The Loyal Ride or Die

“If anyone messes with TinaTina, I won’t fight them. I’ll ruin their weekend.” - Carrie, 1982

Carrie Stevens blew into my life like a spark off a lighter—blonde hair slashed with red streaks, half-teased, half-slept-in, and a laugh that could cut through the loudest club on the Strip. She was about 5’8” in boots she never took off, and dressed like trouble and moved like she owned the night.

Vibe: messy angel, accidental icon, smudged liner, cherry lips, a leather jacket borrowed from a guy she hasn’t decided to dump yet, and her energy...insane!

We met at a Mickey Rat party in San Diego in our teens. The kind of party where the music bled through the walls, and nobody asked your last name. Carrie was already barefoot by midnight, beer in one hand, eyeliner smudged like war paint. She spotted me across the room, locked eyes, and smiled like we’d known each other forever. That was Carrie—instant friends, zero fear.

She partied hard. No inhibitions. No brakes. Carrie danced on tables, flirted with danger, and laughed at the rules. But here’s the thing—when it mattered, she was solid as steel. If TinaTina disappeared into the chaos, Carrie was the one who noticed. If someone crossed a line, Carrie stepped in. If the night turned dark, she was the flashlight.

She had a sixth sense for bullshit and a fierce loyalty that didn’t waver. Carrie could out-drink, out-dance, and out-last almost anyone—but she never left a friend behind. She was the kind of girl who would hype you up in the bathroom mirror, fix your lipstick with shaking hands, and then walk you straight back into the fire like, We’ve got this.

Carrie Stevens wasn’t just part of the scene—she was part of the survival kit.
Wild, fearless, and always—always—on TinaTina’s side.