1. Difficult, annoying, hard to endure.
2. Attempting, making an effort, doing one's best
Come be the first to see and hear works-in-progress including previews of tracks from the forthcoming The Bar album Barkada and the fetus version of some unreleased Blue Scholars tracks. This event is my conclusionary presentation of my 3-month Town Hall Seattle artist residency, which also includes a presentation from scholar-in-residence David Mitsuo Nixon. Shit’s only five bucks and it’s from 6-9pm so you can watch Game of Thrones spoiler-free afterwards.
Click the photo or go here for tickets and more info.
Bangka Journey Celebrates National Poetry Month April 2013
ROCK the BANGKA Poetry Contest
Write no more than 5 lines of your Bangka (Canoe)-themed poem written in English/Pilipino/Other Language/Halo-Halo
Deadline April 22, 2013
Four winners (plus 1 lucky friend each) will win a sailboat ride in a private boat on the San Francisco Bay. *18 Years and Above Only*
Sail May 2013
Submit poems, author’s name, address, contact info, email and date of birth to
by April 22, 2013.
Judges include Writer Paul Manansala
For more information check out
“He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into the Barry Zito the Barry Zito also gazes into you.” - F. Nietzsche
It would be tough for any pitcher to live up to the seven-year, $126…
Marx wrote of the economic bourgeoisie — the small merchants, the middle class, the baby capitalists—who were deeply confused about their self-interest. The bourgeoisie, he said, often emulate the manners and the ideology of the big-time capitalists. They are the wannabes of capitalism. Struggling for riches, often failing, confused about the reasons why, the economic wannabes go to their graves thinking that the big hit is right around the corner.
Living in 19th century Europe, Marx thought mostly in terms of class. Living in 20th century America, in the land where racism found a home, I am thinking about race. Is there a racial equivalent of the economic bourgeoisie? I fear there may be, and I fear it may be us.
If white, historically, is the top of the racial hierarchy in America, and black, historically, is the bottom, will yellow assume the place of the racial middle? The role of the racial middle is a critical one. It can reinforce white supremacy if the middle deludes itself into thinking it can be just like white if it tries hard enough. Conversely, the middle can dismantle white supremacy if it refuses to be the middle, if it refuses to buy into racial hierarchy, if it refuses to abandon communities of Black and Brown people, choosing instead to form alliances with them."
By Mari Matsuda
Professor, Georgetown University Law Center
Asian American Pacific Islands Law Journal
©1993 Regents of the University of California; Mari Matsuda
Based on an April 1990 address to the Asian Law Caucus, first published February 1993
Wow. I remember this speech. She blew the minds of about 500 mostly young Asian American up-and-coming lawyers, law students, and community allies.
Charisma as Natural as Gravity
By Christopher Nolan
One night, as I’m standing on LaSalle Street in Chicago, trying to line up a shot for “The Dark Knight,” a production assistant skateboards into my line of sight. Silently, I curse the moment that Heath first skated onto our set in full character makeup. I’d fretted about the reaction of Batman fans to a skateboarding Joker, but the actual result was a proliferation of skateboards among the younger crew members. If you’d asked those kids why they had chosen to bring their boards to work, they would have answered honestly that they didn’t know. That’s real charisma—as invisible and natural as gravity. That’s what Heath had.
Heath was bursting with creativity. It was in his every gesture. He once told me that he liked to wait between jobs until he was creatively hungry. Until he needed it again. He brought that attitude to our set every day. There aren’t many actors who can make you feel ashamed of how often you complain about doing the best job in the world. Heath was one of them.
One time he and another actor were shooting a complex scene. We had two days to shoot it, and at the end of the first day, they’d really found something and Heath was worried that he might not have it if we stopped. He wanted to carry on and finish. It’s tough to ask the crew to work late when we all know there’s plenty of time to finish the next day. But everyone seemed to understand that Heath had something special and that we had to capture it before it disappeared. Months later, I learned that as Heath left the set that night, he quietly thanked each crew member for working late. Quietly. Not trying to make a point, just grateful for the chance to create that they’d given him.
Those nights on the streets of Chicago were filled with stunts. These can be boring times for an actor, but Heath was fascinated, eagerly accepting our invitation to ride in the camera car as we chased vehicles through movie traffic—not just for the thrill ride, but to be a part of it. Of everything. He’d brought his laptop along in the car, and we had a high-speed screening of two of his works-in-progress: short films he’d made that were exciting and haunting. Their exuberance made me feel jaded and leaden. I’ve never felt as old as I did watching Heath explore his talents. That night I made him an offer—knowing he wouldn’t take me up on it—that he should feel free to come by the set when he had a night off so he could see what we were up to.
When you get into the edit suite after shooting a movie, you feel a responsibility to an actor who has trusted you, and Heath gave us everything. As we started my cut, I would wonder about each take we chose, each trim we made. I would visualize the screening where we’d have to show him the finished film—sitting three or four rows behind him, watching the movements of his head for clues to what he was thinking about what we’d done with all that he’d given us. Now that screening will never be real. I see him every day in my edit suite. I study his face, his voice. And I miss him terribly.
Back on LaSalle Street, I turn to my assistant director and I tell him to clear the skateboarding kid out of my line of sight when I realize—it’s Heath, woolly hat pulled low over his eyes, here on his night off to take me up on my offer. I can’t help but smile.
Rest In Peace, Heath.
April 4, 1979-January 22, 2008
Nothing to add. Just read.