Marika Malaea

faithful marauder + fake royal

Update On A Rock Star

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Obese T-Rex is the fake band I’m currently in. I need this fake fantasy.

I’ve recruited three similarly gifted fake musicians who will lead me to VH1 victory: Artosaurus is a well-known acoustic drummer; he’s been on the scene for years. My partner, J-Bot, plays a mean keytar; he’s got a minor in Hybrid Instruments from BYU. And Kayem Wai is classically-trained in the elusive holophoner; she’s one of five people in the world that have mastered this instrument. Me, I’m rocking the electric ukulanjo — it’s a ukulele with banjo twang and occasional feedback. I had a hard time choosing between the two, so J-Bot used his hybrid skills to hook me up.

The only single we’ve produced so far is ‘I Didn’t Hear Any Ooze,’ which is both upbeat and catatonic. While the title is technically good news, it’s also about zombies.

Being in a fake band is good for my fake confidence.

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September 8, 2010 at 8:42 PM

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A Cake Tutorial/A Toast

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Cream cheese pound cake with vanilla-Grand Marnier whipped cream + summer berries

One thing to learn before baking a wedding cake:

Maybe don’t offer to bake people wedding cakes.

Cream cheese pound cake soaked in Grand Marnier simple syrup served w/ strawberry coulis

A few things I discovered during The Great Cake-Baking of 2010:

1. I am terrible at time management. See also: keeping cool under pressure, math, wearing a shoe that is not a sneaker, and staying positive.

2. Every hobby I discover and love is doubly more expensive than the last. I imagine my next hobby will be specialized camel breeding.

3. The straw that breaks the human spirit will always be something small and barely worthy of concern. I named mine The Dowel Tragicomedy (Volumes 1-12) and left it at that.

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August 22, 2010 at 5:25 PM

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My Last Bus Ride

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…made an unscheduled stop of gallantry for vagabond removal.

In other words, we didn’t hit the bum passed out in the street. I could tell the driver wanted to (we all did, really) — hey, the guy next to me was in a hurry to buy smokes and his break was only so long — but she was reduced to honking and waving her arm fat loosely out the window.

Finally, a police officer said the magic removal words, and up rose the urine-covered wildebeest in a trench coat favored by Green River Killers and Inspector Gadgets alike.

He ambled away, somewhat crookedly, righting himself on a garbage can. I waved when we made eye contact because it seemed like the nice thing to do, but we both knew it was bullshit. I just put my hand in the air, where it didn’t actually move. I felt like my five-year old self, pretending to be an Indian.

‘HOW,’ I seemed to be asking, not wanting to know the answer.

‘Who cares?’ his face replied, not wanting to know, either.

…became a clown car for miniature humans (in matching neon t-shirts), and their chipper, teenage overlords.

With a warm blast of heat that smelled of sour milk, strawberry gum, and sun-warmed poop, the Generic Neighborhood Day Camp invaded the bus. Our bus. My bus.

This is what I imagine the South smells like.

I stopped counting the number of children at around 42. There were two kids per seat, and they filled up the entire back section, which is really a whole bus by itself. I thought, ‘My stop is coming up soon — surely this is tolerable.’

That’s when the next batch of stanky kids got on. Chaos followed.

One, two, three, four, twelve, thirty-two — when would this clown car madness end? Panic seeped into my heart about the next day’s headlines: ‘Woman Suffocates To Death By Adorable, Strawberry-Scented Bus Bairns’ was the one I worried about most.

My bus stop came swiftly like the death I’d been praying for. The little girls around me screamed, “BYE MISS LADY!” as I exited the womb of Octobus. I looked into the window as the bus drove away, and five little people made faces at me.

Miss Lady’s heart of darkness warmed at the sight of these faces, stretched into menacing glares of perpetual silliness. I waved at the back of the bus, laughing.

…went through at least twelve major olfactory revolutions, beginning and ending in vomit.

The revolutions were as follows:

Dude, There’s Vomit On Your Boot

Cigarette Smoke For Everyone!

Unwashed Butthole Madness

Victoria’s Secret ‘Passionfruit Surprise’ Smells Cheap and Lasts Forever

Peanut Butter-Banana Sandwich, You Enrage Me

That Coffee Breath Isn’t Doing Much For Your Morning Breath

Old Lady Perfume = ‘Passionfruit Surprise’ Circa 1896

Gay Male Double-Dipped In Acqua di Gio

I’m Choking On Your Nag Champa, Hippie

Robot Perfume -or- You Smell Metallic, But Why?

Marijuana At 8 A.M., I Applaud Your Persistence

You’re Vomiting Uncomfortably Close To Me

I waved the vomitous one away from my seat, though somewhat halfheartedly. I figured after all the other crap, what’s one more pile of pink-and-white matter that looks like alien brain noodles?

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July 21, 2010 at 6:11 PM

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Man Down

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My computer is currently playing ‘Dead.’ I have so many blog posts that are almost done; when I finally have the Time, Computer, and Energy, they shall burst forth from my brain-loins like an Octomommyblogger. Minus the mommy, and also the Octo.

Currently: I’m doing Auntie Mame research for a piece, reading ‘On Writing’ by Stephen King (surprisingly funny and helpful book for writers), devouring The New Yorker, writing a book review, and setting up an office space where my broken computer mocks me. So many projects, so little money for that laptop I desperately need. I’m also trying to learn the basic tenets of saying ‘NO,’ but I’m disabled in that arena. And how.

“Arrgh. The laws of science be a harsh mistress.” -Bender

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July 13, 2010 at 11:07 AM

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Nigga-tron Finds Love

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Nigga-tron likes redheads.

I believe the artwork of children should go on the fridge and not on my local bus stop. Yes, I am one of those assholes.

Like the bus stop isn’t a minefield of crap to navigate anyways: I’m panhandled to by every imaginable creature, crazy people warn me of impending doom, teenagers play awful rap at head-cracking volumes, meth heads use me to shield their drug deals, and the severely mentally disabled end up thinking I’m their mom (ditto girlfriend, guardian, or sister — and one time, a dog).

On top of all that, now I’m dealing with your six-year old’s shitty bus stop art.  Of course I think Timmy is super talented! He’s the brightest Branch Davidian among us! But the sun doesn’t actually wear sunglasses — does every six-year old do this? Yes, even I — and Neptoon is spelled with a U-N-E, and that rocket ship looks positively dipped in a scabby STD.  So this is what kids are learning in school.

Who am I kidding, you think he’s the next Thomas Kincaid, Painter of Light. But someone has to be Picasso; I hope dear Timmy likes absinthe and ears.

Besides, most kids don’t even ride public transit. The bus comes to their house, or a minivan drops them off, or they use the buddy system while walking to school. All I’m saying is I don’t come to your house and spray-paint your mailbox, or draw big-eared monkeys on your mom’s Subaru, or make big shaky hearts on the sidewalk. Because that would look stupid.

Do you know how many artists are out there that need exposure and have actual talent? Like a fucktonillion, which wasn’t a number until this very moment. I wonder how many bus stop artists grow up to be Harvard valedictorians, and how many of them acknowledge just where that bus stop helped them along the way. I assume people from Harvard haven’t ever used a bus, so it’s hard to guess — but I’m thinking that number is zero. I just wish we could promote our local artists and make our bus stops look cool, instead of creepy Blair Witch Project murals (HAND PRINTS! Everywhere!). Some kind of impermanent, rotating artwork that advertises the artist’s website and sparks interest in different types of visual design. At least bus stop Facebook photos would look cooler.

I know it’s harmless fun and cute for kids and probably at-risk homeless youth painted that bus stop after kicking heroin for good, and wow am I an asshole.  But my hunch is that Metro hooked up with a school or neighborhood or community org or D) All of the above, and voila! Your child’s eight-year old scribbling can be seen for miles and miles, forever and ever, amen. Someday, when little Timmy is buying meth behind me at the bus stop, he’ll look over and think, “Goddamn, that’s ugly! What retard can’t spell ‘Neptune’?”

And the circle of life continues.

Written by sn0tteh

July 6, 2010 at 6:29 PM

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Snotty Likes

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Saw Rachel Ratner’s Cartographic Study of Musical Incest at Artopia (above).

Awesome cockpits.

The Ace Hotel and Swim Club is a dreamy vintage mirage. The Engine Room at Georgetown Studios is my new favorite venue.

A cool new space for Three Potato Four.

xkcd on analogies.

A psychic cephalopod.

The funniest tweet I read this week.

Your new favorite NSFW video, The F_ck Sh_t Stack.

Scissor Sisters-related concert glee! They’re coming to Seattle! The collective gay nation breathes a sigh of glittery relief.

This old post with the sweet, sweet videos.

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July 6, 2010 at 3:36 PM

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Convo: I Don’t Do Cute

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Snotty: Did you like it? Did you get it?

Esq: Yeah, it was cute — and funny, creative–

Snotty:  I have a hard time when you say things are cute.

Esq: Okay.

Snotty: Pandas are cute. But they’ll also rip your face off.

Esq: Truuue.

Snotty: Jussayin’.

Esq: So yes, your blog post was like a panda.

Written by sn0tteh

June 30, 2010 at 7:34 PM