He may not have been the “best” Bond, but he was my Bond, the one I grew up with.

My parents used to take me to his movies regularly, and it was always a thrill. The iconic, deadly cool theme music, the risque opening in which you could kind-of-and-kind-of-not see naked women, and then the whole camp fantasy of being a handsome and unflappable spy– it was all immensely appealing to a boy on the cusp of puberty.

Kind of like a Wes Anderson film, the Bond movies starring Roger Moore were a child’s vision of the adult world — a comic book fantasia made manifest, but one that promised to be safe, free from the dreary weight of all the unimaginable day-to-day realities that lay ahead.

I was 13 when Moonraker came out. Jaws, a lurching behemoth with steel fangs, was the primary villain, and he was awesome. At the end of the film, after Bond had coasted to victory and Jaws was pulling himself out of the rubble of some foiled plan, a tiny blonde– busty, pigtailed and bespectacled– appeared to help him. Jaws turns and smiles, his metal teeth glinting, and she smiles back. It’s love at first sight, and they then exit into some charming and eccentric future together.

What I remember, and what everybody I have asked remembers about this scene, is that the woman ( Dolly) had braces. This was what connected the two. In spite of their size difference, they were soul mates in braces. It was the sort of thing a 13 year-old kid, the type of kid who might actually have had braces, and that the movie was trying to appeal to, instantly related to. All of us watching, in the midst of our tortured, monstrous throes of puberty, hoped to find a Dolly, too. It was something that resonated deeply and stayed with us.

Anyhow, in returning to the YouTube clip of the scene, I saw that it was clear that Dolly did not have braces.

I mean, I had been fucking positive she had braces.

This braces-less reality seemed utterly impossible to me, like discovering I was a Replicant and not a human at all, but there it was.

No braces.

Anyhow, if like me, you remember Hannibal Lecter saying, “Hello, Clarice,” or Darth Vader intoning, “Luke, I am your father,” or Sally Field shouting, “You like me, you really like me!” while accepting an Oscar, then you have apparently experienced what I have just discovered is known as the Mandela Effect.

Now what the Mandela Effect is, is complicated, Internet complicated, and it’s layered in the sort of conspiratorial proofs that only online culture can provide.

Dive deep, if you wish:

Without tunnelling into the rabbit holes surrounding this phenomena, I will simply say that what clearly emerges from all this is that our memory, be it individual or collective, is incredibly unreliable. Sometimes, what we believe to be true, what we know in our bones to be true, what even our tribe agrees is true, is not true. Memory is mysterious, a product of our consciousness that is constantly being constructed and revised, existing as a work in progress rather than some immutable photograph we can reference at will. Everything is in flux, and the truth, as unpalatable as it is, is that we know nothing for sure, and are very, very easily manipulated. In the furious age of Trump, it’s wise to keep this in mind before launching a scorched earth assault on anything that might contradict our world view. We would all benefit from a little less certainty and a little more kindness, I think.

I’m a big fan of the Proust Questionnaire that runs in Vanity Fair each month, and I was wondering if you’d answer one of the questions for me. What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Christopher Alexander

Dear Mr. Alexander:

This one is easy.

Confidence.

Only assholes are confident. At a certain point in your life, likely when you yourself were an asshole but only suspected rather than knew it (think your 20s), confidence probably seemed like the cardinal virtue. It was the one thing you truly wanted to have, what you hoped beamed out of your eyes like James Bond sex lasers.

For most, confidence is just another manifestation of bullying. It lacks generosity and usually ends up being a self-referential imposition thrust upon the unwelcoming– like an unbidden boner at a dance class.

Don’t get me wrong, self-assurance is good, it’s inward, but confidence needs an audience, and that audience has to be subordinate. The gift of intelligence, for instance, is to help all those around you feel smarter about themselves, not stupider. The confident person, the one so determined to lead, to write the year’s most decorated novel, get a prestigious teaching position and then marry a headstrong and winsome PhD candidate from old money, all the while snickering at the small humourists working on the margins, never sees this. The confident person wants to win, and there can be no winning unless there is also losing. They solve your problems quickly, mathematically, rather than talk to you about them. They wear sunglasses at stupid times. They are crippled and broken inside and you should throw rocks at their BMWs, for that is always, always, their car of choice.

And the holy ones who ride bicycles are even worse.

Please send all letters to Bitter Writer to mm@michaelmurray.ca or post in the comments section of this page.

This is a collection of her Tweets from the last week:

Hate is not the first enemy of love. Fear is. It destroys your ability to trust.

If you want to feel good, you have to go out and do some good.

Whatever has happened to you in your past has no power over this present moment, because life is now.

Just saw Skyfall and I’d really like to get slippery with Daniel Craig. Really, really slippery.

What you really want is to be surrounded by people you trust & treasure & by people who cherish you. That’s when you’re really rich.

Empty pockets never held anyone back. Only empty heads & empty hearts can do that. -Norman Peale

Sick of all the Jews in Hollywood.

I don’t hate them, I’m not anti-Semitic, just really, really sick of them right now.

Happiness will come to you when it comes from you. Success will be yours when you choose to take responsibility for making it so.

Books were my pass to personal freedom. I learned to read at age three, & soon discovered there was a whole world to conquer.

Got to call somebody about the birds. Their constant cawing from the backyard is driving me CRAZY!!!!!

Hate birds.

Some people want it to happen, some wish it would happen, others make it happen. -Michael Jordan

Very high right now.

Great spirits have always faced violent opposition from mediocre minds. -Einstein

Successful people know the difference between patience & procrastination.

Bitch-faced birds now on my very last nerve.

I haven’t loved Stedman in a very long time and have had a steady stream of lovers.

Would definitely fuck Obama if I had the chance. Michelle, too.

Every time U suppress some part of yourself or allow others to play U small, U are ignoring the owner’s manual your creator gave u.

Missing the NHL.

I believe that every single event in life happens is an opportunity to choose love over fear.

Fucked Sylvester Stallone once. VERY disappointing.

I was once afraid of people saying “who does she think she is?” Now I have the courage to stand & say, “THIS IS WHO I AM.”

I really, really hate my life and I think several of my maids are stealing from me.

I’m going to go kill me some birds.

As some of you may know, Rob Ford was enrolled at Carleton University in Ottawa back in the 1980’s and he and I used to be last-call regulars at the same bar. We haven’t seen one another in 20 years and have never had a sober conversation, but we were drinking buddies and as such continue to have short, on-line chats whenever one of us is drinking alone.

On Friday morning at 1:39, I got this message from Rob:

Rob: Hey Mur, you catch the Olympics?

Me: Slobber! It was a Bronze Bonanza for Canada, my man!!

Rob: How ‘bout that Udon Bolt guy, eh? The night before he won all the races he did three chicks from the Swedish handjob, I mean handball team! What a stud!!

Me: Usain Bolt, he should be the new James Bond.

Rob: Yeah, that lightning Bolt guy. If I were in his position I’d do some of the lady divers. It turns my crank when they’re all wet and then shower and go into that hot tub together. Love to party with them, man. SHOOTERS!!!

Me: SHOOTERS!!!!

Rob: asadafsdafdpaaaaf9as9d0as

Me: ????

Rob: Fucken cat just walked over the laptop.

Me: Oh.

Rob: I wana get a big dog, call him Flat Screen, but the wife won’t let me. Says I’ll never take him for a walk.

Me: You wouldn’t.

Rob: HAHAAHAHAHAHA! Ain’t it the truth!

Rob: Mur, I tell ya, I just can’t root for Canada during the Olympics. They’re losers. It’s the USA for me, just respect the way they go about stuff, you know? Look at the way they handle war, football, cars, food and stuff. They got it going on. And Jennifer Aniston, too!!!

Me: She’s always been your special friend.

Rob:  BOURBON!!!

Me: Bourbon shooters for all!!

Rob: And US cars rule!  I got a new ride, an Escalade.

Me: The Escalade, that’s what all the rappers sing about, right?

Rob: You know it, little brother. Big shit storm up in Toronto about my ride.

Me: What happened?

Rob: Some fart hole took a picture of me reading while driving down the Expressway. Wasn’t even breaking 100! Now all the green-freaks are on my ass. They can kiss MY ASS!! HAAAHAAHAH!!

Me: I hear you, Slobber.

Rob: Goddamn Escalade drives itself—you don’t need to be paying attention. Things a tank! Couldn’t hurt myself if I tried!

Me: What music do you listen when you’re driving?

Rob: RATT. They really clear the brainpan. Psyche’s me up for the day.

Me: Cool. Did you see the Spice Girls at the closing ceremonies for the Olympics? Still looked pretty good, eh?

Rob: Oh Yeah! Ginger for me, man. And Posh. And Scary. And the other one, Baby, they can all hop in the hot tub with me and the diver girls!!! SPLISHSSSPLASHSPLISHSPLASSH!! But not Sporty, she’s like a dude.

As I’m not much of a gambler, I was just standing around watching some low stakes cards at a poker table. It was more like an Ex for people with addictions than it was a James Bond film–mindlessly repetitive, ugly in an everyday way and tinged with a bit of desperation. I just stood there hoping not to look too conspicuously like an Out-Of-Towner-Who-Is-A-Little-Scared-Of-Your-City.

After a moment or two a black man in a flashy sweater approached me.

Man: I got to say, that hat really looks good on you.

Me: Thanks, I love it.

The man then shook his head and put his hands on his hips.

Man: No, I don’t much compliment men, so this doesn’t come easy to me, but you really own that hat, man!

Me: Well, I like your sweater!

As I was saying this I sent a text to Rachelle:

Text to Rachelle: The Detroit Brothers really dig my style.

Man: You got some confidence to dress like that, boss!

Me: Well, my wife picked it out for me. She’s a designer– good at hockey, too.

Man: Your lady plays hockey?

Me: She has a wicked shot, great power forward.

Man: You Canadians and you’re hockey, man!

Text from Rachelle: Who are the Detroit Brothers?

Text to Rachelle: Black people!!!

As fate would have it the wife of the guy who liked my hat was sitting at the table right in front of us. She was pulling crumpled ones and fives out of her purse and handing them to the dealer. She turned and faced her husband with a look of surprise on her face.

Wife: Where you been at? I haven’t seen you in 10 hours, don’t you think its right that you come and check on me, maybe be bring me a drink or something?”

Man: (Looking incredulous and spinning around to include me in the conversation.) Where have I been? Where have you been at?! If you’re asking me where I’ve been for the last ten hours, then shouldn’t I be asking you the same question? (Directly to me) Can you believe it?

Me: Don’t get me involved.

Text from Rachelle: What are you doing? Stop it!

Wife: You shouldn’t just be leaving me alone all night. You never know what’s going happen. I’m special.

Man: I can be damn sure you ain’t gonna win nothing.

Text to Rachelle: I’m mediating a domestic dispute at a poker table.

His wife gave her husband the finger and then she sucked it.

Text from Rachelle: Did you just say to them the truth isn’t two-sided, it’s round?

Text from Me: Yes, but I added nigga.’

Me: Well, as they say, the truth isn’t two-sided, it’s round.

Wife: (Looking directly at me in that way) Have you been hitting the pipe? You got crack teeth, I can see that, so you best be minding your own business. I’m trying to play here, understand?

Man: You see what she’s like?

Me: (To woman) My teeth are like this because of chemotherapy, not crack, okay?

Text from Rachelle: Pickle, I’d really like it if you left the casino now and came to the hotel room.

Wife: I don’t care what they from, they be NASTY.

Man: (Facing his wife) You know what’s nasty, you’re nasty!

She looked at him, put her cards down on the table and stood up.

Wife: Oh no you didn’t.

The man waved her off and walked away, and I decided, as Rachelle had suggested, to just return to the hotel room, where for reasons I still don’t quite understand, I told her that I had won $85.