Another Musical Confession

Whenever I hear the name "Stevie Nicks," I think of Nancy Spungeon in the movie "Sid and Nancy," running down the street in her underwear and a long silky robe flapping in the wind. She stops suddenly, looks down at herself, and says, disgustedly, "I look like fucking Stevie Nicks," on account of the floaty silky robe thing.

And then, second memory: third or fourth grade. Every day after school Kelly and I would go to Paige's house and listen to Fleetwood Mac's Rumours on Paige's record player. We learned all the words. We made up dorky interpretive dances. We had no frackin idea what the hell any of those songs were about. But we loved Rumours. You could probably get me to sing the whole album (poorly, but accurately) if you hypnotized me.

Stevie Nicks is a little bit cheesy, and seems like kind of an airy-fairy lunatic. Which makes her exactly the kind of diva I have to dig. I mean, where does she get those platform boots any more? Who makes them for her? I want to know.

I also have a serious dilemma: should I spend $150 to go see her perform at the Hard Rock in Biloxi in June? Should I spend $200 so I can, you know, actually see her without binoculars at the Hard Rock in Biloxi in June? Do I even have that kind of money? Not really. Plus I'd need to stay overnight because, dude, I'm NOT going to that shit sober, so I'll need a hotel room, you betcha.



Look, I realize it's a nine-minute video, but it's got giant platform boot/legwarmer things and high kicks and what I'm pretty sure is a pyramid-power necklace and people giving her flowers and stuffed animals and paintings and A SHINY WHITE CAPE WITH FRINGE. You can't possibly be doing anything more important for the next nine minutes.

So: Who's in?