Khaela maricich biography

I'm a writer and artist using language and images for commercial projects and for art.
The Blow is an American electro pop band, comprising Khaela Maricich and Melissa Dyne.
“MAYBE BY THE TIME I'M SIXTY, I'LL BE OVER MY LOVE STORIES.” The stages of Khaela Maricich's career as a performer: A girl who was just playing.

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When I was in grade school, at the end of every school year the graduating class produced a slim paperback yearbook for the whole school. I went to a Catholic school, and it ran from kindergarten to eighth grade, so the student body ranged from five year olds to fourteen year olds. In the yearbook the graduating eighth graders got to make their last will and testaments, in which they would leave something behind to whomever they chose. People employed it with varying degrees of sincerity. Mark McCarthy said something like, "I leave all of St. Anne's School a giant brownie." His entry was censored from the publication. A classmate of mine, Lizbeth Morrell, with whom I had been in the same class for eight years, wrote, "...and to Khaela I leave the ability to think something without having to say it out loud." The inheritance that she left me was significant. Up until the point that I read those words I had never actually considered that there was any difference between thinking and talking. If I experienced something, I said it. I ended up with a fairly strong confidence tha

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Khaela Maricich (the Blow) Talks MGMT’s MGMT

What is music for? This question maybe seems too massive to be worth considering, but listening to the new MGMT album, my bandmate Melissa Dyne and I have been asking ourselves this very question. Really, why do people make music, and why do other people listen to it? Music is such a weird thing to begin with. As an art medium it’s so potent and accessible. People get angry about music. People have sex to it. These days it’s rare to inspire extreme feelings with a painting or an installation. Only some kind of art freak would have sex to a painting. A piece of music, however, can move with ease through broad and diverse populations, like a virus, causing all sorts of powerful reactions. Divorced, these days, from even the plastic of a compact disc, the container for music now seems to be the place within a human being where a song is stored and loved and imperfectly remembered. In the brain? The heart? Some other empty space inside of us?

Listening to a new album from a band with whom I have history has the same

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A few years ago I was in this very intimidating weeklong screenwriting workshop. Most of the other writers were from L.A. and New York; most of them had made movies. I was from Portland, Oregon, and not only had I not made a movie, I was wearing leg warmers that were made out of sleeves I had cut off of sweaters. Meals were the hardest, walking around with a tray, shyly trying to figure out whom to sit next to. At dinnertime the mail was handed out; most of it seemed to come from people’s agents. One day I got a letter. It was a big envelope from my friend Khaela Maricich. I opened it and slowly pulled out a strange mass of paper. I started unfolding it. And unfolding it. The Hollywood screenwriters began looking up from their conversations to watch me unfold. Eventually I had to stand up because the thing was so long. It was a life-size paper version of Khaela herself. She must have sensed I needed backup. There she was, carefully painted and cut out, one arm punching the air, wearing jeans and a T-shirt that said temporary version. Oh and look, the jeans even had a tiny paper