Apparently, hurricanes can be quite localized. While one side of the island was being absolutely obliterated, we were all lounging in the pool drinking many many mai tais, blissfully unaware of a damn thing. Not a drop of rain the entire weekend.

This is not to say the weekend didn't have its share of disasters, namely a still-lingering case of food poisoning for your boy just as he was ready for a 12 hour travel day. I yuked in cabs and airport bathrooms across three major cities in two countries. The coup de gross was when we were lining up to finally exit the airplane (after three hours of living hell for yours truly) and I was forced to dry heave my lack of lunch into a bag standing amongst the other passengers, no one able to move. A true nightmare come true.

Besides that, the rest of the trip was a blast. Vinny made an honest woman out of KFunk (hereby known as Mrs. Shit on the Face). And yes, for those of you doing some wagering, a manly tear or two did escape my ducts as I gave my toast.

So what did I miss?