Maria Alexander News and Updates from TheHandlessPoet.com

I realize a lot of people who read my blog think that the world's mourning of Michael Jackson was a supreme waste of time in the name of piss-poor journalism.

I couldn't disagree more.

And the reason couldn't have been better summed up than seeing 2 Pianos, 4 Hands at the Colony in Burbank on Friday night.

For the uninitiated, 2 Pianos, 4 Hands is a rarely licensed play written by two famous Canadian pianists-turned-actors-and-playwrights. It's memoir for the stage of how they both grew up as classically trained pianists and the crazy challenges they faced when they emerged in a world with demands far greater than they'd anticipated. It's rarely allowed to be performed because the two writers and original performers -- Richard Greenblatt and Ted Dykstra -- both want to ensure that the actors who perform their play are not only great actors, but accomplished pianists. But when they find those two actors, the result is a very funny, touching performance with spectacular live piano music.

As I watched this enormously entertaining play, I was reminded of the incredible power of music in our lives. How music reaches across centuries to touch us in profound ways. While I was no fan of Jackson*, I felt keenly the extraordinary power of his music to shrink the world into our palms, long before we ever had the Internet. Sure, we could say, "What a waste of time! The guy was a pedophile and a lunatic!" But that is cheapening, if not totally discarding, the power and importance of music itself, and how it was wielded by an immensely popular and talented man.

Just two days before Jackson died, the BBC reported about a team from Tubingen University that published details of flutes they found that date back 35,000 years -- the oldest musical instruments ever found. For at least 35,000 years, music has been shaping our human psyches. It is and probably always will be the greatest and most influential thread from culture to culture. Jackson was that thread, stitching us together in astonishing ways.

For me, I felt a distinct pang when I heard the news. I immediately suspected drug overdose, possibly even suicide. I acknowledged that a piece of my childhood had died with him, that somehow he'd woven himself into my life without my wishing so. And maybe that's what people are reacting to. Maybe that makes them uncomfortable. But for me, I could not deny that his death is, through nothing less than his music, a tragedy that we can't underestimate.

Later this weekend, Lord Arux and I spent some wonderful time with the piano and guitar putting chords behind two more Lady Euthanasia songs, discovering that I'd slipped in some funky time changes. I even puzzled over whether "Don't Cry Baby Mithras 'Cos Jesus Stole Your Birthday" needed a bridge until Lord Arux pointed out that plenty of folk songs don't have bridges. He knows because he likes folk music. I don't. I just write it. Which is, um, weird, I admit.

Just kick me if I start wearing one glove. Hard.




*Read my essay, "Goodnight, Marvin," which I wrote for Douglas Adams in The Anthology at the End of the Universe to see how little I thought of Michael Jackson's music. Egads!

In the new Transformers movie, two of the robots -- Skids and Mudflap -- bicker in a "rap-inspired street slang" and it's ruffling racism feathers. People are referring to these characters as the robotic Skip and Fetch.

I've not seen the movie, but I've certainly wrestled with this issue as a write. An editor once told me my depiction of two characters deep in the heart of Oakland (aka Oaktown) was racist because I had the two young thugs busting out Snoop Dawg slang. Frankly, I thought the editor -- who taught at a private university -- was suffering excessive PC-ism. I knew people talked like this. I'd heard it. I still hear it. I'd depicted other black characters who didn't speak like that at all -- just the two little wannabe gangstas. She'd not mentioned the other black characters at all. Perhaps she'd assumed they were white?

Is it ever okay to write a character like this? I wanted to show the range of people who populate the Bay Area. From the financially literate to the economically hopeless, from the upwardly educated to the desperate and violent. But are writers doomed to be censured for depicting people outside of their immediate cultural cadre?

Smilin' is cheesin', bleedin' is leakin'
Beggin is bummin, if you nuttin you comin
Takin' orders is sunnin', an ounce of coke is a onion
A hotel's a telly, a cell phone's a celly
Jealous is jelly, your food box is your belly
To guerrilla mean to use physical force
You took a L, you took a loss
To show off mean floss, uh
I know you like the way I'm freakin' it
I talk with slang and I'ma never stop speakin' it...

From EBONICS LYRICS by BIGL

Tonight before buckling down to write, I took back my crappy A1000 Canon camera to the store where I bought. (I think that's what it was called, anyway.) I exchanged it for a sweeeeeet PowerShot SD1200 IS. I'm currently uploading videos of Robie I took with it to torment you all.

But on the way home, I was gliding up the 2 and noted the helicopters circling over the highway. Something heinous must have happened, I thought. And, as I approached, it became more apparent from the police activity lining the highway what had happened: someone's car had flipped over the edge of the freeway and took a terrifying tumble into the ravine.

::shudder::

I didn't even think such a thing was possible. Apparently it is.

They're still out there. Circling. Searching. Watching.

Nothing like a horrific event to make me feel damned happy to be alive.

Just a reminder that I'll be signing tonight at Dark Delicacies from 7-8:30pm.

As excited as I am to see everyone, I'll be cutting the signing short so that I can attend Edith's wake. Apologies in advance for the disappearing act.

Looking forward to seeing you there!

Sunday's tragedy overshadowed the adventures of the weekend, wherein Lord Arux and I ventured to Sacramento for insane desserts at Rick's Dessert Diner and a bit of family visitation. At the Diner, I had a cream puff that was so rich it was practically illegal, whilst he had some cake that was 1000% chocolate. They have a real juke box with 45s that actually broke down while we were there, as apparently the "Peggy Sue" record had warped and was sounded like something out of a horror movie as it played. If you are ever stranded in the cuiltural wasteland that is our state capital, do find this fabulous sweet spot.

At one point on Saturday we also found ourselves in Placerville, near where I grew up. Strolling the streets of this quaint gold rush town, we discovered a gorgeous goth shop called Gothic Rose Antiques. We must have scoured the shop, it was so chock full of amazing things. I could have easily gone broke in about two seconds if I'd let myself even buy one thing. I love that such a dark little shop has at long last planted itself right in the middle of Jesus Country. The community needs it, if for no other reason than to inject a little imagination and tolerance in the landscape.

For those wondering about my other cat, Ophelia, she seems to be doing very well with my folks. We loved muchly on her beautiful shiny gray fur and left her purring like a Harley. It was so wonderful to see my fur baby. I miss her tremendously, but she seems to be fine where she is.

Hello, horror fans!

For those coming out to the Bram Stoker Awards Weekend, I just wanted to remind you how to find me. Because, you know, I'm so famous and stuff.

June 11th, Thursday
7pm
Dark Delicacies Gang Bang Signing

June 12th, Friday
4pm
GLBT in Horror (Panel)

June 13th, Saturday
2pm
Reading

Come to one -- come to all! I'll be reading my latest work, "Nickleback Ned," which screenwriter Sean Dickson said was "like reading a thrilling Stephen King story, back when he was fresh and dangerous."

Or, at least as much as I can. Maybe instead I'll read "Though Thy Lips Are Pale," which is appearing in the upcoming Dark Delicacies III with Chuck Palahniuk, Clive Barker and David Morrell. Maybe, just maybe!

I'll also be at the awards banquet. Looking forward to see the usual suspects and more!

If I can be so sure, as some news sources are still hedging as to what the cause of death is. But for those who are leaning toward the obvious, people have been asking me how I figured it out so quickly. So, I'm putting it down for the record.

Back in 2006, I read an enormous book called The Homicide Investigation Manual by Vernon Geberth. It's considered the bible of homicide investigation techniques. There's a section devoted entirely to distinguishing death by auto-erotic asphyxiation from suicide and even homicide, as some apparatus can appear to be fairly aggressive, such as plastic bags fastened over the head.

The key points that tipped me off in the first article I read were:

1. Curtain cord. This struck me as a bit thin to be used as a means of violent death by asphyxiation. Certainly, however, it could be used to apply the right amount of pressure to temporarily cut off airways.

2. Body found in closet. The closet isn't an uncommon place to find people who are practicing auto-erotic asphyxiation, oddly enough.

3. The cord was tied around his neck and "another body part." I assumed this either meant his genitals or his wrist. If the former, it's for arousal. If the latter, it would be part of his "escape" mechanism. Either way, "another body part" was a big clue.

Geberth even discusses how to deal with families when the investigation reveals auto-erotic asphyxiation as the cause of death, pointing out that families will be far more open to a conclusion of suicide than they are of death by dangerous sexual practice. I'd think the loss of a loved one would be hard to accept regardless of determination, but apparently it's enough of an issue that Geberth felt it was worth discussing.

So there you have it. It's a terrible tragedy nonetheless. My heart goes out to his family and friends.

The Stab-n-Gagger at work made such a horrendous mess today in the ladies restroom that our finance gal decided to take matters into her own hands. She made signs that she put on every stall door. They said something to the effect that, "If you insist on throwing up all over the place in here every day, the least you could do is clean it up. It's discusting (sic)!"

I told one of my colleagues, "Well, at least they won't blame us snarky writer bastards for putting up the signs!"

I'm still trying to get my head around why someone would do this. I'm beginning to wonder if it's a passive-aggressive attack on the other office women. Or maybe it's something so weird that I'll never guess.

This was one of those completely delightful weekends that didn't fly by too quickly nor did it linger too long.

Great writing Friday night, which had started Thursday night. I'm following on a breakthrough I'd had the previous weekend writing in a Starbucks, of all places, whilst waiting for my car repair. We take what we can get, right?

Much goofing off and cooking of paprika chicken on Saturday, followed by movie watching Saturday night -- Memento. It was great but I was too sleepy to follow the twists and turns. The only thing that annoyed me about it was what I thought might annoy me, which was that people who have head injuries that produce short term memory problems are simply not that high functioning. It's totally 1000% Hollywood medical fantasy to have people with memory problems from head injuries otherwise indistinguishable from other people. They always have in conjunction with memory problems deficiencies in balance, speech, coordination, IQ and general physiology. Anyway, I was amused to see that Guy Pearce looked like a cross between Perfect Tommy and Brad Pitt just after he'd been pushed out of a moving bus.

Was not able to get into The Crow's Nest. For some reason, that's the name I've given the house in Mt. Washington that Agent Gal has been trying to get me to see. Tonight, now that the lock box seems to be fixed, we should be able to bust in and see what's what.

Yesterday started with taking a dear friend to the airport early in the morning for an international flight, continued with a visit to the farmer's market and a yummy lunch of fish, fresh mushrooms and steamed turnips. It then wound up with a fabulous afternoon disco nap so that Lord Arux and I could hit The Magic Castle. Oh, how I pay for the Castle visits! Always up way too late, but it's worth it.

I met and made new friends with Lindsay Benner. She had the best female act I'd ever seen at the Castle -- feminine, smart, funny and sexy. She's also from the Bay Area. Love her! We shared good words and hugs. I hope to keep in contact.

Today is spinning out of control. So much to do. So much to write!