David Sasaki

Interesting project, interesting blog.

It would be nice if there was a wikipedia of hotspots locators. [via Rolando via Seyd]

You too can become white.

I've now been listening to Benjamen Walker's Theory Of Everything for over two years while I've been living and traveling in a slew of countries. He remains my constant earbud companion and a remarkably talented storyteller. This one especially is worth 3

Subways, I love them. The door to the carriage opens, it closes, and your two or five or 15 minutes of silent intimacy with people you’ve never met begins. Like unacquainted sardines. Like a colony of seals piled upon each other in stoic orgy.

We’re rich, we’re poor; black and white; Chavistas and Chavez-haters; young and old; enamored and broken-hearted. And, we are two inches from each other, probably less.

Eyes dart, eyes seduce, eyes avert. Eyes are everything on the subway. And we use them to observe each other in a way that, above ground, is reserved strictly for lovers. Lovers lying in bed, noting every candle-lit feature, flaw, and scar of their partners.

On the subway these intimate observations tell stories. The rushed and jagged application of eyeliner. The red blotch around the freshly popped pimple, the wonder-bra’d cleavage and extra spray of perfume.

It’s all two inches from my face: the possessive grip of the teenage boy’s hand around his girlfriend’s shoulder, the dilated eyes of the gothic druggie, the furrowed brow of the young man reading Bob Marley lyrics while listening to his mp3 player.

When I was a kid, every time I rode on any vehicle of transportation - be it bus, ferry, airplane, what have you - I would always have Lord of the Flies-like daydreams. What would happen if this particular group of strangers all got stranded somewhere? And I’d spend hours inventing my own Gilligan’s Island script. Clearly, I’m not alone. It’s the basis of every reality TV show that has ever existed.

About four feet from me is a teenage girl who keeps staring. Her eyes dart away every time I look over. I can see the blackheads in the ear of the guy pressed up against me. Directly in front of me, seated, an elderly woman’s forehead is about six inches from my belt buckle. She is staring at my sandals as if they were a sudoku puzzle she’s been working on for days.

“Estación Chacao” says the pre-recorded voice. The brakes screech to a halt, the doors sigh open, and I depart. Those former lovers with whom I had been lying in bed are again strangers. They will mug me in the street and they will help me when I ask for directions. They will give me the bird when I cut them off on the highway and I will do the same when they cut me off.

Walking out of the station, my eyes adjust to the bright sunlight. A layer of fog is draped over El Ávila. And I’m already thinking of all I need to do.

I had heard of this, but hadn't really looked until Revaz pointed it out. Looking at the applet while listening to Moby's very ambient "Hotel" is really pretty surreal. I might even start making I feel statements in my posts.

Pretty smart. I envision world peace in less than a month if this spread. [via Noah]

Traveling up and down the West Coast in August, friends, family, and strangers solicited my thoughts on Cuba. “It’s a wonderful country,” I tell them, “and if you’re willing to wait in line for half an hour or so, you can get a double-scoop ice cream cone on a hot, sticky day for less than a nickel.”

“No, no,” they clarify, “do you think that Fidel is still alive? Do you think that brother Raúl will be able to maintain the dictatorship once Castro passes on or will the island rebel? Will Cuban expats in Miami return to their country and reclaim their former private property? What about US policy? Are we meddling too much? Not enough?”

And so forth.

Following a new year’s resolution to reign in my sarcasm, I gave them my sincere, albeit uncertain, unimportant, and thoroughly boring, opinions to all of their questions. (My thoughts pretty much correspond to Costa Rican president, Oscar Arias’)

The best thing I’ve ever read about Cuba comes from Eduardo Galeano and it goes a little something like …

CHRONICLE OF THE CITY OF HAVANA

His parents had fled to the north. In those days, he and the revolution were both in their infancy. A quarter of a century later, Nelson Valdés traveled from Los Angeles to Havana to visit his homeland.

Every day at noon, Nelson would take the guagua, bus number 68, from the hotel entrance, to the José Martí Library. There he would read books on Cuba until nightfall.

One day at noon, guagua 68 screeched to a halt at an intersection. There were cries of protest at the tremendous jolt until the passengers saw why the bus driver had jammed on the brakes: a magnificent woman had just crossed the street.

“You’ll have to forgive me, gentlemen,” said the driver of guagua 68, and he got out. All the passengers applauded and wished him luck.

The bus driver swaggered along, in not hurry, and the passengers watched him approach the saucy female, who stood on the corner, leaning against the wall, licking an ice cream cone. From guagua 68, the passengers followed the darting motion of her tongue as it kissed the ice cream while the driver talked on and on with no apparent result, until all at once she laughed and glanced up at him. The driver gave the thumbs-up sign and the passengers burst into a hearty ovation.

But when the driver went into the ice cream parlor, the passengers began to get restless. And when he came out a bit later with an ice cream cone in each hand, panic spread among the masses.

They beeped the horn. Someone leaned on it with all his might and honked like a burglar alarm, but the bus driver, deaf, nonchalant, was glued to the delectable woman.

Then, from the back of guagua 68, a woman with the appearance of a huge cannon ball, and an air of authority, stepped forward. Without a word, she sat in the driver’s seat and put the engine in gear. Guagua 68 continued on its route, stopping at its customary stops, until the woman arrived at her own and got off. Another passenger took her place for a stretch, stopping at every bus stop, and then another, and another, and so guagua 68 continued on to the end of the line.

Nelson Valdés was the last one to get off. He had forgotten all about the library.

a brilliant exploration into our generation's greatest talent and perhaps biggest flaw: irony: "The truth is not his — or, we are to understand, perhaps no longer our — business."

Interesting ... I have no idea how in the hell we got up there.