Cat Scratch Fever - Catch It!

I was huffing Ted Nugent's beard today when it occurred to me that I forgot to remind you all that we'll be playing at Dada tonight. The follicular essence of The Nuge is a powerful thing, useful for curing short term memory loss as well as encouraging pinky toenail growth, and has even helped me quit huffing more dangerous substances, like Greg Evigan's beard, Ted Lange's mustache, and Joel Higgins's graying sideburns. I'm a brand new me - and I'm lovin' it!

If you haven't been to a TFH Thursday Dada show before, you're missing something special. This is when we try new stuff and start fist-fighting each other during the set. Last time I even managed to clunk Aaron's and Jon's heads together and tap dance to the tune of John Parr's "Naughty, Naughty" on their asses while they begged for mercy. I settled for making them both tell me that I looked like I'd recently lost weight.

Show starts at 10:30 or 11:00. No cover for Nuge Luvahs!

Magismo

I Want to Be A Tilton

Okay, stay with me here. Who the hell really wants to be a Hilton? If being a Hilton means having to broadcast your sexual escapades on the internet, getting a tattoo of Nick Carter's name on your completely flat ass, putting high heels on your freakish chihuahua, and having a lobotomy, then no thank you. I'll pass on being a Hilton.

Why don't they make a reality show about Charlene Tilton? I know what all you under 25's are thinking, "Who is this Charlene Tilton? Why am I so intrigued? And where did you buy that eyeshadow?" Well the answers go like this: Charlene was the "It" Girl on the super-80's oil drama "Dallas". She later went on the be the spokesperson for The Abdominizer. And I got this eyeshadow at Sephora (which is code for Walgreens).

And you're intrigued because Charlene Tilton shrouds herself in mystery, unlike somebody else who flashes her balloon knot every time she walks the red carpet.

Balloon knot.

Maggie

This One Is Almost Too Easy

Far be it from me to withhold important information from you people, so here's a tasty treat fer ya: Avril Lavigne is now engaged to Derek Whibley from Sum 41.

Now I could make a joke about how they're probably registering for Nightmare Before Christmas wedding china at Hot Topic as we speak, but I think that's a little beneath me, personally. I could also say that now is the time for Canada to impose mandatory neutering laws, but that is also beneath me. And I could even say that the last time I saw a pair of mouths like those they had a hook in them, but sadly, even that is beneath me.

It's not always easy to take the moral high ground, believe you me. Me you. You me.

Maggie

Cold-Hearted Fungus

When The Freakin' Hott is not out partying with the original members of .38 Special or giving home perms to Sheena Easton and Gerardo, we often like to read up on other states' politics. Now there are a lot of state issues out there that need to be addressed: low-cost healthcare for children, feeding the homeless, fighting crime, along with a host of other very serious problems that need to be addressed by the respective state legislative branches.

I'll tell you what really chaps our cheeks, though. Nail salons.

Nobody likes a fungus - despite the rumors you may have heard to the contrary. Thank God all of the fungus-fighters have pulled together to march on the California State Senate, with Paula Abdul at the proverbial helm of their plight.

We're not kidding.

Paula Abdul is taking on the state senate to pass a bill that would create state standards of cleanliness for nail salons throughout California. Not a bad idea, but I think there's approximately 87,589,465,965.4869 issues that might require more immediate attention. Here's a snippet from her testimony:

"What I saw fly out of my thumb was a green and yellow thick substance that smelt foul...I was publicly humiliated."

Wait, nevermind, I think she was just talking about her ill-fated marriage to Emilio Estevez.

Show this Thursday at Dada. Mark your Blackberry, you manicured bitch.

Ugh,
Maggie

I Want Charles in Charge of Me

You ever find yourself peeping through Scott Baio's windows, and then Rockwell's "Somebody's Watching Me" comes on your Ipod, then your nightvision goggles unfog just as Scotty Boy steps out of the shower, and the world just seems like a perfect place?

That's the kind of weekend we had.

I never use the words "props", mostly because it's a stupid word, but I must give "props" to The Sloppy High-Fives for putting on the best punk show I've seen in quite a while at Gumwrapper's this past Friday. Truly friggin' great. We're gonna start playing some shows with them whether they like it or not.

The Popscene Anniversary party was amazing - everyone sounded great and we had a blast. It was great to see so many old friends and see so many new faces.

I would also like to thank the Academy, Sidney Poiter for standing by me through the hard times, and praise be to God.

You know I can't go on for that long without being a jackass.

Maggie

Scenester Is Not a Four-Letter Word

In case you live in cageless prison of your own angst and self-pity, you should know that the Popscene 2nd Anniversary Party is happening tomorrow night at Dada in Delray Beach. You should also know that seeing four bands for free, including your favorite teen sensations The Freakin' Hott, is about the best deal going. If we could only convince Sean to do a free buffet, we might actually get you to leave T's Lounge for once, you pig.

Now this dance ain't for everyone. Only the sexy people. So all you fly muthas, get out there and dance.

Dance, I said.

Maggie

TV - It's Not Just for Transvestites Anymore!

Go ahead - say it. Say that you don't watch television. Ye who has a video/DVD collection that could fill the Library of Congress. Whether you like it or not, those count. Unless they're all "educational" films.

I am personally offended that you think so little of television, when I think of all the joy and important lessons that television has brought to us over the years. Okay, maybe not US. Me. Who cares about you?

I've learned that if you really dig a chick named Consuelo, that having Menudo at your birthday party is about the worst thing you can do to impress her. She'll end up being passed around that group like a pair of 28-inch-waist Jordache jeans and you'll be left to mop up their DNA once they hop on the next plane to San Juan, buckaroo.

I've learned that if you take a gunshot in the face, you can be re-made into David Hasselhoff. I wonder if that's a requirement?

I've learned that you can have two dads - and neither of them have to be gay. Well...maybe they did give into their latent tendencies one night over a bottle of white zinfandel and make sweet love on top of a couch that was shaped like the front end of a Chevy Bel-Air. Does it make them gay if they kept their eyes closed the whole time and imagined they were actually getting it on with Markie Post? This is all conjecture of course...I'm sure. Mmm-hmm.

I've learned that if you win two tickets from a radio station to see The Beach Boys in concert and can't decide which family member to bring with you, The Beach Boys will come to your house in a limousine and take your entire family to the show - and even let you come onstage and sing "Kokomo" with them while your uncle plays the conga drums. It's true!

But most importantly, I've learned that it takes different strokes to rule the world.

So you don't think television has ever had anything to offer? Poppycock! You just need to climb down off your foreign-film-horse, cowboy.

Maggie

Friends! Countrymen!

Here is a list of words/terms that must be retired from the English language immediately, as well as my reasons for nominating them:

"Don't go there" - Come on. Ricki Lake is cancelled. Just let it go.

"Brainfart" - You're not funny. At all. So stop laughing when you say it.

"Happy Camper" - Seriously? There are kids that have graduated college that weren't even born yet when that one started.

"Milk Pillows" - Give me a reason, Zwickel. Just one.

"Pinky Salute" - I will no longer eat at McDonald's because I hate their commercials so much. Even if I'm not hungry at all, I'll go to Burger King and order stuff and feed it to the pigeons just to spite McDonald's.

"High Five!" - This is amusing in three year olds. And no one else.

"Bump" (when used to describe a pregnant woman's belly) - All I think of when I hear that yet another celebrity is knocked up is how for the next 9 months I'm gonna have to read about their "bump". Oh - and people who say "WE'RE pregnant". Oh really? Last time I checked you didn't have a uterus, son, so I'm guessing it's your WIFE that's pregnant. The term you're looking for is "we're expecting", wonderboy.

"Moist" - Just gross.

Maggie

Where There's a Willie, There's a Way

Oh no. Don't make me regret having gotten rid of my basic cable.

Turns out Willie Aames is going to be on the upcoming season of Celebrity Fat Farm. I love it when celebrities, or former celebrities I should say, can't figure out why they've put on so much weight since their respective hey-days. Now, I'm a bettin' girl, so I'm gonna have to put all my chips on one thing, Willie.

Remember those mountains of cocaine that you used to dive head-first into, do a little backstroke across, and make snow-angels in? Did you happen to notice the weight packing on around the time you ran out of money for your $2,000 a day coke habit?

This is one of the millions of reasons I've never done cocaine. Aside from the fear of becoming one of Rick James's bitches (which I guess isn't really a threat anymore) to having to have an assistant shoot it between my toes before a concert (Hello Stevie Nicks!) to getting horribly overweight once you kick the habit (a'la Willie, CC Deville, and Courtney Love) - it's just a bad idea.

So, kids, in the immortal words of the cast of Saved By The Bell - "There's no hope with dope."

And in the words of the GI Joe public service announcements - "Now you know. And knowing is half the battle. G....I.....Jooooooooooooooe!"

Don't even start with me. It's too early.

Mags

I Hate Everything About You

I love it when you catch someone who is 21 years old saying that they waited in line overnight at the record store when Dinosaur Jr's Green Mind album came out, or some similar album and timing. I believe you were what, 7 or 8 years old when that came out? Don't even try it, bucko. If you loved MC Hammer when you were 8 years old, just come out and say it. I'll have MORE respect for you than if you just make up some crap and think I won't notice.

I'm the first one to admit my totally uncool musical preferences growing up. Cast your memory back to, say, 1990 or so. A fourteen year old Maggie was outside The Edge in Ft. Lauderdale being pulled off of one Whitfield Crane of Ugly Kid Joe by two security guards while screaming "I love you! I love you!".

And it was so totally worth it.

Maggie

Cropping Your Pants

When did girls decide that they no longer wanted to be pretty? Go out to any Saturday night establishment and you'll see a bunch of angular-faced, flat-ironed hair, muscle-bound, orange-skinned freaks in cropped pants, scary pointy shoes, and their beloved cami-tops.

I'm not saying that anyone should put on a dress - far from it. I think Joan Jett is one of the most beautiful women in the world in black leather pants and a muscle shirt. And for as tough and mean as she can look, she still looks like a woman - not a man in drag like the mojito-sushi-zombies that are walking around nowadays.

Oh, that reminds me, I hate sushi. And don't look at me like I'm crazy and ask why. IT IS RAW FISH. I should be giving YOU a crazy look. If I was supposed to be eating raw fish, I wouldn't have a spacious kitchen full of appliances that broil, bake, saute, and fry. And don't even try to pull that whole "it's healthy" thing. I equate eating raw fish to licking a public toilet seat. So, no thanks, I'll stick with my charred bacon cheeseburger. You can eat the bait.

Maggie

Peace on Earth and Goodwill to Schizophrenics

As you might imagine, I spend a great deal of time at the local Goodwill stores. There are few things that make me as happy as finding a late 50's party dress with a working metal zipper for $5.99, vintage nylon stockings still in the package from Lord & Taylor in 1962, or a t-shirt that simply says "Party Naked" circa 1984.

While my love of the classics drives me to Goodwill every weekend, I will tell you what drives me out: Nutjobs. Scads of them. Walking up and down the aisles, running up beside you as you're reaching for an item and grabbing it out of your hand only to drop it on the next aisle, asking you if you want to dance to the Lionel Richie tune that's playing on the store radio, ramming their shopping carts up your ass and then when you turn around they give you a dirty look while glaring at your hair and asking if that's your REAL haircolor, bringing an entire cart full of a thousand random items to the register and then trying to haggle over prices with the cashier and then leaving the entire cart at the register and walking out when they don't get their way. And don't even get me started on the children. Goodwill is not a playground for your demon spawn.

I wonder what it is about Goodwill that they tolerate this behavior in their stores? Can you imagine going into Nordstrom and seeing this kind of crap happening?

I'm not just here to complain this time. This time I have a solution. Get rid of the shopping carts. I think the masses think that the rules are different in a store if you're provided with a shopping cart. It turns any nice little establishment into a Sodom and Gamorrah for the mentally unstable. Think about the grocery store - wall-to-wall freakshow. Wal-Mart? Hello Haldol!

If I had any kind of drive or ambition, I would start a petition drive or just start stealing the damn carts, but as it is, I have a previous engagement scheduled with these cuticles and chipped nails. I'm not a monster, for crying out loud.

No shows until next Saturday for the Popscene Two Year Anniversary shindig at Dada, but I'm sure I'll find something else to be angry about, so you'll hear from me before then. In the meantime, make it count.

Maggie

Who Are You?

Check out the TGIF section of the Palm Beach Post today. We've got a great writeup from music writer Bill Meredith. Here's a snippet:

"...the Freakin' Hott exploded with the unbridled energy of The Who's Live at Leeds album."

Hogwash! We sound way more like Yanni Live at the Acropolis.

Seriously though, thanks so much, Bill. And you can check out the rest of the article online at www.palmbeachpost.com. Go to the entertainment section and click on "music". Bill's column listing is on the bottom left. There's also a nice writeup of our show at the Sound Advice Amphitheater under Jonathan Tully's music blog on the Palm Beach Post site as well.

Also, the photo shown in the hard copy of the article was taken by the incomparable, often unwashed, Brent Indeed. Show him some love...digitally.

See you tonight!
Mags

Too Coulier for School

I was recently feeling as though I needed to be punished, so I decided to read an interview with Alanis Morissette. She discussed many things that bored the crap out of me, but one thing did catch my attention.

Although she is currently engaged (or acting as a beard for) Ryan Reynolds, of the new Amityville Horror film as well as Blade Trinity, she still has some feminist reservations about being somebody's wife in this day and age. She then went on to say that she is happily in love with Reynolds, but because of the emotional damage she incurred in her prior relationships, she is wary of a committed relationship.

It seems that her first abomination, I mean, album Jagged Little Pill was inspired by her tumultuous relationship with Dave Coulier. Let me state that again. Dave Coulier. That's right. He took her heart and said "Cut...it...out." and made the corresponding hand signals Uncle-Joey-Style before he stomped on it.

I had heard rumors about this years ago, and I never believed them, but apparently Dave Coulier really is the heartbreakin' bastard referred to in "You Oughta Know". Let me state that once again for those of you who might have missed it. Dave Coulier. Heartbreakin' bastard son of a bitch Dave Coulier.

And guess what? Since her album sales since Jagged Little Pill have gone down faster than she used to on Dave in a theater, she's in the process of re-recording the entire album as an all acoustic dealie-job. So now she has to re-live all of those painful, horrible memories of getting dicked over by that sly, sexy bad-ass gigolo-mofo, Dave Coulier. That's right. Dave Coulier.

Every now and then I feel sorry for myself because I have no money, or hate my day-job, etc., but at least I can say I never got the screws put to me by Uncle Joey. And there's nothing you, or anyone else on this planet (besides Dave Coulier) can do to change that, so you can just put that inside your Full House camera crew bomber jacket and zip it.

And if Dave Coulier wanted a VIP pass to our show at Alligator Alley this Friday, he'd be the second on the list...AFTER Bob Saget.

Maggie

Rock Concert Pants

Shall we do the safety dance around the subject?

Just because they're leather pants doesn't mean they're rock 'n roll. It they were purchased at Foxmoor or County Seat in 1987, it's pretty safe to say they're no longer cool. It's also safe to say that if you're over the age of 50 and have a sack-ass, you should not be wearing leather pants of any kind. And it's even safer to say that if you require a vat of Crisco and four midgets with shoehorns to get into leather pants, you should not be wearing...wait for it...leather pants.

On an unrelated note, we'll be playing this Friday at Alligator Alley in Ft. Lauderdale with Psycho Daisies and Mr. Entertainment, but you'll hear more about that as the week drags by.

Monday can eat it.

Mags

Live Strong!

So, the show with The Black Crowes and Tom Petty went amazingly well. Thanks so much to everyone who made it possible, and to all those who attended the show. It was a great night!

However, I couldn't help but notice that the majority of the crowd, like any other crowd these days, were wearing those Lance Armstrong LIVESTRONG yellow bracelets. What amazes me most, besides millions of Americans feeling that cancer of the ballies is the biggest health threat in this day and age, is that the marketing has ended at bracelets...so far. To me, if you want to save more ballies, then you should start churning out LIVESTRONG headbands, belts, radial tires, condoms, timing belts for your car, pretty much anything that can be made of rubbery stuff. How about a LIVESTRONG fetish party?

Oh, I'm onto something here.

And don't think for a minute that I don't know that the main reason you're wearing that bracelet is because you saw P.Diddy and Carson Daly wearing them.

Don't even get me started on Carson Daly. I don't have all day. I'll just say that he's probably the biggest source in gonorrhea in Hollywood today, besides Leif Garrett.

Hustler and Bustle

You would be amazed at the amount of preparation that has already gone into tomorrow night's show. First, I had to lay out my truckload of makeup and pick out coordinating eyeshadow, lipstick, blush, eyeliner, mascara, essence of Bengal Tiger pancreas (for those pesky undereye circles), and, of course, my vial of evaporated and condensed sweat from Donny Osmond (for that fresh-faced fashion magazine peaches 'n cream look). After that daunting task, I had to find a dress that would make my ass look smaller, my boobahs look bigger, my legs look longer, my ankles look tapered, my posture look better, that would complement my haircolor, eyecolor, skin tone, groovy state of mind, general feelings about the war on terror, my love for the classics, and my anger at Suzanne Somers for leaving Three's Company.

After all that, I don't think we really have time to practice.

Well, at least I got the important stuff done.

See you at the show, muthas!

Maggie

Get Busy

Happy Birthday, Mr. White! I hope your journey into the golden years of your life are enjoyable and bladder-problem-free.

Have a shot of Metamucil for me.

Mags

Lessons Learned by Bronson Pinchot

You have to love it when you've got something along the lines of a huge zit on your nose, a bad haircut, or a giant tomato bisque stain on the front of your white shirt - because that's when you find the genius in the crowd. You know, the one who walks up to you and says, "Do you know you have a huge zit on your nose?" or "Wow - did you cut your own hair this time? It looks really bad!", etc. You also know that every time this happens, you take the high road by NOT asking said genius if they knew that they were an idiot. Well those days are over.

The Flamingo Kid has taught me many lessons over the years, but the best lesson of all was between Bronson Pinchot's character and a pleasantly gap-toothed girl he was fixed up with on a blind date. Bronson says, "Do you know you have a really big space between your teeth?" and the girl responds, "Do you know you have a big f'in nose?".

Touche'.

So I feel it's only fair to warn you that, after the empowerment this memory provided me, it's now open season on all of you "Do you know that you...?" people. If you feel compelled to ask me if I'm aware that I:

1. Look like I'm retaining water.
2. Would look way better with my natural blonde hair.
3. Would look fabulous with huge fake boobies.
4. Have dark circles under my eyes.
5. Need to do some sit-ups.

I will find every single flaw that you have and stuff it down your throat until you beg for mercy.

Don't forget - The Freakin' Hott - this Wednesday at the Sound Advice Amphitheater with The Black Crowes and Tom Petty. Now if Tom wants to tell me that my face looks a little shiny, I'll take it and keep my trap shut. If you're not Tom, you better check yo'self.

Magsie

Full Moon Fever

Hey kids - we'll be playing The Sound Advice Amphitheater in West Palm Beach next Wednesday, June 8th, opening for The Black Crowes and Tom Petty.

Get your tickets at www.ticketmaster.com.

Once again, we're not kidding.

Mags

Line 'Em Up!

Okay, "cami-top", you're going out to the wood shed.

You know what I'm talking about. Those silky, lacy nightgown-looking blouses that the young and the vapid are all wearing over jeans on any given Saturday night. I generally disagree with trying to "dress up" jeans to begin with, mostly because they're friggin' jeans and if you were supposed to be dressed up for something, then you shouldn't be wearing jeans in the first place. The appeal of the cami-top, from what I understand, is that it's "naughty" because it looks like you're in your nightie.

It's not naughty because it looks like a nightie. It's naughty because you're a skank. You could be wearing a Linen Supermarket smock and achieve the same results. Skank. Skankety skank.

Maggie

Enuff Z'Nuff

Don't forget - we'll be at The Bamboo Room in Lake Worth tonight to do an acoustic-duo set as part of the Anti-Folk All-Stars extravaganza. Tickets are still available at The Bamboo Room box office, or through us, but they're going fast.

Now on to business.

I don't get it with some of you women and the air fresheners. I'm assuming this is the thought process:

"Hmm. It's a little stuffy in here. I know - I'll plug in two air fresheners, light five scented candles, put six of those battery-powered air freshener fans on the coffee table, put out a punchbowl of flaming potpourri, light 85 sticks of incense, and spray half a can of flowery/fruity crap all over the place and that will help with the "stuffiness"."

So now you're left with a room that smells like it must have smelled like a toilet to have warranted all of that faux-fruity/flowery chemical crap, which leaves me thinking that you don't know how to clean your house/office/car/brothel properly, so you masquerade your filth with perfumes. Don't hide your filth - either revel in it, or clean it up. Why, I myself am a proud reveler, and look at the heights I've reached! Why just a few minutes ago I was informed that I'm a damn fine secretary. I contemplated suicide for just a moment after that, but it's all good now.

I'm reminded of the 8 x 10 glossy of Chad Allen that he sent to me when I was 11 after I wrote him a letter telling him how dreamy he was on "Our House". It merely said, "Reach for the Stars!". Oh Chad. Eat a wiener.

Maggie