I like to think of myself as a reasonably rational person, not prone to hysterics. I also like to think I’m Tori Amos or a veiled wood nymph at times, but neither persona would have saved me from myself last night as I drove my car alone in the dark.
The only thing I have in common with Stevie Nicks at this stage of my life, beyond an artistic appreciation for scarved tambourines, is the gradual facial Landslide we’ve both been on since Rumours came out in ‘77. But having procrastinated over finding a costume to wear to a Halloween party last Saturday night, I did a last minute rifling through our closet, past the Earth Wind and Fire selection of tie-dyed apparel (Andrew’s side … natch), and found this feathered hat, bell-sleeved top and black velvet cape that confirmed the fact that our closet really should belong to the wardrobe mistress of a glam-rock reunion tour. Read more
Growing up in an all girl, artsy-fartsy household, the only contact sport I was ever thrust into as a kid was the physically demanding My-Sister-Has-Me-Pinned-To-The-Floor-And-Is-Dangling-Gob-Strings-Over-My-Face-While-I-Thrash-Frantically-For-Fear-Of-One-Landing-In-My-Mouth game. Not the road to Olympic glory let me tell you. Read more