That Time I Went to Elton John’s Oscar Party

No big whoop, right?

It’s just Sir Elton John… Singer, songwriter, pianist, actor, philanthropist, and recipient of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire by her Majesty, the Queen. He is only one of the most celebrated, influential and successful musicians of all time, with 300 million records sold, and 50 Top 40 hits (but who’s counting?)…

And his Oscar Party is only one of the most sought after and high profile parties in the film and television industry…

And I was invited.

Sort of.

Pretty much.

Okay, not really.

I had gone down to LA with two friends from work, and earlier in the week we had gone to a club where we met some interesting (read: whackadoodle) avocado farmers from Northern California that told us they could get us into Elton John’s Oscar party.

(Note: This is LA in a nutshell. Anything can happen at any time. You can sit next to Goldie Hawn at Le Pain Quotidian, or have Judd Apatow photobomb your selfie, or have Adam Sandler show up to an open mic night. It is what makes LA strange and wonderful and exciting, and why I miss it very much.)

Long story short… We met up with the two whackadoodle avocado farmers the night of the party, but they said it was way too early to go. They said that anyone who is anyone goes late to these sorts of events. So we all went to a diner across the street and sat around for several hours, learning the ins and outs of the avocado industry.

At around 1 or 2am, one of the whackadoodle avocado farmers (and yes, it’s important to continually note their whackadoodle-ness… They wore thick, wool sweaters and their hair was dreadlocked), said that it was finally time to go to the party.

As we walked across the street, we were beyond excited, nudging each other breathlessly. We didn’t know what to expect, but surely Sir Elton John would be there?!?! And there would probably be alcoholic beverages, and possibly recognizable celebrities, and maybe even a shrimp ring?!?!

One of the whackadoodle avocado farmers nodded as we passed the security guard* perched outside on a bar stool, and I remember being very impressed by his nonchalance. We strolled into the Mondrian Hotel like we owned the place.

As I entered the hotel’s grand ballroom, I prepared myself to be welcomed into the fold of Hollywood elite…

But the party was over.

Like, way, way over.

The caterers were folding the table linens, the DJ was packing up his equipment, the few remaining guests were being poked by security, and all that remained of Elton John was his essence (note: it was still very potent).

The whackadoodle avocado farmers acted like they were surprised the party was long over, and suggested that we continue the party in their room.

We started to wonder whether they had ever even had the means to get us into Sir Elton John’s Oscar party, or if it had all been an elaborate scheme to get us up to their room. We also started to wonder if they were actually avocado farmers, or just very knowledgeable about avocados.

Some questions will forever remain unanswered, and that’s the real lesson here.


How dare you, Judd Apatow…?!        (JK, I loved it)


* It could have been a big hobo.

The Big Magic

My book, Magnus the Magnificent is a work of fiction.

It is also a work of magic.

I don’t know how this story fell out of my head and landed on the page, but it did.

About seven or eight years ago, I joined a writing group and we were tasked with writing a short story to share. There was no theme, or limitations, or genre: “Just write a story.”

As I sat at my kitchen table, tapping my pen on the pad, staring out my window at the treetops, I was daunted by the freedom. I didn’t want to show up the following Saturday without something to present (I’m a keener), so I sat and waited for inspiration to strike.

Full disclosure: Sometimes inspiration strikes, and sometimes I spend two hours shopping on Amazon.

I sipped my coffee (there’s always coffee) and let my mind wander. And then, suddenly, my imagination opened up, and there he was… Magnus.

I could picture him in my head – the way he walked, the way he talked, the way he interacted with strangers, and the way his hair flopped down over his eyes. Yes, Magnus was a “teller of untruths,” but he was so full of love, you couldn’t help but love him too.

That Saturday I shared the first five pages of Magnus the Magnificent.

The following year I moved to England and took a screenwriting certificate program at Oxford. It was there I began work on the screenplay of Magnus the Magnificent.

I felt very inspired while living in England. I loved donning a pair of wellington boots and taking a long stroll through the countryside, rain or shine. I loved stopping in a pub to have a pint and warm my (always damp!) feet by the fire. I loved scouring the used bookshops in Oxford and discovering hand-written messages on the first page. Most of all, I loved eavesdropping, and occasionally striking up conversations with strangers. These little moments gave life to my writing, and helped shape the story of Magnus.

In England, ideas seemed to find me wherever I went… I had to keep a notebook with me at all times because the ideas were flowing like Texas crude (in the 80s, obviously not now, as we all know that the fossil fuel industry is going the way of the dinosaur, due to global capitalism’s devastating overconsumption of our earth’s natural resources).

I digress.

I don’t understand inspiration, but I think Elizabeth Gilbert nailed it on the head in her book about creativity, titled, “Big Magic”:

“…Inspiration is still sitting there right beside me, and it is trying. Inspiration is trying to send me messages in every form it can – through dreams, through portents, through clues, through coincidences, through déjà vu, through kismet, through surprising waves of attraction and reaction, through the chills that run up my arms, through the hair that stands up on the back of my neck, through the pleasure of something new and surprising, through stubborn ideas that keep me awake all night long . . . whatever works. Inspiration is always trying to work with me.”

Magnus *almost* seemed to write itself (in truth, it was definitely me sitting at a desk for hours on end).

When I finished Magnus in 2013, I entered it into the Academy’s Nicholl Fellowship in Screenwriting Competition, and it advanced to become a Semifinalist (ahem, the top 146 scripts of 7,251 entries *cough*). It meant a lot that the Academy’s readers connected with the story. While I have a real fondness for the screenplay, I have always wanted to share Magnus with a wider audience.

So, I went back to those first five pages written seven or eight years ago, and once again, sat down and waited for inspiration to strike (and obviously spent some time on Amazon).

And here we are.

I don’t fully understand inspiration or how Magnus came to be, but I am grateful to live in a world filled with big magic.

– KM

Magnus the Magnificent is now available at (Canada), (U.S.) and (U.K.).

Please buy it! 

The Book

For the past year I have been writing a book.

Obviously, I have not been working straight through, 24 hours, 7 days a week, for the past 365 days (I have definitely taken breaks for eating, sleeping, and attending to personal needs – I shower almost every day). However, much of my time and energy has been spent thinking about, dreaming about, and agonizing over, said book.

I have turned down social invitations. I have stayed inside on sunny days. I have re-drafted nine or ten times. I have meticulously checked for spelling, punctuation and grammatical errors.

I have also thought that I was finished, submitted a version for approval, started celebrating, and then found an inverted apostrophe on page 61 (and subsequently lost my shit).

I have had this story floating around in my head for many, many years, and it meant a lot to me, so I wanted it to be perfect.

This week I came across a quote from Elizabeth Gilbert’s book Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear that put things into perspective:

“No matter how many hours you spend attempting to render something flawless, somebody will always be able to find fault with it. (There are people out there who still consider Beethoven’s symphonies a little bit too, you know, loud.) At some point, you really just have to finish your work and release it as is—if only so that you can go on to make other things with a glad and determined heart.”

I am really happy to say that I have released my book into the universe (well, released on Amazon), and I hope to go on to make other things with a glad and determined heart.

Magnus the Magnificent is a heart-warming and whimsical Christmas tale set in England in the 1950s, and it is now available on all the Amazons

Note: I would like to thank all of my readers, sincerely – from the bottom of my heart. It means a lot that you read what I write.





The Leather Pants

An old favourite… 

My parent’s house is in the middle of nowhere, 17 kilometers from the nearest town in the middle of nowhere – nowhere being a small town in Northern British Columbia with a higher than the National average cancer diagnoses for its residents, and three pulp mills to prove it.

Every Christmas, my dad puts up thousands of lights on the house: on every post, beam, eave, window frame, and around the garage door. Their electricity bill skyrockets for the month of December ($364.69 in 2008), but he thinks it’s worth it.

He’s sentimental about the holidays, and he isn’t the only one. Our entire family (dad, Stan; mom, Linda; sister, Michelle, and me, Kim) is very sentimental and it isn’t just one thing, it’s everything: the Baby J (Jesus), the Spekuloos (a Dutch cookie made with ginger and almonds), the Christmas tree (with an electrified angel on top), the music (Boney M’s ‘Mary’s Boy Child’), and the smoked turkey (regular turkeys are put to shame). It’s everything.

My sister and I always return home for the holidays, bearing gifts and revelations from the city (‘Global warming is real’ and ‘Pork is the other white meat’). My mom greets us at the door with a long hug (14-19 seconds) and a wide smile rimmed with mauve lipstick.

My dad plugs in the Christmas tree and declares, ‘Christmas time is here.’ Occasionally, (but only very occasionally) there would be ‘difficulties’ upon our return. There would be an argument or disagreement or some other ‘ment’ that would cause tension and tears.

The Christmas of 2004 was one of those.

‘O, come let us adore him.’

My sister and I sat on my mom’s bed as she pulled my dad’s Christmas present from the back of her closet. She had got him a Leatherman tool (an all-purpose tool for the very handy man) and my sister was about to wrap it, scotch tape at the ready.

‘What’s that?’ I pointed past my mom to the closet contents that were mostly beige and neutral. There was a glimmer.

‘What?’ My mom pointed at a few blouses but I shook my head.

My mom pulled a hanger from the closet, and on it hung a pair of black leather pants. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘Your dad bought them for me.’

My sister and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. ‘You can’t be serious,’ we were in unison this time. My mom unbuttoned her jeans, let them fall to the floor and reached for the hanger. She pulled the leather pants up over her calves, but they held fast at her thighs. ‘They don’t fit, mom.’

‘They do.’ My mom didn’t sound convinced. She struggled and then flopped down on the bed. She looked like a fish out of water, flipping and flopping as she pulled the leather pants up over her hips and fastened them.

‘Can you even stand?’ My sister poked my mom in the thigh. Her finger left an imprint on the leather.

‘Yes.’ My mom pulled herself over to the side of the bed, let one leg drop and forced herself upright. ‘So there.’

‘O, come let us adore him.’

We were heading out to a Christmas eve carol service at church. My dad stood at the door jingling his keys, my sister was checking her lip gloss in the hall mirror, and I was standing at my mom’s bedroom door watching her scour the closet.

‘Let’s go Linda. It’s ten to seven,’ my dad called up the stairs, knowing full well that it took 15 minutes to get to church and we would most certainly be late.

‘Just a minute,’ she replied as she pushed the clothes from side to side, the metal hangers screeching on the metal bar. She pulled several pairs of pants from the bar and threw them on the bed. ‘I can’t find them.’

‘Can’t find what?’ I said, but I knew.

‘My leather pants. They were here.’ My mom got down on her hands and knees and reached to the back of the closet.

‘Just wear something else,’ I suggested knowing that the leather pants were folded neatly in a Safeway (Canadian grocery chain) bag in my mom’s rolling suitcase, down in the basement storage room.

‘Your dad wanted me to wear them.’ My mom stood there, staring into the closet, hands on hips.

‘Linda!’ my dad called, louder this time. He meant business. He hated being late.

‘I’m looking for my leather pants.’ As my mom uttered those six to seven words (depending on whether you count I’m as two words, ‘I’ and ‘am’ or one word, ‘I’m’), she caught my gaze. ‘Where are they?’

‘What?’ I sank down the stairs and moved closer to my sister. There is strength in numbers. ‘I don’t have them.’

‘Where are they?’ My mom stood at the top of the stairs wearing a white sweater and a pair of Spanx (a body shaping undergarment). She descended the stairs slowly, pointing at my sister and I. I had never understood why pointing was rude, but right then – without any words or explanation – I knew. ‘Where are they?’

‘Gone.’ As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t. My dad’s head snapped in our direction.

‘Where are the pants?’ I had never seen my mom look this angry, ever.

‘Where are the pants?’ Dad moved toward the three of us. My sister and I were backed up against the wall, our family portrait hung just above our heads depicting the very best of times, thirteen years previous: my mom with no sag, my dad with a full head of hair, my sister with straight teeth, and me with an enthusiastic smile. All before time took it’s toll.

Dad repeated himself, ‘Where are the pants?’ I could tell he meant business.

‘We’ve hidden them,’ I said.

‘We?’ My sister jumped ship. I knew she would.

‘Where are the pants?’ My mom said as she yanked her Spanx up.

‘I’m not giving them back. They’re ridiculous, and you’re nearly sixty.’ I pushed past my sister and moved toward the kitchen. My dad looked at his watch and I saw his face flush red. He really hated being late.

‘Give the pants to your mom,’ as he said this he marched toward me. ‘Or, Christmas is cancelled!’

‘O, come let us adore him.’

We stood there for at least three full minutes. My dad staring at me, my mom inching closer, my sister listening to her voice mail.

‘Give me the pants, Kim.’ My mom put her pointer finger up in my grill and then repeated herself, as if I hadn’t heard her: ‘Give me the pants, Kim.’

My sister chimed in, ‘Give her the pants, Kim.’ I shook my head no.

My dad kicked off his shoes, walked over to the Christmas tree and began removing the ornaments.

‘What are you doing dad?’ I called, but he wasn’t listening. He unplugged the lights on the tree and pulled off the electrified angel topper. It was at this point my sister started crying.

‘Fine!’ I said, but it really wasn’t. I ran downstairs to the basement storage room, unzipped the suitcase, pulled open the Safeway bag and there they were: stiff, inky black, and smelling of the William’s Lake stampede.

I marched back up the stairs reluctantly and handed the pants to my mother, who slipped them on over her Spanx then and there.

I noticed my dad had placed the electrified angel back on top of the tree and was standing at the door again with his shoes on, ready to go.

Christmas was back on.

‘Christ the Lord.’


Feel All the Feels

Warning: This isn’t my “usual” kind of post. 

Feel All the Feels

“I can’t even” is a regular phrase in my vernacular. Sometimes I say it to be funny, and sometimes I say it because it’s true.

Full disclosure: I feel overwhelmed (a lot).

Like everyone else in the world, I have a lot of stuff going on in my life. I’m dealing with health issues, family issues, and financial issues… I’m also trying to figure out my path and purpose in life, and sometimes it all just gets to be a bit much.

We all have different ways of coping with life and it’s challenges. When I have a headache, I’ll reach for an ibuprofen. When I’ve had a long day, I’ll open a bottle of wine. I usually take an Ativan on a trans-Atlantic flight so that I’ll forget that I’m flying over a giant body of very deep water, and I’ll be able to enjoy the in-flight movie.

Life can be overwhelming, and scary, and hard. Sometimes you just want to deaden, or forget, whatever it is you are feeling. You can’t even, you don’t want to, and you won’t.

But sometimes, it’s good to feel all the feels.

Hear me out.

Three months ago I booked a trip to Hawaii for the second week of November. I knew it would be welcome relief from Vancouver’s November’s gloom, but I forgot that it was also the week of the U.S. election, and the whole country would be in full fever pitch.

Aside from my election anxiety, I was behind on school and writing deadlines, thinking about upcoming medical appointments, and worried about the responsibilities piling up at home. I had also decided that my Hawaiian vacation would be the perfect time to figure out my path and purpose (no pressure!), because I would have plenty of time to think about my life while taking long walks on the beach and swimming with turtles.

I found myself sitting on a beach in Oahu, trying very hard to relax and enjoy the experience, but it just wasn’t working.

My mind was elsewhere.

About halfway through the week I finally admitted to my husband that I didn’t think I was enjoying the vacation as much as I should be. He said that he could tell, and that he had been feeling similarly… Life is a bit hard sometimes, and you can’t necessarily push that out of your mind – even if you are in Hawaii.

So, in order to make ourselves feel better, we drank several Maitais and went on the hotel’s waterslide 66 times (my husband counted).

It helped a little.

The next morning, I got a text that a friend had passed away after a long battle with cancer. It was all just a bit much. I felt my throat tighten, my pulse quicken, and the tears starting to form in the corners of my eyes.

I wanted it all to stop. I didn’t want to feel this way (or any way for that matter). I wanted to forget about everything that was going on, and try to enjoy my last few hours in this beautiful place. I went to the window and stared out at the ocean. The waves were 20 feet high, and I watched as they rolled in, crested, and broke.

And then, I cried.

I finally allowed myself to feel all of the sadness, disappointment, regret, and heartache that had been welling up inside of me.

And then, I laughed.

I laughed because I had forgotten how much better it feels to allow yourself to have an emotional and physical reaction, and I wondered why I had tried so hard, for so long, to hold it all in.

When I allowed myself to feel, I started to feel better. Good or bad, joy or sorrow… Sometimes it’s good to feel all of the feels.

We are humans.

We feel things.

It is a gift.


That Time I Propositioned Jimmy Kimmel

It was an accident, really.

I would never purposefully proposition Jimmy Kimmel.


Jimmy Kimmel – hunk

It’s not that I don’t find him attractive. I definitely do. And who wouldn’t? He’s a very handsome man, and he’s very funny which makes him six times (fact) more handsome than he already is (which is already very, very handsome).

I digress.

It all started one sunny Thursday afternoon. We had tickets to Jimmy Kimmel Live, which is filmed in front of a live studio audience in the sketchiest part of Hollywood. As we lined up outside the El Capitan Theatre, we were excited to see Jimmy and whatever celebrity guest he had on, and we were also a little scared (to be stabbed by one of the hundreds of superhero and film star impersonators that line Sunset Boulevard, and pose for photos with tourists, and then get very angry when they don’t give them a dollar, and just start stabbing).

I was relieved when we finally filed into the theatre and were directed to our seats. A few minutes later, Jimmy Kimmel himself walked into the studio and started bantering with the crowd. He asked if anyone had any questions, and not a single audience member put up their hand. Not one person. It was extremely awkward.

Full disclosure: I was embarassed for him. He’s a celebrity, and celebrities aren’t used to being ignored. He obviously sought out a life of fame because he has deep-rooted insecurities about being “good enough” and has a buttload of “mother issues,” so it was really hard to see him being treated with such disdain by a group of strangers**.

So I put up my hand.

And when he saw my hand, a look of relief spread over his face (obviously, he could once again supress his insecurities and self-doubt), and he said, “Yes miss?”

I stood up, and cleared my throat, “Are you single?”

The audience started wooing and clapping, as though I was propositioning Jimmy Kimmel!

(First of all, how dare they? Second of all, I’m a journalist – to some extent – and I was just trying to get the “inside scoop” for People magazine. And no, People magazine hadn’t asked me to get said scoop, but that’s not the point. I was trying to be helpful. Information is power.)

Jimmy smiled. “Are you asking for yourself?”

“No,” I said, and then I pointed to my husband, who was sitting next to me. The audience immediately erupted into laughter and wooing.

You see, I was trying to tell Jimmy that I was with the man next to me, but Jimmy (and the rest of the studio audience) thought that I was asking for the man next to me.

Jimmy said that while he appreciated the proposition, he was engaged to be married, to a woman.

Obviously, there was never really a “proposition.” I would never purposefully proposition Jimmy Kimmel.

And it’s not because Jimmy Kimmel isn’t handsome. He obviously is extremely handsome, and very funny, and rich beyond my wildest dreams… And he probably has a large swimming pool. Anybody would be lucky to be joined in holy matrimony with that hunk of a man.

But the fact is that I’m married.

Happily married.




* It always does.

** Athough strangers are really just “friends you haven’t met yet,” aren’t they?

(Unless they are superhero and film star impersonators that want to stab you.)

The Whole Thing

So, apparently you’re a loser if you have a Hotmail account.

(That’s what “people are saying.” Who? People. “People are saying” that Hotmail is for losers. I shouldn’t have to back up these statements with facts, okay? “People are saying” that Hotmail is for losers, and that should be enough for all of us to accept it as fact and believe it, and trust it, and never question it, ok?)

Supposedly, having a Hotmail account is the equivalent of wearing mom jeans, driving a Corolla, and listening to Kenny Loggins – it is antiquated and unsophisticated, and if you use it people will think that you are also antiquated and unsophisticated.

But, here’s the thing: I have had my Hotmail account for 20 years. Every online store, every utility company, every banking login, every password is connected to this account. If I switched to Gmail it would be a whole thing.

Why do you think I didn’t take my husband’s last name when we married? It would have been a whole thing.

Why do you think I pretended to be asleep when I was caught eating a handful of bulk gummy bears at Bulk Barn last week? It would have been a whole thing.

So, here’s my plan… Let’s Make Hotmail Great Again

It’s a very exciting time for Hotmail. Your voices represent a bright new future for a great email provider, full of more opportunities to email for everyone, not just a select few. Together, we have created a movement that continues to gain momentum. Together, we are making history. Together, we are bringing back the emailing dream with Hotmail. The time is now. Together, we WILL Make Hotmail Great Again!

Or at least not as lame.





That Time I Accidentally Joined a Cult

You know what they say… $#!* happens. And, yeah, sometimes you accidentally join a cult.

Before I continue, I should note: this wasn’t one of those pill-popping, incestuous, murdery cults. Obviously, I would not go and join one of those!

The particular cult I accidentally joined was just your standard, run-of-the-mill, garden variety religious cult. And who among us hasn’t accidentally joined one of those?

Seven years ago we moved to England, to a very small town 25 miles west of London called Maidenhead. I was going to school, and my husband was working at a film studio, and apart from my classmates and his workmates, we did not have any friends to speak of, or to speak to. In an effort to amend this, we decided we should check out our local church. That Sunday morning we were greeted with welcoming smiles, handshakes, and the community we had been missing.

We started to attend the church regularly, mixing and mingling with some local, devout, god-fearing Brits. The services were short, and they served tea and biscuits. It was a win-win situation**.

A few weeks later, we met Ed and Buffy*. Ed and Buffy were church leaders, and they seemed like a very friendly and pleasant couple. They said they wanted to get to know us better, and invited us to dinner at their house. We of course, eagerly accepted, excited to make new friends.

The following Saturday we went to Ed and Buffy’s house for dinner. They pulled out all the stops with wonderful food, plenty of wine, and great conversation. We were really hitting it off, and I kept nudging my husband’s leg under the table as if to say, “We did it! We made some friends!”

But, what is a cult, really? It’s just a small group with questionable religious beliefs. But the problem is that sometimes you don’t realize that someone’s beliefs are totally, 100%, bat-$#!* bonkers until you’ve agreed to have coffee and dessert.

We were a few glasses of wine in, when Ed leaned on the table and said that we had been “brought” to their church for a reason… Ed said that all church members needed to recruit 12 non-believers, and cult-ivate*** them, as part of a “ladder to success.” Meaning, we needed to find 12 non-believers, help them become “believers,” and then help them to recruit their own 12 non-believers to cultivate. Ed said that church members should always do as they are told, never question the leaders of the church, and that we should not google any of this because, “there’s a lot of bad stuff posted about it on the internet.”

I nodded my head, and smiled, and said, “Uh huh,” but inside I was like, “Oh, $#!*.”

We ate the dessert (I mean, it was sticky toffee pudding so…), drank our coffees, and then got the H-E-double-hockey-sticks out of there.

When we got home, I turned to my husband and said, “I can’t believe we accidentally joined a cult!”

My husband was very quick to point out that he had never actually accidentally joined a cult. He had always maintained a safe and suspicious distance, but he thought it was absolutely hilarious that I had.

And then we googled it… And yep, it was a cult.



* These were their actual names.

** Until it wasn’t.

*** I should have known – cult was right there in the word.

The “I Know You”

I have a problem.

Okay, to be completely honest and forthright, I have many problems (which I won’t go into detail about in this forum, but let’s just say most of them involve my body, brain, and extremities*), but without a doubt (okay, with some doubt because it’s actually really hard to assess the comparative importance of said problems), my number one (or two) problem is having total strangers come up to me and say, “I know you!”

I’ll be in line at the grocery store, or sitting in a waiting room, or hurtling through the air on an airplane, or walking down the street (always minding my own business, obvs) and complete strangers will approach me and insist that they “know me from somewhere.” They’ll stare at my face, tilt their heads, tap their bottom lip with their index finger (or, sometimes a pen), and hum and haw, trying to work out exactly how they “know” me.

Just to be clear: I never know them.

Last week I had a cashier at Fred Meyer say “I know you,” and then insist that we went to high school together in Bellingham, Washington… “Go Red Raiders!” I told her that I was a Canadian, and I had definitely attended high school in Canada. As she rang through my groceries, she occasionally glanced back up at me and shook her head dubiously – like she didn’t believe me.

There are four possibilities:

  1. I have a familiar, open, friendly face that reminds people of someone else that they have been previously acquianted with.
  2. I have face blindness, or prosopagnosia, a condition where a person has trouble recognizing familiar faces, and learning to recognize new ones, so I wouldn’t be able to recognize people the way that they recognize me.
  3. I have a twin that has seen it all, done it all, and attended high school in Bellingham, Washington with Candice (the cashier’s name was Candice).
  4. I am part of a Truman Show-type scenario, where I am the unsuspecting participant of a live reality TV show documenting my life, so people feel like they “know” me, when in fact they have only seen me on TV.

For a while I thought that the first possibility was the obvious explanation, but now I’m seriously starting to wonder if I am part of a Truman Show type situation – and if that’s the case, where’s the door?



* If you must know, I have a thyroid condition.

The Discovery

I have not been this excited in a very long time.

Yesterday I discovered SPOON – the band, not the utensil – and I am overjoyed.

It has been a very, very long time since I found a musical artist, duo or group that played music that was pleasing to my discriminating ear (which, BTW – is the only part of my body which discriminates).

In fact, I thought that I had come to a point in my life (as all adults do) when they have extreme dislike for any music created within the last two decades and only listen to “classic rock.” My Sirius Satellite radio channel of choice is called Lithium, which is named after a Nirvana song and exclusively plays 90s Alternative and Grunge Rock. In other words, I have been on a slippery slope.

Yesterday I had a tickety-boo around iTunes and the algorithm (which I’m guessing is actually a guy named Al Gorithm who has a lot of time on his hands) suggested a song called, “Inside Out” by Spoon. I listened to the preview, and I was like, “OMG, Thank you Al, whoever you are.”

The song is unlike anything else I’ve heard in the last two decades. It is so melodic and sweet-sounding – it is as if angels from heaven had played a part in its creation. I might also mention that it sounds very similar to the marching music on the Wii, and that in itself is a win.

I began researching the band, eager to find out more. It turns out that they are from Austin, Texas and enjoy lying on their sides, closely nestled together – which I think is very sweet.

Let’s be clear: If I had just discovered the utensil I would have been equally, if not more excited, because can you imagine going through life eating soup with a fork, or ice cream with a knife? It would be extremely impractical.


Luckily, I am now well-acquainted with all kinds of spoons.