Imagine my surprise to see a message pop up from Nikki Sixx on my Instagram a couple months ago.
Nikki Sixx? Messaging ME? How could this be?
I had recently name-checked Motley Crue in a blog post, and the very stupid part of me that wants to believe these kinds of things can actually happen got really excited for approximately three seconds. Logically the whole thing made no sense, but that lizard part of my brain hissed, “What if it’s really him???” and then my pupils bloomed black to the edges of my eyes as my cold, steely heart grew to ten times its size.
What if Nikki Sixx wants to be my friend?? What if he wants to invite us to pool parties and doesn’t hassle me about leaving my cover-up tied around my waist because no matter what you do or how much you diet and exercise, you will never, ever, ever, for as long as you live, fight off cellulite past the age of 40? What if he’ll let me and Bobby throw tennis balls into the pool for his dogs?!
What if he and I write a song together and after we finish recording it he gives me one of those handshakes that morphs into a hug and calls me “Little Sister” and then I don’t die right there?
Then what if Nikki Sixx writes a book about our unique friendship, and in the dedication it reads, “Her pupils bloomed black to the edges of her eyes as her cold, steely heart grew to ten times its size. Love you, Little Sister. I am talking about Maggie just so we’re all on the same page. Here’s a picture of me and her standing together so that you know this is all true and stuff. She didn’t just make this all up if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I have an inkling that Nikki Sixx probably has better things to do than message me to say hello, but that’s really just a working theory at this point. Maybe he’s always really wanted to message me but was too intimidated by my “wata-mala-ness”, my “natural heat”, as described by Hank Azaria in The Birdcage. Maybe that particular day he threw my wata-mala-ness to the wind and finally worked up the courage to do it.
Of course it would turn out that it wasn’t actually Nikki Sixx, because Nikki Sixx is a very busy famous person and a musical genius and I am neither of those things, and also because the world is apparently just a swirling blue deathball of perpetual pain spinning into the vacuum of nothingness or whatever.
I decided that in lieu of this person actually being Nikki Sixx, I would get my jollies, as they were, by fully screwing around with this Nikki Sixx impersonator. It was the very least he deserved for making my pupils bloom black to the edges of my eyes and making my cold steely heart grow to ten times its size, only to have it all end up being a torturous scam, the likes from which I will never recover. Just thinking about the whole thing is making me need to go lie down and then eat too much pizza and then lie down again.
I responded to Fake Nikki Sixx by responding the way I would to any message from a stranger: By taking pot-shots at the keyboard player from Bon Jovi.
He sent a reply that made perfect sense, were he either a Russian troll who was raised by Johnny Five from the movie Short Circuit, or actual Johnny Five.
Johnny Five? Nikki Sixx? You add those two together and you get ELEVEN. See that?
There is absolutely no way this can be a coincidence, except that eleven doesn’t tie into anything I can think of at the moment besides Stranger Things. And we’re not talking about Stranger Things, are we? No, we’re not. We’re talking about Nikki Sixx. Good lord, try to stay on topic!
Here was his response:
Is that you, Nikki? Nikki???
I then decided to test his Nikki Sixx knowledge by referencing an incident in rock ‘n roll history that never happened.
As you will see in the next screenshot below, Fake Nikki Sixx failed the test by not even acknowledging this mockery I made of rock ‘n roll history. Real Nikki Sixx would be like, “Bitch, you crazy.” To be fair, though, I can’t imagine after all these decades in Motley Crue that Nikki Sixx remembers every single thing that ever happened. Except that he’s a genius and you know that he does.
Instead of responding to my Gene Simmons thing, Fake Nikki Sixx deflected and crossed a weird line, wanting to know this:
Hmm. I’m pretty sure that most women don’t go giving out their addresses to total strangers on the internet since that “To Catch A Predator” series wrapped up and all. There was no way I was going to disclose that information – unless it were to actual Nikki Sixx – in which case I would have sent him GPS coordinates to my house and told him where he could land a private helicopter nearby. My apartment complex does have a pool, and so long as he didn’t hassle me about leaving on my cover-up until the sun went down, I would totally let him use my pool. I’d even offer him my last Coconut La Croix.
No, I wouldn’t. But I’d give him the last Lime La Croix.
I responded to Fake Nikki Sixx’s question the only way I knew how: By invoking dialogue from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure.
AND THEN HE GHOSTED ME. What the heck kind of bag of crap is THAT? Looks like he couldn’t handle my wata-mala-ness, either! I cancelled my membership in the Fake Nikki Sixx Fan Club immediately. The nerve!
I think the only thing that will make me feel better at this point is if everything in the beginning part of this post really happens, so thanks in advance for messaging me, actual Nikki Sixx. Let’s get to work on that song. I have a lyric for it about pupils or something.