When my 50th birthday rolled around, last March, I started taking a serious look at what I wanted to do with the final 10-12 years of my life (I have multiple ailments, I know I'll never see age 65).

Before I moved to BC, in 2011, I had a very full and crazy life, in Ontario, balancing, like, 30 different careers (that’s not an exaggeration). Janitor, property manager, actress, voice-over artist, caterer, retail clerk, journalist, secretary, hairstylist, landscaper, television producer, florist, special event manager, seamstress, personal assistant, screenwriter, marketing & advertising consultant, baby-sitter/nanny, coffee shop barista, celebrity publicist & talent manager, graphic artist, photographer, interior decorator, restaurant manager, construction worker, fashion stylist, dog-walker...

On Monday morning, I could be writing a story for Canadian Living magazine, working at IKEA in the afternoon and cleaning an office building in the evening. On Tuesday morning, I could be working as a receptionist at an architectural firm, reading/tweaking scripts for an A-list actor in the afternoon and preparing floral arrangements in the evening for a birthday party the next day. On Wednesday morning, I could be overhauling someone’s summer wardrobe, voicing a commercial for Toyota in the afternoon and designing advertising flyers for a bakery in the evening...I travelled all over the world, working for clients/employers that ranged from retail managers, nightclub owners and general contractors to multi-millionaire Academy Award winning producers. I thrived on the endless challenges but, soon after I moved to Vancouver Island, I was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes and my new doctor  I call him “The Delicious Doctor Z”  warned me that working 110 hours a week would be the end of me if I didn’t make some serious changes in my hectic life, immediately.

It was very frustrating for me, at first, trying to live a slower, healthier and more restful lifestyle. After deciding to make a home for myself on the island, I was hired by a middle-aged British couple to work at all three of their restaurants, 50-60 hours a week. I love my job, with a passion that is almost unheard of when you think about what a minimum wage front of house and kitchen worker has to put up with (bitchy  sometimes drunk & violent  customers, lazy, inept managers, an unpredictable work schedule etc.). After years of practically killing myself, working 364 days a year, doing absolutely anything and everything that my British employers wanted, they unexpectedly cut my hours by 70%, last April, leaving me scrounging desperately for cash to pay my monthly expenses, and raking through the online job listings, looking for anything to fill the void.

That's when I started to ponder what my next step should be. For most of my adult life, my vast range of skills and work experience had me in high-demand. But, after moving to Vancouver Island, it took me so long to get a grip on my illness that I have now aged-out of the entertainment industry. If you don’t already have a strong career by age 45, no one is going to hire you, full-time, on a movie or television show, based on a scattering of old IMDB credits.

That aside, the biggest problem, and most urgent concern, I’ve been having, lately, is being treated with fairness, equality and respect by potential new employers. Despite sending out well over 200 resumes to places I am perfectly qualified for, nobody wants to hire me. For the past four months, I've been denied job after job after job after job, either because I’m too old/unattractive for their liking (and, yes, they've come right out and said that to me), or dismissed as a joke, after they Googled my name and discovered who I am (who wants a café barista, receptionist or grocery check-out girl working for them, after finding out they’re a hoity-toity “celebrity” with a worldwide fan base?). My competition for jobs are mostly recent university grads and sexy little buttercups with a perfect smile and C-cup breasts. With my current knowledgebase, I should be beating them in the job market, and I’m angry, bitter and frustrated that I don’t seem to be getting the kind of employment I want/need to fulfill me, intellectually, and rebuild a savings stockpile that was wiped out, in the economic crash of '08.

So, how do I remedy that? Should I go back to school? Take courses to become a flight attendant? A librarian? Chartered accountant? Pharmacist? Real estate agent? Corrections officer? Industrial hazmat specialist? Seaplane pilot? Bank manager? I mean, at age 50, with my current wealth of experience  and no one wanting to hire me  where the fuck do I go from here?

And just when I think, Goshdarnit, I am going to save some money and take a 4-year course in...whatever...I cringe at the thought of throwing myself back into the insanely busy, stressful life I once had  the one that nearly killed me, in the first place. I've earned the right to rest, to just take it easy and enjoy menial, low-paying (but fun) part-time employment until I finally die. There's nothing wrong with making $25,000 per year as a waitress, janitor or retail clerk.

Yeah, but remember when you used to make $200,000 per year, flew to New York in a private jet lent to you by [insert celebrity name here] and had a staff of nine working for you? Yeah...that was good, too.



Now that I've been living on Vancouver Island for a few years, I think it's time for me to get back into the dating scene. Nothing serious, mind you. I have no interest in being anyone's steady girlfriend – or casual fuck buddy, for that matter. In the city where I live, it’s virtually impossible to meet good-looking, highly accomplished middle-aged intellectuals who are still single, so, I’ve been checking out a few of the online dating websites. Sadly, I’ve noticed that they typically cater to two major demographics: heterosexual singles looking for love & marriage, and heterosexual singles/married people looking for a brief hook-up with a stranger. Who I am and what I want doesn’t really fall into either of these two categories. Therefore, I’ve decided to post a detailed dating profile on my blog, just to see if anyone out there might be interested. Here goes:

NAME: KellyBelly68

SIGN / AGE: Aries / 50 – but I act and feel 25 most days.

GENDER / ETHNICITY: Female / Caucasian

MARITAL STATUS: Divorced since 2000, no maggots – er, kids.

PHYSICAL STATS: 5’1” tall, 180 lbs., hazel-green eyes and an ever-changing hair colour (I get bored fast). No tattoos or piercings in weird places. I have an hourglass figure (46-36-46), however, my boobs swing back and forth across my tummy when I walk without a bra on (just try and get that visual out of your head!). I have pale, near-flawless skin, which I maintain by bathing in the blood of a hundred virgins at least once a month.

PERSONALITY TYPE: I am a high-maintenance alpha-bitch who loves being the centre of attention (it’s my world, you just live in it). I’m highly motivated and ambitious – although I do have a bad habit of procrastinating to the point of not finishing a task in a timely manner (it took me five weeks to write this online dating profile). I don’t like to follow the rules – unless I’m the one that made them – and often think so far out of the box that people are like: “Is she on crack?” I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs and I rarely drink. I enjoy dancing, yoga and long walks on the beach but am not athletic by any stretch of the imagination. The only way you’ll get me to join you for a run is if we’re heading to a 75% off sale at Aldo Shoes.

RELIGION: I don’t belong to any organized religion but my interests tend to lean more towards Buddhism and Wicca (no, we don’t worship Satan, you moron). I believe in reincarnation of the soul but absolutely do not believe in angels, demons, Heaven or Hell, as described in most religious writings – which are, essentially, just myths and fairy-tales. If you belong to an organized religion, if you pray to and worship a deity, if you are willing to fight, kill or die in the name of some imaginary, all-knowing, all-powerful supernatural being, you are a fucking idiot.

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: I’m bisexual, which means that I am equally attracted to both men and women but – and here’s the big BUT – I don’t often have sexual intercourse. It’s not a religious thing, it’s biological. That's just what my brain and body want. All my girl-parts work just fine, thanks, and I do enjoy a good spanking now and then. I would just rather go shopping or watch a great movie on TV than do the horizontal mambo with someone, five times a week.

CAREER: Gosh, where should I start? Let’s see...screenwriter, comic book writer, television producer, actress, voice-over artist, celebrity publicist, personal assistant and talent manager, image consultant, wardrobe stylist and fashion designer, hairdresser, make-up artist and aromatherapeutic masseuse, life coach, investigative journalist, award-winning photographer, painter, sculptor and mixed-media artist, interior decorator, professional organizer and home stager, florist, caterer, event-planner, receptionist, commercial/industrial cleaner, property manager...and what do YOU do for a living, huh? Huh?! Slacker.

PETS: I’m an animal rights activist who’s come close to getting arrested for protecting animals from horrific abuse. I’ve smashed car windows to rescue dogs in 50ºC heat, I broke into a home in the middle of the night to rescue a cat and her newborn kittens who were left to starve and die in the basement, I’ve staged protests/boycotts against Gillette for their ghastly animal testing and helped shut down a puppy mill...Uh, sorry...What was the question, again? Oh, yeah. While I love all creatures, great and small, I have a particular fondness for cats. Right now, I have two adorable furballs: Maive and Sierra. But if I ever own a large home in the country, I intend to adopt/rescue a hundred more, thus becoming the reigning Queen of Crazy Cat Ladies.

FAVOURITE TV SHOWS: Brady Bunch, Partridge Family, Bewitched, I Dream of Jeannie, Get Smart, The Flintstones, Spiderman (animated, 1967), Scooby-Doo, Little House on the Prairie, Batman, Wonder Woman, The Andy Griffith Show, Star Trek, Doctor Who, CHiPS, Land of the Lost, Swiss Family Robinson, Columbo, Space: 1999, Happy Days, Laverne & Shirley, Charlie's Angels, Love Boat, Fantasy Island, The Curse of Dracula, Three's Company, Family Ties, The Facts of Life, Simon & Simon, Magnum P.I., Remington Steele, V, Knight Rider, Voyagers, Miami Vice, X-Files, Cheers, Frasier, Alias, Forever Knight, Xena, Hercules, Babylon 5, Charmed, Lost, Heroes, Stargate, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Smallville, Supernatural, Law & Order, CSI, Monk, The Librarians, Psych, Arrow, Orphan Black, The Listener, Castle, Murdoch Mysteries, Sleepy Hollow, Grimm, Agents of SHIELD, The Magicians, Gotham, Being Human, Lucifer

FAVOURITE MOVIES: Rear Window, North By Northwest, To Catch a Thief, Dial M for Murder, Roman Holiday, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, The Maltese Falcon, Casablanca, To Kill a Mockingbird, Cape Fear, The Day the Earth Stood Still, Them!, War of the Worlds (original and Tom Cruise remake), The Golden Voyage of Sinbad, House on Haunted Hill, That Darn Cat, Escape to Witch Mountain, The Sound of Music, A Christmas Carol, The Wizard of Oz, The Exorcist, Rosemary’s Baby, The Omen, Carrie, The Shining, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Andromeda Strain, China Syndrome, Grease, Xanadu, Star Wars (IV, V & VI – don’t even get me started on the travesty that was I, II & III), Close Encounters, Superman, Blade Runner, American Werewolf in London, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Ghostbusters, Poltergeist, E.T., Flashdance, Footloose, Star Trek movies (except for the mind-numbingly puerile “reimaginings” by J.J. Abrams), The Lost Boys, Fright Night, The Terminator, Mannequin, The Breakfast Club, Ferris Bueller, Romancing the Stone, The Little Mermaid, Aliens, Ghost, Frequency, Groundhog Day, Planes, Trains & Automobiles, Batman, Basic Instinct, Fatal Attraction, Goodfellas, Casino, Spiderman, Donnie Darko, Blade, Underworld, X-Men, The Matrix, Cube, Ginger Snaps, Paranormal Activity, Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

FAVOURITE BOOKS, MAGAZINES & COMICS: Peter Pan, Carrie, The Shining, Christine, Pet Sematary, Interview with the Vampire, The Vampire Lestat, Queen of the Damned, Amityville Horror, Coma, The Sentinel, I Vampire, Vogue Magazine, Architectural Digest, Canadian Screenwriter, Alive Magazine, Batman: Year One, Witchblade, Spawn, Watchmen

FAVOURITE MUSIC: My tastes are all over the map. I’m a big fan of Vivaldi's The Four Seasons and listen to it 8-10 times a week. I love old country classics by George Jones, Patsy Cline, Bill Monroe, Loretta Lynn, Willie Nelson and Tammy Wynette. I love the smooth sounds of The Eagles, Simon & Garfunkel, Carly Simon, James Taylor, Abba, Wings, Chicago, The BeeGees, The Carpenters, Jim Croce, Hall & Oates, Toto, The Alan Parsons Project, Gino Vannelli and Elton John. But I am a child of the ‘80s, so, I love the best of what they had to offer, from Pat Benatar, Lionel Richie, Blondie, Billie Joel, Duran Duran, Journey, Corey Hart, Prince, Madonna, The Eurythmics, Howard Jones, ZZ Top, U2, Culture Club, Foreigner, Genesis/Phil Collins, The Police/Sting, Bon Jovi, Tina Turner, Wham/George Michael and Tears for Fears. Some more recent offerings I enjoy are from Evanescence, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Loreena McKennitt, Coldplay, Ellie Goulding, Three Days Grace, Pink, The Tea Party, Sarah McLachlan and NIN. But my passion – my absolute passion – is for jazz, swing and R&B. I could listen to Frank Sinatra, Miles Davis, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Vince Guaraldi, Natalie Cole, Benny Goodman, Duke Ellington, Glenn Miller, Ray Charles, Toni Braxton and Sade all day, every day.

I AM SEEKING: Male or female, non-smoker, age 35-55, for casual dating. You don’t have to be rich, famous or outrageously successful to keep me interested but you do have to be gainfully employed with a steady paycheque, because this mamma ain’t gonna lend you a dime to pay your rent or phone bill, you dig?

Having your own car would be a great asset to our relationship. Having your own Learjet? Even better – although I don’t like to fly or travel. It’s just nice to know it’s there, waiting for us in the hangar, just in case we decide to take a weekend trip to London, Paris or New York.

Do you like cosplay? One of my former boyfriends played a seductive vampire in a mega-hit horror movie back in the 1980s. I’ve got a thing for vampires, so, if you’d like to dress up head to toe in black leather, put on some fake fangs and guy-liner, I would eagerly volunteer to be your “victim”. Another former beau co-starred in Frank Miller’s 300, and I found the gladiator costume he wore to be quite a turn-on. I think we could have lots of fun playing Gladiator & Slave Girl, sometime.

As you’ve probably already surmised from this dating profile, I have a bit of a warped and sarcastic sense of humour, and don’t care too much if I hurt somebody’s feelings while expressing my opinions. Have I scared you off yet? No? OK, well, that’s a good sign. If you’d like to get together for coffee sometime, email me at kellybelly68@hotmail.com (not a real email address, BTW)



As my 50th birthday quickly approaches (March 27th), I've been reflecting on my life...who I am, what I've done, what I still hope to accomplish before I die...and it's been an interesting journey, to say the least!

I had a shitty childhood. Nothing horrific, mind you. I was never beaten, starved and locked in a closet for a week but, after my father abandoned me to start a new family with someone else when I was ten, virtually every day was a struggle. My birth mother was, and remains, an emotionally stunted high school dropout with no moral or ethical compass. We were always short on cash because she couldn’t hold down a legitimate job, moving my baby sister and I from home to home because she couldn’t pay the rent, forcing me to change schools every few months, which made it impossible for me to forge long-lasting friendships with my peers. Mercilessly bullied by my classmates for being "different" and repeatedly sexually molested by family members and my mother's boyfriend from age 12-18, I ran away from home more times than I can recall, sleeping on park benches and eating out of garbage cans, to escape my hellish home life. Top that off with a breast cancer scare at age 19 that left me with a permanent 4" scar across my right boob, and it's safe to say my youth was just one miserable day after another.

When I was 20, I met and later married a notable figure in the Canadian broadcasting industry. Tall, handsome, charming, intelligent and very funny, Michael would’ve been the husband that every girl dreams of marrying...if it wasn’t for the fact that he had some serious mental health issues. Plagued by anxiety, severe depression, paranoia and a profound lack of self-esteem, this divorced man ten years my senior was an absolute nightmare to live with during our ten years together. I lived in constant fear of his wrath and, while he never once laid a violent hand on me, his Machiavellian manipulations (suggesting, under threat of leaving me or worse: harming himself what job I could have, what friends I could have, which family members I could associate with, what clothes or shoes I could wear, which words I was forbidden to utter in his presence etc.) and relentless accusations of impropriety (any time I went grocery shopping with make-up on, he assumed I was sneaking off to go fuck someone) ultimately alienated me from my friends, family and co-workers until he was all that was left in my world. Finally, at age 30, I’d had enough of his psychotic accusations and emotional manipulations, which had all but destroyed my soul, and I gave him the boot.

It took a while to rebuild a life for myself as a single gal living in the big city (Ottawa) but, by 2005, I had become a successful voice-over artist, and forged some great relationships as a publicist, personal assistant and image consultant for several Hollywood celebrities. I also dabbled in acting, screenwriting and television production, interior decorating and set design...I was working 90 to 110 hours a week – sometimes 25 to 30 hours straight – with nothing to eat all day but a handful of cookies. Literally running on fumes as I partied with Sting in London, danced with Robert De Niro in New York, and attended the Oscars and Emmys in L.A. with people who would later leave the event clutching a golden statuette. I had an agent, an entertainment lawyer, a business manager, an office secretary, personal assistant and bodyguard/chauffer on-call for special occasions. I was raking in about $200k per year as the trusted confidant to several Hollywood powerbrokers...and, unknowingly, the hectic lifestyle was killing me. More on that, later.

For many years, I had been working on a multi-media project, called The Black Tower, which I’d been developing for the North American market as a TV show, with a companion webcomic series and video game. Phase One, the webcomic, launched in August, 2008. Though not a financial success because it was free online (a teaser for the TV series), the first issue of The Black Tower was a huge hit in comics/sci-fi geek circles and I suddenly found myself the object of much attention by people who wanted interviews, autographed headshots and printed copies of the webcomic. My email account was inundated with fan mail from people all over the world. It also caught the attention of several actors and writers for Lost, Heroes, Smallville, Supernatural, Buffy, Angel, Stargate: SG1, Battlestar Galactica and other genre shows who wanted on board the project, should I ever manage to sell the TV series rights.

I pitched the project to various production companies all over North America where it got a few nibbles from development executives. But, then, all hell broke loose after the economic crash of 2008, and Hollywood did not escape the carnage unscathed. Networks started laying off its stars, screenwriters and producers in a desperate attempt to stay in the black. Greenlit film projects were suddenly put on hold, and TV pilots that might’ve sold, otherwise, were dismissed as too expensive to produce for the upcoming season. The Black Tower died a slow, agonizing death, along with my dreams for a future as creator/showrunner on a hit TV show.

Meanwhile, in an effort to avoid bankruptcy, many of my clients had to let go of some of their staff. The housekeeper, the nanny, the chef, the personal trainer...and me. One by one, they cut me loose until I was down to my last three non-celebrity clients, making less than $2,000 per month by the end of 2009. My health was also starting to deteriorate. Chronic fatigue, blurred vision, fainting spells, insomnia and dramatic weight loss (60 lbs. in four months). I thought things couldn’t get much worse.

I was wrong.

In March of 2010, I took a live-in position as a household manager, personal assistant and nanny for a middle-aged jet-setting couple in Toronto, with a five year-old son. In order to fit all of my things into their 300 sq. ft. nanny’s suite, I had to sell, give away or trash 70% of everything I owned. It was brutal! But, in a way, I was kind of glad to be rid of all that "stuff" and start fresh in a new environment. Unfortunately, by the end of my first week, I realized I’d made a horrible, horrible mistake, as the woman of the house, "Mary", quickly revealed herself to be an immature, selfish, self-indulgent Jewish princess who went out of her way to make everyone around her feel like shit, with her cruel comments and backstabbing accusations. Angry, bitter and ruthless to the core, she repeatedly dug her well-manicured nails deep into my soul, with behaviour so shocking it had me in tears on several occasions. I was so relieved when, two weeks into my new job, I was let go because we discovered that their son was allergic to my two cats, who lived with me in the nanny’s suite. My relief quickly turned to panic, however, when I suddenly realized that, just days before my 42nd birthday, I found myself homeless, unemployed and flat, dead broke.

I moved from temporary home to temporary home, living like a gypsy with what few meagre belongings I had left, after a flood destroyed almost a third of the stuff I had in storage during my brief employment in Hell House. I got a part-time job making $900 per month as an overnight janitor at a health club, while trying desperately to secure employment in the Toronto entertainment industry, which was still suffering the effects of the economic crash. Sadly, everyone who once sought my guidance and opinions on their TV and film projects (I specialized in viral marketing and social media) were no longer returning my phone calls and emails enquiring about job opportunities on the very same projects that I had consulted on just months earlier. By the spring of 2011, I was $42,000 in debt, living in a shitty little 400 sq. ft. basement apartment in Pickering, and working a dead-end minimum wage job that only exacerbated my ever-declining state of physical and mental health.

Then, along came Dad to my rescue. Happily retired and living alone on Vancouver Island, he invited me to come live with him and start a fresh new life on the west coast, after having filed for bankruptcy and losing my car, my two beloved cats (sickness & old age) and still more personal belongings, which I had to sell in order to eat. With much anticipation, I flew west in late June, 2011, in hope of finding full-time employment in Nanaimo, a safe, clean apartment and a new perspective on my future.

It took a while to settle in and find my groove, and there were a few nasty bumps on the road after I got here, not the least of which was being diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes. That, unfortunately, took about three years to get under control, with pills, insulin, proper diet and exercise. But, now, I can honestly say I’m happier than I have ever been in my entire life. I absolutely love my job, working as an administrator for a British family that owns three restaurants on Central Vancouver Island (they treat me like their adopted daughter), I have no other debt beyond monthly rent, cable, hydro and cell phone bills, and I live in a gorgeous apartment just two blocks from the Pacific Ocean. I spend leisurely afternoons reading, writing, sculpting, baking cookies, watching old movies in bed with my two new kitty cats, or taking a stroll along the sandy shores of Nanaimo, chocolate ice cream cone in hand.

I've made some wonderful friends here on the island and, even though I haven't completely let go of my life in the entertainment industry (if a voice-over gig or temp job on a local movie/TV production falls into my lap, I’ll consider taking it), I feel the time has come for me to switch gears in this next phase of my life. Focus more on my artistic side, writing lifestyle magazine articles that I may or may not seek to have published, and creating works of art to sell at craft fairs and galleries, or on the Front Street boardwalk to the thousands of tourists who visit Nanaimo every summer.

Yes, life is good, again.



Thirty years ago, today, The Lost Boys launched in movie theatres across North America and, unbeknownst to me at the time, this seminal 1980s horror-comedy flick, with the hot-looking cast and snappy one-liners, would later influence the direction of my life – and my friendships over the next three decades.

I've always been a huge fan of horror movies, and while I prefer my horror to be dead serious (The Omen, Rosemary's Baby, Carrie, Poltergeist, The Shining etc.), I don't mind checking out the occasional, more light-hearted fair. When The Lost Boys premiered on July 31st, 1987, it became a near instant box office smash and laid the foundation for many vampire-horror movies to come. Starring a sexy young cast of established actors and a few relative newcomers, the plot revolves around two teenage brothers, Michael and Sam, who move to Santa Carla, a fictional California beach town, dubbed the "Murder Capital of the World", with their recently divorced mom, and soon find themselves the target of a charismatic but ultra-violent vampire coven. Michael (age 19), is unwittingly transformed into a blood-sucker, with 15 year-old brother, Sam, joining the Frog Brothers, two inept 15-16 year-old "professional vampire killers" in a desperate attempt to reverse Michael's fate by destroying the Head Vampire and his entire immortal family.

Unlike other vampire movies, starring a suave and charming middle-aged-looking night-stalker (think Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee), The Lost Boys vampires, David, Paul, Dwayne and Marko, were the essence of sexy, playful and mischievous youth, with cool clothes, nice hair and a badass, rock & roll attitude. I mean, just look at these guys. So yummy, n'est-ce pas?

Anyway, I loved the movie so much, I bought it when it came out on VHS tape (remember those?) and watched it at least a dozen more times. I was 19 years-old in 1987, a professional nightclub dancer and model, with a strong interest in graphic design and creative writing. When it got to the point that I could quote every line in the movie, talking in unison with every actor, from the opening scene on the carousel to Grandpa's final words before FADE TO BLACK-Roll End Credits, I got an idea. Why don't I write myself into the movie? Create a new character and insert her into the film, making any necessary changes to the story to allow her/me to fit in, seamlessly, with the already established cast of characters. Just for fun. Just to see if I could do it.

Since I had zero knowledge of proper screenwriting format at the time, I chose to write it in novel manuscript form on an electric typewriter, which turned out to be a helluva lot more work than I was expecting (I've always been a slow and highly inaccurate two-finger pecker). I created backstories for all the vampires, who they were, how they became vampires and formed a coven before moving into that really cool cave, in Santa Carla.

Max, the Head Vampire (played by Edward Herrmann), was a physician in England when he was attacked by the vampire who transformed him into the bloodthirsty, immortal serial killer, Jack the Ripper. Investigating the Ripper murders was David, a rookie police officer for Scotland Yard. His 19 year-old little sister, Emily (that's me), was a pretty smart cookie when it came to chemistry, biology and forensic science. She and David were very close and she helped him with his investigation into the serial murders, whenever she could. While tracking David's progress in hunting him down, Max (the Ripper) became enamoured with Emily and decided to turn her into his vampire mate. Ah, but how to seduce her into becoming his loyal and compliant immortal bride? In a move that foreshadows events in The Lost Boys, Max attacked and transformed David. After days gone missing, David returned home to his beloved sister and convinced her to join him in immortality, with Max as their new Dark Father. She reluctantly agreed – only to regret it soon after her transformation when Max started putting the moves on her. It's only when Max threatened to torture and kill her brother that Emily relented to his sexual advances, their contentious relationship easing, somewhat, as the decades passed and more people joined their twisted little family.

Sweet, cherubic Marko (Alex Winter) was 8 years-old when Emily pulled him from the ruins of the San Francisco earthquake, in 1906. Orphaned and badly injured, Emily convinced Max to let her nurse the helpless youth back to health, their mother-son bond growing over the years until Max decided to turn him into a vampire, at age 18. Lanky blonde, Paul (Brooke McCarter), was a career criminal on trial for the rape of a 12 year-old girl and the murder of her entire family, in 1942, when Max decided to turn him. The dark and delicious, Dwayne (Billy Wirth), was the infamous Zodiac serial killer whom Max sired, in 1971.

In 1977, Max, Emily and the boys moved to Santa Carla. Sleeping in a cave by day, hunting and killing the local denizens at night, Max had, by this time, lost all romantic interest in Emily. Much to her relief, in 1984, he moved into a quaint little beach house, got a dog (a vicious protector he named Thorn) and opened a video store, appearing every inch the affable and charming local businessman to the unsuspecting public.

It’s now the summer of 1987, and Emily meets the new boy in town, Michael, at a music festival on the Santa Carla boardwalk. Their attraction to each other is undeniable, although Emily fears how David, who has an almost incestuous affection for his sister, might react to seeing the two of them together.

Michael and Emily lock eyes across the crowd.

While David wants to kill the interloper, Max decides that Michael's mom would make an excellent new immortal bride and mother to his wayward Lost Boys. He promptly orders David to befriend and trick him into drinking some vampire blood (in my story, there is no Star or Laddie). Michael joins his enigmatic new friends at a party in the cave, unknowingly drinks from a bottle of David’s blood and slowly begins his transformation, while Emily’s protests fall on deaf ears.

David: Drink some of this, Michael. Be one of us.

Determined to see his plan through, Max abducts Emily and confines her to his beach house, with Thorn ordered to rip her to shreds if she tries to escape, so David can formally induct Michael into the world of the undead with his first kill and taste of human blood.

David: So, now you know what we are, now you know what you are.
You'll never grow old, Michael, and you'll never die.
But you must feed.

Fortunately, Michael resists the urge to feed and returns home to his little brother, Sam, to develop a plan to destroy the vampire clan and free him from the curse. Completely fed up with life as an immortal, and deeply dismayed by what a century of random killing has done to her once sweet, sensitive and loving brother, Emily goes to Michael and Sam, offering to assist in their plan to wipe out the entire coven, including Max, with the aid of the adorably clueless Frog Brothers.

Edgar Frog: I think I should warn you all, when a vampire bites it, it's never a pretty sight.
Some yell and scream, some go quietly, some explode, some implode,
but all will try to take you with them.

Later, after Marko, Paul and Dwayne bite the dust in a variety of creatively gruesome ways, Emily joins Michael in hand-to-hand combat against David, the seductive, white-haired vampire meeting his tragic end by being stabbed in the chest with decorative antelope horns.

David's brutal demise at the hands of Emily and Michael.

Then, after Max is destroyed the same way as he is in the movie (thanks to good ol’ Grandpa), Michael reverts back into a human and hugs of celebration go all around. There’s just one more thing, though: Emily. Through tears of relief – the first she’s cried since the night Max turned her – Emily begs Michael to end her misery with a wooden stake through the heart, which he begrudgingly does, after the two share one long, last, lingering kiss.

Grandpa: The one thing about living in Santa Carla I never could stomach...
...all the damn vampires.

So, after I showed the story to a few people, and got some great feedback, I started to think, hey, I might actually have a real talent for this whole writing thing. I’ve always dabbled in creative writing but now I was wondering if I could actually make a career out of it, in one way or another. Never, in a million years, did I think that I would, eventually, befriend some of The Lost Boys cast members (and date one of them for a few years) but also have an acting and screenwriting career that has blessed me in so many ways.



Tell us about your SENIOR year of high school!

General Vanier Secondary School
Class of 1986

1. Where was your high school?
Cornwall, Ontario. The armpit of Canada.

2. What kind of job did you have?
I was part of an experimental new program at my school, during my senior year. Students that were a little bit more advanced and mature were specifically chosen to partake in a co-op program, going to school half-days, then, working at a job placement, with the expectation that the extra training and education would lead to better opportunities after graduation. It worked beautifully for me, as I had a wonderful time working at a pet shop, a salon/spa and a book store. All three places asked me to work full-time for them, after high school graduation.

3. Were you a party animal?
I was a mature and self-respectful party-goer, in high school. Once I graduated and turned 19, though, I got wasted drunk as often as humanly possible. I also ended up working at the bars I frequented.

4. Were you considered a jock?
Pffft! Fucking jocks.

5. Were you in choir/band or orchestra?
I never had the patience to learn how to play an instrument. Hell, I couldn't even read music let alone play it! God only knows how I ended up being the lead female vocalist of a pop-rock cover band after high school.

6. Were you a nerd?
Math, science or computer nerd? No, I barely passed those classes. But I could hold my own in a conversation about Star Wars, X-Men, Doctor Who, Batman, Star Trek and Superman. I later became a comics creator, with professional ties to Marvel and DC, and also appeared with actor, Henry Cavil, in the movie, Man of Steel.

7. Where did you eat during lunch?
In the cafeteria with besties Cindy & Kim Bergeron, Rodney Smith, Keith Laplante, David Sutherland, Donald Vaillancourt, Gordie Dupras, Lori Hope, Mitch Lortie, Steve Campbell and so many other wonderful people that I still think about, so very often, with much fondness.

8. Do you still talk to the person you went to prom with?
I never went to prom, but I sometimes wish I had.

9. Are you planning on going to the next high school reunion?
No. It would feel really weird, with all the "popular" girls who once thought I was a fat, ugly loser watching me sign autographs and pose for pictures with a few of my fans [sarcasm].

10. Are you still in contact with people from high school?
You betcha! Facebook has enriched my life, in so many ways.

11. Do you know where your high school sweetheart is?
Yes! Rodney Smith and I reconnected on Facebook, just a few months ago!

12. Did you know your spouse?
Technically, yes. I'd heard him on the radio, as a DJ, since I was 5 years old but we didn't meet for the first time until 1988.

13. Did you skip school?
Did I skip school? LOL! Has anyone beaten my record of 68 days missed, in grade 12, yet?

14. Did you get suspended?
Close a couple of times. I've always been defiant of authority. "You're Not the Boss of Me" was pretty much my motto in high school. Come to think of it...it STILL is!

15. It's Friday night, where were you?
Trapped in a century-old farmhouse, in the middle of fucking nowhere, as my mother had the brilliant idea to move the family 50 km away from my high school, in October of my senior year...and I didn't have a car to go anywhere!

16. What was your favorite subject?
It's a tie between English and Art class ‒ but Marketing was fun, too, if only because my marketing teacher, Mr. Green, was sexually obsessed with me and would flirt with me, kiss me and give me compliments on my body. I had that perverted bastard wrapped around my little finger!

17. What was your worst subject?
I started off well in grade 10 computer class. So well, in fact, that I became a computer instructor, helping people who had never even touched a computer before learn how to handle the tech of the times (Commodore 64, Commodore P.E.T., Commodore Vic-20). However, by grade 12, the technological advances were coming so fast, I just couldn't keep up. My teacher took pity on me and bumped my 46% to a 51% so I could graduate from high school, bless his heart!

18. Can you sing the fight/school song?
Did we have one? All I remember is: "G.V.S.S. ‒ the best!"

19. What was your mascot?
I remember, we were known as the Vikings but... I'm not sure a viking was our actual mascot.

20. If you could go back and do it over again would you?
If I could repeat the last 4 months of grade 11 and the first 4 months of grade 12 (1985), hell yeah! The time before and after that wasn't...great.



I’ve worked in show business for many years, sometimes as an actor, singer or voice-over artist, other times, a screenwriter, floor director or production assistant. Dotted in between all of those jobs was the occasional stint as a personal assistant, publicist and talent manager for Canadian and American celebrities. What does that mean, exactly? Well, I’ve signed non-disclosure agreements which prevent me revealing who most of my clients are/were but, in a nutshell, it means that I served as a very discreet, level-headed and ruthlessly protective pit bull for my clients, always ready with sound business advice during a frantic 3 a.m. phone call, or a sympathetic, non-judgemental ear when discussing personal troubles, such as a drug problem or pending abortion. It means that, at the drop of a hat, I would lend a helping hand when my celebrity friends found themselves overwhelmed with responsibilities, utilizing my various talents and abilities to do things like:

● Shopping and errands, such as returning unwanted retail purchases to the store, getting a watch repaired, dropping kids off at school, bringing a family pet to the vet and booking hair, manicure and spa appointments.

● Vetting and hiring domestic help, such as maids, nannies, chefs, gardeners, chauffeurs and bodyguards. On occasion, I worked as a maid, nanny, cook, gardener or chauffeur when my clients were short-staffed.

● Organizing incoming mail into categories (autograph requests from fans, requests for a donation or public appearance, legal/business correspondence, psycho-stalker death threats to be forwarded to the police etc.)

● Setting up interviews with Entertainment Tonight, E-Talk Daily, Oprah, The Today Show, Breakfast Television, Live with Regis & Kelly etc. and booking travel arrangements for my clients’ publicity tours.

● Updating official websites, blogs, social media accounts, Wikipedia and imdb.com with the latest news on my clients, sometimes writing as though I were the client, so they would appear more approachable and in-touch with their fan base (I realize this is deceptive but some of my clients worked 16 hours a day, seven days a week, and just didn’t have the time to post daily updates).

● Personal protection and crowd control during red carpet premiers, film festivals, award shows and gala fundraisers.

● Crisis management and damage control when dealing with TMZ, Perez Hilton, Gawker, The Smoking Gun and other predatory showbiz gossip websites (I hope you burn in hell, Harvey Levin!).

● Assisting actors with memorizing their lines, rehearsing scenes and delivering notes and packages to co-workers and the production office team, while on-set with them.

● Working as a faithful right-hand to showrunners and executive producers as they dealt with the day-to-day management of their TV shows. This involved everything from fetching them lunch to re-writing scenes (uncredited) that just weren’t working on the day they were supposed to be shot.

As a talent manager, I proudly guided three of my clients to Academy Award wins, cheering enthusiastically from the audience as they went up on stage the give the Oscar or Emmy acceptance speech I wrote for them, a few hours earlier…when I wasn’t taking up the hem on their gown or ironing the wrinkles out of their tuxedo.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Who the fuck is this chick and why have I never heard of her or seen her in pictures with all of these movie stars she claims to know?

That, my dear, is by design. A well-crafted mystique that, simultaneously, keeps me safe from my clients’ psycho-stalkers and reinforces my reputation as a well-respected showbiz professional for hire, independent of my occasional side-gig as a trusted aide and confidante to various Hollywood celebrities. That wasn’t always the case, though. Before everybody and their dog had an internet connection and cell phone with camera/video, I was a little more open and trusting with the general public. But not anymore, and here’s why:

About 15 years ago, I contacted a Los Angeles-based actor I’d never met before, hoping he’d be interested in a supporting role on a TV series I had in development. This actor, let’s call him “PL”, was married, with a successful career in the industry up to that point. Although he was not an A-lister, he had an international fan following and an official website in order to promote his work and make himself available to his fans.

PL liked my pitch and agreed to come onboard, both of us hoping that having his name attached to the project would increase my odds of selling the show to a network. With PL’s permission, I posted a notice on his message board to introduce myself and announce that he was involved with the project. Dozens of fans from all over the world posted their congratulations and well-wishes. I even got an email from “Trista”, one of PL’s most ardent admirers. She was very excited by the news, so I emailed back to tell her how much I appreciated her support. She replied, telling me a little about herself and I responded, telling her a little bit more about myself. Soon, we were corresponding eight to ten times a week, getting very friendly and personal with each other. At no time did I suspect that Trista wasn’t nearly as mentally or emotionally stable as she seemed in her emails. It was only after about seven months of communicating with her, via email, that I discovered some very shocking and disturbing news about her.

While surfing the Internet one afternoon, I stumbled upon a website whose sole purpose was for people to post rude and disgusting jokes, stories, insults, celebrity rumours, porn pics...just the absolute worst things you would never want to see on the Internet. To my absolute horror and dismay, I found several posts from Trista discussing me and my relationship with PL, who had become a dear friend of mine by that point. She copy/pasted excerpts from our numerous email exchanges where I mentioned my unhappy marriage and subsequent divorce, details of my health/weight problems and brush with cancer, my social, religious and political views...just so many very personal and private things. In Trista’s posts (there were about 25 of them), she insulted and scoffed at every aspect of my personal and professional life, my physical appearance, my intelligence and various creative talents. She condemned my relationship with PL and suggested that he and I were having an affair on his wife. Trista encouraged anyone reading her posts to join in the “fun” of insulting and degrading me and, much to my chagrin, many people did.

I emailed Trista to confront her but she just laughed me off saying she had the right to free speech and would go on saying anything she liked about me. It was only now that I realized just how jealous she was of my friendship with PL and, in her delusion, saw me as a threat. Now that she knew I found her disgusting message board posts, she went back to the website and posted my real name (I had a different professional name back then), my email address, home address and cell phone number, urging anyone reading the info to find me and take me out – and I don’t mean to dinner!

The next few weeks were pure hell for me. I got dozens of phone calls in the middle of the night from men whispering “Slut!”, “I’m gonna get you, cunt!”, “You’re dead, you fucking bitch!” I also got anonymous emails from people detailing how they were going to kidnap, rape, torture and kill me. I wanted to go to the police but, after discussing the situation with PL, we realized that if I did, this whole thing – which, so far, was just a bunch of really juvenile assholes having cruel fun – would turn into a media shit-storm that would deeply affect his marriage and his career. So, I changed my phone number, deleted my email account and went totally off the grid for three months while I waited for things to die down. I had my lawyer monitor the offending website and track Trista’s actions, in the real world and online, over the next year or so, to make sure she didn’t cause me or PL anymore trouble.

That was the first serious incident which made me realize that I had to keep my existence private and separate from my high-profile friends. They may have gated homes, security systems and bodyguards to protect themselves from the bat-shit crazies – but I don’t! The last thing I need is somebody Googling my name to find out that I know [insert famous person here] and emailing me scripts or movie/TV show pitches to pass on to them, only to get pissed off and start threatening me when I refuse or don’t reply to their email.

This second incident is far more tragic and has left a dark mark on my soul, which I will take with me to the grave.

A few years ago, I was simultaneously dating one of the veteran stars of a mega-hit sci-fi series, and a younger up-and-comer who was on the cusp of a great acting career that, with the right agent, could’ve taken him to Hollywood in five or six years. This very suave and handsome younger actor, whom I shall call “IM”, had a hard-core fan following of men who thought he was the coolest dude around, and women who absolutely lusted after him. IM was very open and accessible, via the Internet, and in person. He loved to be around people, talking about their mutual passion for computer games, fantasy, horror and sci-fi movies and TV shows, and I really enjoyed that about him.

I lived in Ottawa at the time, and would visit IM, in Toronto, two or three times a month, for business – and a whole lotta pleasure! He had a nice little apartment in a woman’s home, and had been casually dating his landlady for over a year by the time IM and I first met. Unfortunately, by early summer of that fateful year, the landlady/girlfriend was becoming more of a jealous and possessive stalker. Using her key, she would sneak into IM’s apartment while he was at work and mess with his things, go through his drawers, take little keepsakes. IM couldn’t prove it, but he shared his concerns with me, and decided to break things off with her, completely.

Over the summer, my relationship with IM became more serious, although I was still dating the other actor. Knowing that I was “the other woman”, the landlady/ex-girlfriend started sneaking into IM’s apartment and deleting my landline phone messages for him, and messages from his agent telling him that he’d booked an audition. Small gifts and gestures of my affection for IM had also gone missing from his apartment. IM’s suspicion and concern grew but, again, he couldn’t really prove it. Nonetheless, while searching for another apartment to rent, he warned me to watch my back because he feared the woman was becoming dangerously unstable.

In late summer, IM and I decided to make a more formal commitment to each other. I ended my near year-long relationship with the veteran actor, with the expectation that IM and I would be living together, in a few weeks. Sadly, and horrifically, two days before he and I were to start apartment-hunting in Toronto, I learned (on a sci-fi message board) that IM had a vicious confrontation with his psycho-stalker landlady, during which he shot and nearly killed her. Knowing that, despite the circumstances, he was most assuredly facing 10 to 12 years in prison – and the end of his burgeoning acting career – IM committed suicide with a gunshot to the head, a few hours later.

Yeah. So, now you know.

It’s because of these two very hard lessons that I, now, keep my celebrity friendships a secret from the general public. I’ve been in a loving, non-exclusive relationship with a Hollywood mega-star, since 2010, and there are less than ten people on the entire planet who know about it.

And that’s just the way we like it!



Back in the early 1990s, when I was toying with the idea of becoming a full-time professional writer, I was dabbling in both screenwriting and hard news journalism. Practicing both trades, simultaneously, to see where my talents were best served. In 1992-’93, I was a huge fan of a TV series, called Forever Knight, about an 800 year-old vampire who seeks redemption for centuries of killing by becoming a Toronto homicide detective, bringing murderers to justice, while trying to find a way to become human, again. It was Canadian, so, low budget. But they did the best they could with the money they had, and I loved the show so much I decided to invest some serious time and effort into writing my very first spec script for it, with little expectation that I would ever get a freelance TV writing gig from it.

My idea was for Jack the Ripper to show up in present day Toronto, with Detective Nicholas Knight on the hunt for this immortal serial killer of street prostitutes, some of whom Nick regarded as friends (he was non-judgmental like that).

I was pretty fearless, back then. A shit-kicking trouble-maker who liked to rock the boat, fight the system and root for the underdog. That defiant attitude occasionally got me into trouble with law enforcement — which is why I was leaning towards a career in journalism. I wanted to stick it to The Man, as they say. But, for the moment, it was screenwriting that interested me, and if I was going to write a TV script about prostitutes working in downtown Toronto, then, I’d better do some proper research. And by “proper” I mean drive to Toronto and spend a weekend posing as a prostitute in the downtown core, observing, listening, taking mental notes of conversations between pros and johns, pros and their pimps etc. I was married back then, so, my husband was less than thrilled that I intended to put myself in serious danger by going undercover. But he knew he couldn’t stop me, so, while I walked up and down the same block on Church Street, from midnight to 3 a.m., one weekend in June, he followed me in his car, ready to pull me inside if it looked like I was in trouble.

It was an eye-opener, witnessing what those poor women went through every night. But what shocked me the most was learning that some of those girls, in skin-tight clothes and 6” heels, selling themselves on the streets for $50, weren’t much more than 12 or 13 years old. It sickened me but I couldn’t really do anything about it. Not right then, anyway. So, with pages of notes in-hand, I went home and started writing my spec script for Forever Knight. It was ¾ finished when the show was cancelled, in 1996. By then, other projects and responsibilities — and the pending demise of my ten year marriage — forced me to tuck it into a box and prepare myself for life as a single woman, with thousands of dollars in monthly bills to pay. That’s when I switched to journalism, writing freelance articles for newspapers and magazines, while trying to launch my company, P.A.Plus.

In 2001, seeking inspiration for stories to write, I started rummaging through my box of unfinished writing projects and found the spec script for Forever Knight. It reminded me of the night I spent posing as a street prostitute, and how infuriated I was to see children selling their bodies to fat, disgusting old men, while their pimps observed the goings-on, nearby. It lit a fire of determination under my ass and I decided I was going to write a story about Canada’s prostitution and child sex trade industry, going undercover in Toronto, once again, to get the research I needed to substantiate a story that could, potentially, go international, thanks to the internet. This time, I was going to be wired with an audio recorder, have a cell phone in my pocket — and a knife tucked under my very short skirt.

I spent three long nights walking the downtown streets, pretending I belonged, acting like just one of the girls, so, no one would get suspicious. I got names, memorized the faces of a few industry pros, pimps and johns, got background info on some of the girls and learned how they were forced or tricked into the lifestyle by men who got them hooked on drugs and, then, turned them out onto the streets to get the money they needed to feed their habit. It broke my heart, hearing about 12, 13 and 14 year-old girls who ran away from a miserable home life, only to end up here, frightened, hungry, cold and alone, every Goddamned day of their lives.

I had to do some quick-thinking and fast-talking when men in cars would approach me asking: “How much?” But, despite my efforts to blend in, eventually, the Jamaican gang that managed the block I was working noticed that I was doing way too much talking and not enough fucking. They followed me when I went into a 24-hour café for a quick refreshment and told me that I either start working for them, from that moment on, or I leave their territory, immediately. I was about to fire off on them, going into a rant about their shameful abuse of women, in an attempt to publicly embarrass them in a coffee shop full of people (cuz I’ve been known to do shit like that). But, then, I saw the gun tucked into one of the gang members’ waistband and decided I should probably just get the fuck outta there, ASAP.

So, with stacks of notes, research and statistics, and over a dozen mini-recorder tapes, on my desk, I started pitching every major newspaper and magazine in the country, asking if they’d be interested in hiring me to write an in-depth feature story about life on the streets for young girls who were forced into prostitution. Sadly, the typical response I got was (and I’m paraphrasing): “Nobody cares about underage whores. But, if you can get us an exclusive interview with Kiefer Sutherland...”




The worldwide problem of weak, starving, nutritionally deficient, anorexic models all starts with the designers. They draw sketches of outfits they'd like to make, using ultra-thin cartoon illustrations of women that are totally beyond any realistic proportions, and because designers envision these clothes on ultra-tall sticks, they think they only look right on ultra-tall sticks. They want to sell their merchandise, so, they make the sample size (the demo piece to be shown on runways and in photo sessions for retail buyers to examine) in size 0, 1 or 2. If a model wants to work, she has to fit into that sample size. So, she's under constant pressure to eat less than 500 calories, per day, and exercise for 2 to 4 hours, every day. All so she can look like a walking corpse on the runway.

It HAS to stop! Designers would sell a shit-ton more clothes if they designed and manufactured them in the sizes that women truly are in this world, and statistics show that the average North American woman is 5'5", 160 lbs. (size 14-16). Wake up, designers. YOU are the core of this very serious problem, and the change starts with YOU.



I know I'm a bit late but I finally got around to watching Almost Famous (2000), about a teenage boy getting the break of a lifetime after being hired by Rolling Stone Magazine to follow a band around the United States, in the early '70s, in order to write a story. I was feeling a sense of nostalgia as I watched this very sweet and earnest story about a young man striving for independence from his overbearing mother, and credibility as a journalist in the world of sex, drugs and rock & roll.

I don't often talk about my very early days in the entertainment industry, back when I was, first, a roadie for a popular band that was part Duran Duran, part Glass Tiger (oh, man, am I ever showing my age!), and, then, lead female vocalist for an '80s pop-rock cover band, performing songs by Bryan Adams, Madonna, Journey, Alannah Myles, Bon Jovi, Led Zeppelin and The Eurythmics.

It was as a roadie for In & Out when I learned just how suffocating  and disturbing  it can be to have dozens of fans follow you around everywhere and who just won't leave you the fuck alone. Anytime I was with any member of the band, shopping at a mall, going to the movies, taking a walk through a park, there they were, chicks following us, giggling, gawking, asking them for their autograph. It was at one of In & Out's concerts that I received my very first request for an autograph, from a girl who wanted my signature on a piece of paper, just because I worked for the band (strange, yes, but I complied with her request because I didn't want to hurt her feelings).

Then, there were the hardcore groupies to contend with which, as a roadie, was part of my job to manage. Thirteen, fifteen, eighteen year-old girls who pulled every stunt imaginable in an effort to get backstage, and who would do anything to score a romantic interlude with one of the band members, who were all very handsome, very intelligent and talented young men, aged 18 to 21. I was 18/19 when I worked for In & Out but, more often than not, felt like their babysitter  and moral compass  trying to keep them happy, do their bidding and, yet, keep them out of trouble I knew they might later regret.

Being the 20 year-old lead female vocalist in a band whose youngest member was 42 was another eye-opening experience. The four male members of Mirage were all married with kids, and hired me to complete a six month contractual obligation to perform at various venues across Ontario, after their female singer was seriously injured in a car accident. While we didn't have giggling teenagers following us wherever we went, there were still the groupies to deal with. Women in their 20s, 30s and 40s, who tried to get noticed by the guys, deluding themselves into thinking that they were more than just a quick fuck or easy blowjob in a nightclub washroom. This was also my introduction to a more public life as a semi-celebrity, with my own fan base of adoring men of all ages, trying to seduce me. I never once had sex with any of them and, a few months before my 21st birthday, became the girlfriend (and later wife) of a radio broadcasting celebrity, who had his own issues with being a public figure with a stalkerish female fan base.

It were these very early lessons about being a public figure and handling the adulation (and soul-crushing criticism) with class and maturity that helped me when I later became known, worldwide, as an actress, voice-over artist, comic book writer, celebrity publicist and talent manager.



Unfortunately, I have faced this scenario time and again since I got back into the dating scene after my divorce, in 2000. I may not have a PhD or an MBA but I am wicked smart, talented, creative and driven to succeed at everything I try. Over the years, I became a much sought-after writer, publicist and business manager, based not only on my professional skills but also because I'm a cunning, ruthless, street-smart bitch who doesn't take shit from anybody.

During my few attempts to introduce myself to men who didn't really know me, and develop what I'd hoped would be the beginning of a fruitful, intimate relationship with them, I discovered, much to my dismay, that they were rather...vocal when it came to critiquing my writing skills and education level. Often ending their scathing reviews with words like "honey," "darlin'," and my personal favourite: "cupcake."

For instance, I emailed one man, last spring, who went online looking for an intelligent and enlightened female companion who was as successful in business as she was dominating in the bedroom. Naturally, I was expecting a favorable reply to my query but what I got, instead, went something like this:

"Hey, babe Tnks for reaching out I Googled your name and red your blog. Your a decent writer but itsobvious you still have so much to learn.maybe i could teach you a few things, cookie. Let's get together for coffee OK"

You know what really pissed me off about that – aside from the fact that he was irritatingly condescending and misogynistic? I'm a multi-award winning writer who's made a pretty good living writing hard news stories, biographies, celebrity profiles, newspaper & magazine articles, TV and movie scripts, comic books, advertising campaigns...and this guy...this ASSHOLE whom I just asked out on a date...is a part-time gas station attendant, who still lives with his fucking mother!

In a baffling display of extraordinarily hostile misogyny, men sometimes call me a conceited bitch for agreeing with their compliment on my looks, talents and abilities, or daring to assume that I am intellectually and financially compatible with them. It’s almost as if they feel I should rebuff or deny my own accomplishments or physical attributes, and just pretend to be less than I am, in order to make them feel better. For instance, a few months ago I responded to this online personals ad from a local man who was seeking a true and real connection with a woman, not just a quick fuck at a motel. He wrote:

"I'm a hard-working, successful, 48 year-old professional in the financial services industry, making in excess of $80,000 per year. I own a 4,000 sq. ft. home in the north end of town and a beach house right on the Pacific Ocean, in Parksville. I'm divorced with twins in grade 6, and have two German Shepherds that I love to spoil and smother with kisses. I'm very active, 6' 2" with an athletic build and have been told, many times, that I am very good-looking. I love hiking and boating, going to antique stores, curling up with a good book. I'm well read and enjoy Shakespeare just as much as Stephen King. Seeking a socially, intellectually and financially compatible woman, age 30-50, who loves animals and kids, for a deeper connection beyond the physical."

So, I replied:

"Hi. My name is Kelly. I own and manage three successful companies and make a yearly income that is comparable to yours. I'm a public figure in the entertainment industry, with a background in acting, screenwriting and television production. I'm also a freelance journalist and award-winning graphic artist and photographer. I love kids and have two cats that, like you, I also love to spoil and smother with kisses. I'm not athletic, by any stretch of the imagination, but I do love to go for walks and hikes, play tennis, swim at the beach etc. I have gorgeous hazel green eyes and an ever-changing hair colour (brunette, this week). Would love to hear back from you!"

His response?

"Fuck, lady. You really think you're something wonderful, don't you? Telling me how wealthy and successful you are. Well, you ain't all that BITCH. Get over yourself, you fat, ugly cunt?"

Come on, guys. Either you want a woman who is your equal, a truly compatible mate in almost every respect, or you don't. Stop wasting your time (and mine) looking for the imaginary version of the woman you think you want but are truthfully intimidated by.



I was a hard-core Days of Our Lives fan, from about 1979 to 1992. As a "shipper" I rooted for so many couples to stay strong and true to each other, through their many trials and tribulations (and WTF? storylines).

One of my favourite oddball couples of the 1980s was Eugene and Calliope, played by the extraordinarily versatile actor, John de Lancie, of Star Trek fame, and Arleen Sorkin. Arleen later went on to voice the role of Harley Quinn in Batman: The Animated Series, and I loved her interpretation of the character so much that, when I became a voice-over actress in the early '90s, I duplicated Arleen's voice/accent for various roles in commercials etc., and it was a favourite amongst paying clients.

Apparently, I'm not the only one who liked Arleene's voice in the role of Harley Quinn, as many other actresses have also tried to duplicate her take on the character in other Batman/DC projects. I still think Arleen does it best though, don't you?



I just woke up from a nightmare. Not about ghosts, being buried alive or drowning in the middle of the ocean. My monster was...a deadline!

In my dream, a well-connected writer friend told me to pitch her an engaging project for a children's magazine, like OWL or National Geographic Kids. In a matter of minutes, I conjured up a story about a brother and sister, two Dora the Explorer types, who learn that their parents, adventurous treasure hunters, like Indiana Jones and Lara Croft, had gone missing in Europe a few days earlier. Kids reading the magazine had to study and rake through every page of the magazine for clues about where their parents might be. It was a clever way to get kids to read all of the articles and study all of the pictures and advertisements (most important), and then formulate potential hypotheses about where the parents might be, based on about 15 clues sprinkled throughout the magazine.

"Brilliant," said my writer friend, and then went straight to her magazine's publisher, an Anna Wintour/Rupert Murdoch type, with my pitch.

A few hours later, my friend came back and said: "My publisher loved your pitch. Can you have the entire story and game plan, including character mock-ups and all of the written and visual clues, worked out and emailed to her by Sunday night? She wants to read a detailed pitch on Monday morning."

"Are you kidding me? It's 8 p.m. on Friday. I can't have a pitch like that ready to go in 48 hours. I'm working all weekend!"

My friend started to get really nervous and agitated, reminding me that she put her own job and reputation on the line by vouching for me (a moderately successful writer/journalist) with her employer, and promising that I could deliver. She even went so far as to say that, if I screwed up this opportunity, I'd probably never get a staff position or freelance writing gig at any of the 20+ newspapers, magazines, TV news outlets (like CNN) or online resources (e.g. Huffington Post) that this publisher/mega-mogul owned.

I tried to shrug off my friend's doomsday prophecy but she really put the pressure on, to the point where I almost started to cry. That's when I woke up.

So, yeah, that's a professional writer's nightmare. Hmmm...I wonder what architects, accountants and real estate agents dream about.



The CBC unexpectedly quoted me in a news article about the passing of Star Wars conceptual artist, Ralph McQuarrie, who died on March 3rd, 2012. They grouped my tribute in with quotes from celebrities, such as Wil Smith and Simon Pegg, and people who actually worked with Ralph at LucasFilm ‒ including George Lucas, himself! I was deeply honoured.

"As mourners took to social media to express their gratitude,
several high-profile friends and fans weighed in."


CTV's W5 recently did an undercover expose on fake psychics who con gullible, desperate people out of hundreds – sometimes thousands – of dollars, promising to lift curses and guide them through difficult times, such as the loss of a job, end of a marriage or death of a family member.

This was a great story, and I'm glad CTV took a serious, in-depth approach to it. First, know that I am, in fact, psychic. Or, more precisely, empathic/intuitive. I have paranormal abilities that I cannot explain and don't really understand how they work or where they come from. Details on that, HERE.

So, knowing all of that, here is where I stand on the issue of paying "psychics" a shit-load of money to give you advice, cleanse your aura and help you talk to dead family members:


So, why do I feel so strongly about this, even though I believe I am a legitimate psychic? It's simple. Predicting the future is a guessing game, like Charades or Pictionary. You get clues from body language and facial expressions, you analyze and hypothesize, based on previous experience and the Law of Averages, and come to conclusions based on feelings and intuition. Hardly an exact science. Whether you are genuinely intuitive, such as myself, or not, it is all still just a guessing game. You have no true, tangible product or service to sell, like a hotdog vendor, florist, real estate agent, event planner or architect. When those people charge a fee for services rendered, they deserve it, because the product or service is real. The proof is right there in front of you.

When I tell someone I get the sense that their spouse is cheating on them, or their boss is looking for someone to replace them at work, it's all just speculation and intuition. The future is fluid and ever-changing. What I feel and sense about the coming weeks or months in your life may be true, right now, but every decision you make, from deciding what to wear to work, what to eat for lunch or which route to take to the grocery store, changes that future. So, you should never, ever, EVER pay more than $5.00 for a reading, because it's not even close to being definitive. I get so angry when I see newspaper or online ads from Lobelia's Lair or the Calico Cat Tea House, here in Nanaimo, charging people a ridiculous amount of money to tell them stories, filling the minds of sad, gullible and desperate people with false hopes, wishes and dreams.

Crystal balls are just carved and polished chunks of pretty, semi-transparent rock. They have no power, beyond producing a mild electrical current. Wet tea leaves clumped together at the bottom of a cup cannot predict your future, nor can the position of stars in the night sky, for that matter. Tarot cards are nothing more than stiff pieces of paper, printed with colourful illustrations (that were designed by graphic artists) and distributed by the thousands from factories in China, India and Taiwan. There is no magic, here.

It's no big deal to pay a couple of bucks for a "psychic" reading – so long as you understand that it is all JUST A FUN AND SILLY LITTLE GUESSING GAME. OK?



When I was 5 & 6 years old (circa 1974), I lived next door to a very sweet, elderly couple who became like a third set of grandparents to me. My fondest memories are of the Saturday afternoons I would spend on the living room sofa with the man, watching SHOCK THEATRE, which were mostly black & white B-movie horror flicks from the 30s, 40s and 50s. We would eat junk food, cover our eyes during the scary parts and scream at the appropriate moments. This precious year in my early life cemented my passion for horror movies, and I later welcomed Carrie, The Shining, The Exorcist and Poltergeist with open, loving arms.


I hate to travel. Always have. Getting to the airport on time, the check-in process, being sandwiched in with dozens of complete strangers on a plane, for hours – and don't even get me started on hotel booking screw-ups, language barriers, currency confusion, weird food and digestion problems, questionable washroom facilities, guarding my personal safety and belongings in a strange place...ugh! I did it for work but only because I had to, to make money.

Then, along came Google Earth and Google Street View. Now, I can safely stroll down a street in Sydney, Paris, Toronto, Bogota, London, Venice, Reykjavik, Moscow, Beverly Hills, Hawaii, Rome, Brooklyn, Madrid...I can get up-close and personal with the CN Tower, Uluru, the Eiffel Tower, Alcatraz Prison, the Devil's Tower (which, oddly enough, always seems to give me a craving for mashed potatoes), the Burj Khalifa, the pyramids at Giza...just so many wonderful hours of enjoyment on my 27" HD monitor – without having to worry about negotiating my way through sweaty, smelly crowds, getting lost or mugged, getting sick after contracting God knows what, or having to pee in a hole in the ground because there are no toilets.

When I have the time, I like to just wander around in the middle of wherever, using Street View to check out the apartment buildings, houses and front yards, the cars people drive, the neighbourhood businesses, the people walking down the street or riding on their bikes. A slice of life, a moment captured in time, in another city, somewhere in the world.

Well, earlier today, I got a glimpse of what life is like at a home in the Lucerne Valley desert, on North Shore Drive, northeast of San Bernardino, CA. A man in a lawn chair, lounging in the shade under the trees in front of his house, while his big, black dog lies flat on his side, baking in the midday sun. I'll betcha he's got a few good stories to tell!