(L–R) Charlotte Morganti, Linda L Richards, Sam Wiebe, Glynis Whiting, ER Brown, Robin Spano, Owen Laukkanen, Dietrich Kalteis & MC Michael Karl Richards at the Noir at the Bar

These people scare the crap out of me. They look friendly, but are they? I have my doubts. The guy at the back… the tall one with the big smile. His name is Owen Laukkanen. Last week I found out Owen thinks about hostage taking and what kind of guns do the most damage. So what‘s really behind that grin Mr. Laukkanen? Death and more death? Probably.

You people look so happy. You and your evil thoughts of murder. I find you all very disturbing.

I’m also embarrassed to say I happily buy what you are selling.

Books.

Crime fiction novels have been my go-to for entertainment for most of my adult life. I’m not able to watch violent movies, but the more gruesome the written word the better. My dad and I would laugh about our mutual love of the genre as we passed books back and forth. Nothing made us giggle more than when we were both reading a series about serial killers. We actually thought we should keep our mayhem addiction a secret. Wouldn’t people wonder if they knew what we did late at night?

These days I find myself in a position to chat with some of the best crime fiction writers around. It’s one of the many perks of being the Associate Producer for the CUFFED Festival. But like the event last night, The Noir at the Bar, even the public has the chance to come and share a drink with these people and listen to their dark words.

A couple of weeks ago I had a lovely dinner with Robin Spano and Deryn Collier. I was the only one at the table that did not spend days and weeks and months thinking of the best way to kill someone in a memorable way.

I appreciate the craft and thank god these people do what they do.

Maybe I just have a hard time looking at their happy, smiley faces. Take a look at the picture again… the guy at the back that seems to be hiding. His name is Sam. Sam Wiebe. I know what he thinks about will keep you awake at night.

Be afraid.

“Fred Latremouille has died.”

Twitter must be wrong, there is no way Fred could be dead, no way.

Twitter was right. So I cried.

In the mid 70’s I was a chubby, acne-faced, broken teenager and Fred Latremouille’s biggest fan. When Fred was on CFUN in the afternoons I was always listening. My world revolved around him. I phoned into his show almost every day and more often than not he put me on the air. Too many times I played hooky from school and made the trek across town to sit in the studio and watch Fred live. The vice-principal at my high school told my dad that sometimes he only knew I was still around was because he would hear me on Fred’s show. Dad was not impressed but my family made concessions around my obsession. We would not sit down to eat until Fred’s show ended at 6pm. Once Fred signed off the air I was free to come to the dinner table.

I was Fred Latremouille’s biggest fan.

Fred showed me a kindness we always hope for. A kindness rarely seen, a kindness beyond explanation, a kindness that showed the depth of who Fred was. It’s a kindness most aspire to have but rarely own. Fred’s kindness redirected my life.

Through twists and turns I morphed from the avid fan to the professional colleague. Fred was always there. He was greatly admired by most at the broadcasting school I attended. He was a close friend of my boss at the recording studio where I got my first professional job. He was the voice I hired when I produced the Kokanee Beer ads during my years at the advertising agency.

The last time we spoke it was about a health concern Fred was dealing with. By that time we had both left the broadcasting world. During the conversation Fred remarked that it was funny we had kept in contact all these years. “Who would have thought?”

After that last phone call I sent Fred a note thanking him. I wanted him to know that deep down inside, the chubby, acne-faced, broken child was grateful that the famous radio star, Fred Latremouille, had always treated her like a cherished friend.

Every once in a while you reflect back on your life and the decisions you’ve made.

Opting to be Fred Latremouille’s biggest fan was one of my best.

A visit with Fred at CFUN

Alzheimer’s

The disease seems to be coming into its own these days. When you get so many mentions on the Academy Awards you know you have arrived.

For anyone that didn’t see the Oscar broadcast, I recommend watching the song Glen Campbell wrote about his slow wander down the cruel Alzheimer path. For my money it should have won the statue. I’m Still Here

But I digress… as I often do. Or maybe I just lost my train of thought.

Alzheimer’s

My dad had the disease as well as a few of my clients.  It is a formidable foe and worthy of our fear. It is relentless. It is a mystery. People often say they fear the unknown. This time they are correct. Be afraid.

We spend so much time talking about terrorists and ISIS, but Alzheimer’s, and not a suicide bomber, has a better chance to hurt your family.

It’s hurt my family. And every day I see the pain it is causing for the people I know. The tentacles seem to be spreading like a cancer. Not just destroying our cells, but ripping apart the heart of each person it touches.

Alzheimer’s has taught me the true meaning of non-attachment. It didn’t matter that I was a daughter; it only mattered that I was kind.

We older people run around in fear when we can’t remember where we left our keys or the woman’s name at the store. When we forget what we had for breakfast yesterday or what that damn singer’s name was that sang the Glen Campbell song of TV. When our minds only see fog we panic. Is this it? Is it my turn? Is this the start? Fear.

Alzheimer’s

We need to fix this. I hope we start to commit money and research and time.

Now… before we forget how afraid we are.

I went to a Grammy Awards party on the weekend. It was lovely. The host served some tasty cheese.

A perfect evening, especially if you love music and cheese as much as I do.

It was fun to hear the opinions of the other guests as the different acts performed and won trophies. It was a gathering of passionate music lovers.

Music can bring people together or tear them apart. Maybe that’s another reason why I like it so much. Everyone has a favourite. Too bad they think I should also follow along with their tastes. I am not swayed easily.

Music is a bit like food. Highly personal. For instance, I hate raspberries. Nothing is more annoying than when I tell someone this and they inform me that raspberries are delicious. Wrong! YOU think raspberries are delicious. The taste makes me want to puke.

Like Taylor Swift. I enjoy hating her music. I tend to bond with the people that agree with me and dis the people that like her. This is fun. But the reality is I don’t really care who you like as long as you don’t make me listen to something I don’t enjoy. And trust me, no amount of listening to Bob Dylan or jazz will convert me.

I like Ed Sheeran, Adele, Bruno Mars, Amanda Marshal, Bruce Guthro, Andrew Mockler, Adam Levine and YoYo Ma to name a few. Many singer/songwriters and a cello player. I also enjoy music that makes me smile, thank you Pharrel. I like you even when you get political and religious on award shows.

I love music and it has the power to make me happy. I find this magical.

My first real job was at a recording studio. I worked there for ten years. The best days were spent in the studio when great vocals were being recorded. Magic did happen. It was a blessing to hear this happen again and again.

Music makes my life good. Add in some cheese and you have something stellar.

I love my religion.

Besides all the standard hoopla that comes with spiritual pursuits you are taught to think for yourself. Question everything. Discount what doesn’t fit. Contemplate with honesty.

Then when you are faced with the impossible you have the attitude to accept or discard.

This was my mindset when I watched the Tibetan Buddhist ceremony to introduce a young boy as the reincarnation of Bokar Rinpoche. Rinpoche died on August 17, 2004 and now he has been reborn, found and brought forth.

I am faced with the impossible and yet somehow it makes sense.

Bokar Rinpoche was responsible for the way I studied Buddhism. His method is taught here in the west and I was an ardent student. My eventual slacking in time and devotion to the practice was more about my laziness than his death.

But he, and the lamas that carried on his teachings, changed the direction of my life.

So I watched this child being introduced to the world.

Our habitual mind tells us what to reject and has a way of making you question everything.

“I’m not going to believe you just because you say it’s true.”

“I’m not that stupid and I’m also not closed-minded.”

Near the end of the ceremony the boy made a gesture. I said, “Oh my God, it’s him.”

What is truth and fact and sheer magic?

Is it faith?

Maybe it’s a faith that we don’t know.