Stevie Nicks is, apparently, to women, as John Wayne is to men: unbelievably impossible to imitate, but we'll be damned to hell if that's going to stop us. Her gypsy trance has reached such a height here in NY that for one night every year for the past 18, women, men, and the indeterminable descend upon Manhattan decked out in every single scrap of leather, lace, and velvet they can lay their hands on to twirl until dawn. Or until their hearts explode, whichever comes first. Old Stevies, Jersey Stevies, Enchanted Stevies, burlesque Stevies, fat Stevies, Goth Stevies, hot, young Stevies (that seemed a bit like lost lambs... and curiously as if they weren't wearing a costume at all), Rumors Stevies, Latin Stevies, bathroom attendant Stevies, I-only-came-as-an-excuse-to-wear-my-slutty-blonde-wig Stevies, tranny Stevies, and one very out of place Lyndsey Buckingham. One thing remains a constant: regardless of the incarnation, every heart was the same ...and you better believe that heart is wild.