I flew Boeing’s 787 Dreamliner last Wednesday on a United flight from Tokyo to Los Angeles. I’ve flown on over a thousand planes, and this segment goes down as one of my five favorite flights of my life.There is much talk about how dicey the planes are, and that they’re fraught with gremlins. My flight took off and landed on time, with no complications.
Camera technology has been advancing at such an accelerated rate recently that I’m continually amazed at the size and quality of the devices available — presently and most notably, my iPhone 5. The ability to produce high-quality photos and video at a moment’s notice, then store it all comfortably in my pocket, is fantastic, without even mentioning the fact that I can upload said photos to my social media accounts instantly.
Q&A with the Camp 4 Collective crew about their shoot in the Sahara.JIMMY CHIN AND TIM KEMPLE’S Towers of the Ennedi managed to simultaneously make rock climbing look more safe, and traveling to Chad less so. Matador spoke to them about the realities of shooting in such a hostile environment.MN: How did your experiences in Chad match up to your expectations?
I LIKE FOOTBALL (both kinds, but mostly American), and also brown ales (mostly British). In fact, I prefer British-style beers to American ones – I’ll take a lukewarm, frothy ale over a crisp, poppy lager any day, even Super Bowl Sunday.There aren’t many ads for non-lagers or pilsners aired during this event; such is marketing beer to American football fans.
A couple of years ago, I was nursing a hangover in my London grad school dorm room and watching Friday Night Lights when my friend texted me this: “Hey, a friend of mine managed to get the Super Bowl playing in the common room, wanna come watch?”I was more than happy to continue watching fictional football in my darkened room in sweatpants, but one of our British friends was coming over to watch his first Super Bowl, so I thought it would be shitty for me to flake.
Sangita Dey was driven from her village home by profound poverty. Or rather, profound poverty made her vulnerable. Given away by her mother who couldn’t feed her, she was married off as a young teenager. Sangita then became her mother-in-law’s slave, loaded with housework and starved. Sangita’s husband allowed his brother to molest her, and he abused her himself.
We sat on a log doubling as a bench in a friend’s garden in Emerald Hill, Harare. I exuded the detectably false confidence of any underage drinker: that suspicious overeagerness to be cool that manifests itself as an awkward silence flecked with blurts of mistimed, unfunny interjections. In the rest of the circle were the silhouettes of my seniors, backlit by the dying orange floodlights of a tennis court.
