Living the Dream

Some thoughts on the Road

Vickytoria91 — Mon, 13 May 2013 23:53:20 +0000

“So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.”- Kerouac

The light has come dancing through the tree outside to playfully awake me in the common room of Catawba Hall. Only two of us remain but last night one returned and we were joined by a guest to have dinner, and wine, by candle light. It’s times like this I feel profoundly lucky in life, even if our dinner is somewhat melancholy in the nostalgic remembrance of the people who no longer scuttle past or fill our colourful halls with screams of laughter. This is the fleeting transient life we lead as students, floating in brief bubbles of time, snatching moments of happiness wherever we can, and we should remind ourselves how fortunate we are to be able to steal those moments at all not dwell that they have burst or that we did not inhabit every single one. Anyway, a little incoherent this morning but lets segway to my roadtrip since the road does indeed always head West. In nine days I will commence on my said roadtrip. The itinerary goes as follows: DC, Pittsburgh, Indianapolis, Kansas City, Monument Rocks, Denver, Rocky Mountain National Park, Grand Mesa, Bryce National Park, Grand Canyon, Yosemite, San Francisco, Redwood National Park, Portland and finally Seattle.

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That’s 99 hours of driving over a three week period. The more astute of you will notice I go from Roanoke to New York. That’s because I have to pick up my AWESOME campervan and while Im at it, have some quality time with my lovely mum. I’m terrifically excited and keep diving into Kerouac to maintain this buzz but I’m also terrified. Why did no one warn me that I’m probably not capable of doing this? I can barely go to the shop without a new drama unfolding and everyone is trusting me to drive across a country as big as this? Not only does this prove my insanity, but it proves I surround myself with people equally as insane. Good thing I have one of my best friends with me to keep us alive. Saying that we’re also probably going to kill each other. Still, I remind myself how lucky I am to be here. How fortunate I am to go on this once in a lifetime trip. How grateful I am for the people in my life who have made this dream happen. My parents, my grandparents, my siblings and my friends, all have played a part in this opportunity and so I intend to not let them down and will endeavor to thoroughly enjoy my crazy self as I am unleashed onto 16 enormous states and all their vast possibility. For now, I’m off to perfect road trip playlists, buy audio books, stock up the kindle and thoroughly freak out.

Teen launches music career after impromptu performance with Michael Bublé

Neal Piper — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 22:01:48 +0000

Sam Hollyman, a 17 year old from Stafford, England, is fulfilling his dream by turning his musical talents into a promising career. He became an internet sensation after singing an impromptu duet with Michael Bublé in front of 14,000 fans at a concert in Birmingham after his mom, Paula Hollyman, asked Bublé if her son could sing with him for his 15th birthday.

After Sam got on stage, Bublé sung the first line of Feeling Good then handed the microphone to Sam. He was shocked by Sam’s incredible voice then yelled: “The guy can sing!” before pulling Sam onto the center of the stage to finish the song.

Sam told us “Once I got on stage I had a series of 3 emotions; embarrassment, extreme nervousness, then excitement once I heard Bublé’s reaction to my voice.”

The video has been watched more than four million times on YouTube. Bublé’ even joked: “I’ve got about five years before Sam goes on X Factor and drives my career into the ground.”

Backstage, Bublé’ told Sam that it took him 11 years to get where he is. He said “Go and learn your craft.”

Since then, Sam has launched his own album and turned down an invitation to audition for Simon Cowell’s Britain’s Got Talent. Paula was nervous the show would force him to sign away his career.

Sam just recently appeared on The Voice, two years after singing on stage with Michael Bublé. Ironically, the Voice is rival to Simon Cowell’s Britain’s Got Talent. Sam sang for voice coaches Will.i.am, Tom Jones, Jessie J, and Danny O’Donoghue. Prior to the event, Michael Bublé sent Sam a message wishing him luck.

Although Sam didn’t make it to the next round, Danny and Jessie told him, “Come back next year and we will give you 4 yes’s”. Also Jessie said “Don’t give-up, I was signed at 17 but still didn’t produce anything until I was 23.

Sam’s is at his best when he is singing while playing a musical instrument. Here is a video of Sam singing an Ed Sheeran cover.

LIVING THE DREAM PRODUCER NOTE:
Sam started singing when he was 14 years old. His school required him to learn the guitar and he picked it up rather quickly. He soon realized he had a gift and started singing at pubs and local venues. Just 3 years later Sam is being compared to famous artists like Justin Bieber.
He is a perfect example of how anyone can live their dream, as long as you work hard and challenge yourself to get better everyday.
- Neal Piper, Living the Dream producer

Tales from the Road: Fleeing from the Mursi Tribe in Ethiopia

Infinite Adventures — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 16:43:03 +0000

The Omo Valley in Ethiopia. This is your National Geographic moment: Hundreds of tribes living in the remote Southwest of Ethiopia without water, electricity or “modern” technology like cars or TVs. They are still wearing their traditional clothes and jewelleries. Finally something 100% authentic you think. These tribes are not dancing in their traditional costumes in front of you like in many other places in Africa and changing afterwards in their Jeans and T-Shirts. No, this is your true Africa experience.

Well, the guy in Jeans and T-Shirt is probably as authentic as the tribes in Omo Valley. It is all a reality. This is Africa: A mixture of old traditions, voodoo beliefs, Christianity, just trying to survive day by day. And even though the Omo Valley tribes are still wearing their traditional clothes they also do what every African does: trying to survive day by day. And so they have quickly learned that a picture is not for free: Two Birr (around 10 cents) for kids, five Birr for adults.

Our first visit is the Mursi tribe: One of the most hostile and violent tribes in the Omo Valley. But tourists still want to visit them as they are the tribe with the famous lib plates. Who doesn’t want to come home and show their own pictures of pretty girls looking somehow magical with their lib plates and necklaces? I have to admit, I feel more in a zoo than most of my times in Africa. I fight over the longing having pictures and instead just try to talk to them. I want to know more about their life. And I fail epically. They are conditioned to earn money and if you don’t want to take pictures they are getting aggressive. Most of them are drunk and my fellow Ethiopian tour guide finds out that during night they might be fighting against another village. I am discussing our plan to stay with the tribe over night with him and we soon make a decision to go. Some of them are carrying guns and we observed a fight between two men earlier. As we start packing up the Mursi get more and more aggressive. They want to earn money and they clearly see that their income will decrease if we are leaving now. They start to throw rocks and the situation escalates. We manage to jump into our truck and rush away…

Our second attempt to get in touch with a tribe is working out for the better. The Hammer tribe agrees on a fixed amount of money we will be handing over to them at the end of the day. We can hang out with them for a few hours and take as many pictures as we like. And this time I cannot resist. These people look too stunning and magic. The girls and women have beautifully braided hair, red and shiny thanks to a mixture of oil and certain minerals. They are wearing leather and fur and many necklaces and bracelets. I am taking pictures and I also get to attend a coffee ceremony as well as the famous bull jumping ceremony, an initiating tradition for young men before they are allowed to marry. I get to see their homes, taste their food and see how they milk their goats. The kids are starting to bond the quickest; they invite me to play with them. The teenage girls and boys are curious and shy at the same moment. For a few moments they seem not much different from western teenagers standing in the corner, giggling and looking at us and chatting away in their funny sounding language. And this is also the limit: I don’t speak their language and they don’t speak mine. For the most part we will both stay in our world and just have a glimpse into each others lives. And I start to realize that I probably get to know more about daily life in Africa speaking to the guy in Jeans and T-Shirt as he most probably at least speaks a few words in English or French.

This intense experience leads to the very simple question I am asking myself over and over again: Is it right to enter their world? As much as we don’t want to leave no other prints than footprints we do influence their lives. On the other hand the world has grown together as a matter of fact. Africa is part of the world and of course they have the right to learn about our western world, too. But as a result Africa now tries to survive day by day combining their ancient traditions, social structures and believes with money, democracy and plastic bottles…

Politics central (or How I Saw 2/3 of My Favorite Presidents in One Month)

Vickytoria91 — Fri, 08 Mar 2013 15:54:32 +0000

“You should all try and see politicians talk in your towns, even local ones. I cant emphasize how important participation is to democracy.”

It’s my second term at Roanoke College and believe it or not, it’s not all fun, frat parties and indulging in writing poetry here. Occasionally I do partake in exams, do very important and interesting reading and if I’m lucky, see the odd world leader. Yup. As a socially aware young lefty passionate student, I have died and gone to politics heaven. Last semester I was lucky enough to go and see Bill Clinton speak, go to the Whitehouse, have Michelle Obama wave to us and be within ten foot of the one and only President Obama.

Now Obama is not my favourite politician, but I recognise he’s a damn good one and wish more people in this country would too. I remember the excitement when he was first voted in. I was at my final year in sixth form and my politics and government teacher had a way of getting us excited about the subject at the best of times. Lucky for him, we probably witnessed one of the most significant moments in history as we all stayed up till 4am to watch Obama’s acceptance speech, and much more importantly, the all famous Beyonce song at the inauguration a few months later. For my generation, this may well be an exaggeration but it felt like our Fall of the Berlin Wall moment. Everything seemed so hopeful. After the tar of the Florida recount, the growing food crisis in Africa, global warming, 9-11, the Iraq war, the London bombings, the David Kelly affair, rising tuition fees, unemployment and the recession in general, we needed a win. For the first time in a long time, it seemed something positive was happening in the world. It topped my favourite moments in life anyway, especially when I saw John Cusack in the audience.

Mocking important statues since 1991

Did I ever think I’d be lucky enough to get anywhere near this president or any other? Not a chance. But then again I never dreamed I’d be coming here at all. When I heard Bill Clinton was coming to Roanoke, I near fainted many a times before composing myself and making rapid plans to go and see him. Second only to Jimmy Carter, he’s one of my favourite President’s and I confess to him making me a blush a little when he talks with that Arkansas twang of his. The guy bought himself out of poverty from a tin shack in a town called Hope and bought the entire country of debt when he became President while he was at it. He recognised the importance of politics on a global scale, not just national, whilst refraining from any kind of aggressive foreign policy. He bought climate change to the attention of the Whitehouse for the first time since Carter. He implemented amazing welfare programs despite pressure to make cuts and still balanced the books and he improved literary rates and reduced unemployment. The man was a freaking superhero. A superhero who’s kryptonite happened to be sex scandals… and no I have no justification for that. Do I think the whole thing was blown out of proportion and doesn’t make all his other achievements redundant though? Yes I do. Do I believe the attempted impeachment was a blatant portrayal of the kind of Partisan politics we can do without, especially in times of prosperity? Of course. But was it wrong? Yes. Rant over.

Anyway, he was coming to Roanoke to help on the campaign trail to reelect Obama. We queued for hours to get into to see him and I even had to squat behind a school building for a tinkle but it was completely worth it. We were maybe two metres from the front. I cried when I first saw him, no joke. It was incredible. His speech was so inspiring, and to see him get so much behind our Barry after everything that happened between him and Hilary in the primaries is a real credit. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t as amazing as his speech at the Democratic National Convention in 2008 but then again, that was the moment when I realise how incredibly the man was and fell slightly in love and was probably one of the best speeches of his career.

“A reasonably new build but absolutely stunning, and rightly so”

Great experience. You should all try and see politicians talk in your towns, even local ones. I cant emphasize how important participation is to democracy. He even came down into the crowd and we reached out and shook his hand, in amongst a pile of other eager hands that is. But then a wonderful thing happened. Perhaps I was screaming so hard he couldn’t help but see me, perhaps my red cheeks served as a beacon or perhaps he just knew a politically engaged girl when he saw one because our eyes locked and then he reached back to personally shake my hand. Twice I therefore got to touch him and I could have died from happiness. The dress I wore that day is forever known jokingly as “The Bill Clinton Dress”. No, it’s not blue.

So that’s my Bill story. Now for my Barry.

It was my second trip to D.C. I’d already been with my parents (which was fun, even if my mum did refer to the Washington monument as “The Big Stick”) and done all the touristy things like the monuments and the Smithsonians. Favourite monument, by far the Martin Luther King one, a reasonably new build but absolutely stunning, and rightly so. Favourite Smithsonian, American History museum, if not only for Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s typewriter and Judy Garland’s famous ruby red slippers. So this time I was looking forward to chilling in Georgetown and oh yeah, going to the freaking Whitehouse.

“You’re not allowed any picture inside but we took some cheeky shots just outside.”

Yes, my awesome college had arranged a Whitehouse tour for us. Naturally, I was excited and convinced myself I would see the president, or at the very least, Bo the Whitehouse dog. No such luck though. The security was intense, you had to provide all this information before hand and go through various checkpoints to get anywhere near the entrance, but everyone was friendly enough. I couldn’t help but draw comparison between the Whitehouse and Downing Street. At No.10, the door can only be opened from the inside so there is a man who’s only job it is, to open the door. Someone has to be there all the time or no one can get it. Apart from the gate on the street and the two police officers outside, I think that’s the only security we have…

Anyway, two interrogations and a metal detector later we’re in and while I didn’t see Bo or any of the Obama’s, it was awe inspiring just being in the building at all. Seeing the rooms and corridors I’m so used to seeing on the news was trippy to say the least and all the portraits and history on display was incredible. Unfortunately, you’re not allowed any picture inside but we took some cheeky shots just outside.

On Lafayette square, we met Concepcion Picciotto, a Spanish protester who has been there for the better half of 30 years protesting against nuclear arms and the state of Israel. Luckily I was with a few Spanish speakers and so we had quite an engaging conversation It started off interesting but soon, after her clear insanity (which we debated afterward whether it was a product of her dedication or the cause) began to show in the form of accusing us of being working for government if we disagreed with her slightly, we quickly left. She had some interesting points and I’m certainly not a fan of Zionists but I’m not certainly not anti-semitic either (whereas she clearly was). As for her nuclear protests, she claimed the reason she had no teeth or hair was because the government had radiated her water. Stranger things have happened and it is inspiring to see someone so dedicated to their cause… but the effects of her plight had obviously started to wear on her arguments and I would have loved to discussed things further with her perhaps twenty five years ago instead.

“We only had to wait about ten minutes, saw one of the biggest entourages in the world and had Michelle Obama wave to us from one car whilst the president himself drove by in another.”

I spent the rest of the day vintage shopping in Georgetown. I adore Georgetown. So much so I’ve looked at doing a Masters at the university I could spend hours there and frequently do. I wandered the streets a while before going to famous bar named Serendipity, drinking Gin martinis and befriending a conservative couple Bill and Ellen whilst I people watched and wrote. I thought what I was writing was profound at first and then stunning after but upon reviewing the steady decline of sobriety or legibility in my writing the next day (with genius comments such as “MY PEN IS RED- THATS SOOOO SIGNIFINCNAT” and “The sound of a gin martini being made is suspiciously close to the start of the Pretty Girl Rock song“) I have since learnt to cap my writing at two drinks. It wasn’t wasted though, I got a few good tidbits out of it, and met the wonderful Bill and Ellen.

The next day we were due to leave but went to Arlington Cemetery in the morning on what turned out to be Veteran’s day. The weather was gorgeous and it was a very sobering experience. I recommend it to everyone, but try to avoid being such a tourist about it and posing with war memorials. That’s just not cool.

On the way out, we noticed a slight buzz about the place. Helicopters swarmed overhead. Of course, it was Veteran’s day, and who else would be here but the President and his family. We only had to wait about ten minutes, saw one of the biggest entourages in the world and had Michelle Obama wave to us from one car whilst the president himself drove by in another. It was just funny how I was so sure I’d get to see him that weekend, and I did, just not in the place I suspected. My life was well and truly made.

Rainbows, ambulances, and other things that prove people are awesome!

Vickytoria91 — Thu, 07 Mar 2013 20:12:50 +0000

” We’ve had some birthday celebrations recently and the look on people’s face when you can tell just how happy and grateful they are is worth, well everything to me. “

For reasons I wont, cant and shouldn’t expose, I recently found myself driving shotgun in an American ambulance and also got picked up at 5am, without hesitation, without even having to ask, by the amazing, generous people here who are shaping up to be such good friends of mine. What you need to know is that everyone was fine in said situation and its therefore entirely appropriate for me to reflect on the lighter side of things and in this situation, essentially I got to drive really fast in the front seat of an ambulance with the nicest guy. He had been a paramedic for thirty years and when I asked if that meant he obviously enjoyed his job, he smiled like a child. Beaming with pride and just… the knowledge that you CAN look at the silver lining, he told me how proud he was to have helped so many people. He said he’d seen a lot of bad things too. If I were him, I don’t know I’d have had the same cheery demeanor because I’m sure we can all only imagine to types of things he was talking about… but here he was; proud. Proud, feeling fortunate and one of my favourite kinds of people: a humanist.

That also reminds me! I saw something really cool in D.C. It just said “The Water Experiement”. Don’t know if anyone has ever come across it before but there was a platform with bottles of water on it and a sign that said, “Water One Dollar. Pay this way” or something like that. About ten or so metres away was another unmanned stand with a bucket of money. The implications of trust and psychology here blew me away. It was in the middle of D.C on a boiling hot day, not too far from a bunch of homeless people on the side of the road and a subway station. No-one had tried to steal the money or the water. I tried to look it up and only came across this suspicious looking website which claims if you pray or say posisitve things to water it forms prettier crsytals when you freeze it. Cool. If it’s true that is…

“A friend I was with from my dorm just got out and said, “That’s why I believe in God.” It was a gorgeous, gorgeous moment.”

Anyway, I’ve stumbled across a lot of accidental philosophical moments recently. We’ve had some birthday celebrations in the dorm recently and the look on people’s face when you can tell just how happy and grateful they are is worth, well everything to me. Before this, I witnessed spiritual enlightenment in a Walmart carpark. Yes that’s right. We were going on what was most likely a booze run and we pulled up, got out the car, and stretching over as as far as you could see in every direction was the biggest, most perfect rainbow I have ever seen. It reminded me of Italy on my birthday as a kid when we were driving down the road in a taxi and suddenly everyone stopped, got out picnic blankets, sat on their car bonnets and stared up at the sky. Why? Because there was a firework display. It’s very possible that it’s a, “you had to be there” kind of moment but everyone, I mean everyone, in that carpark the other day just stopped, froze, glued their eyes to the sky, and started to take pictures.

A friend I was with from my dorm just got out and said, “That’s why I believe in God.” It was a gorgeous, gorgeous moment.

He was referencing a conversation we had had the night before. Americans do not dilly dally around the subject of religion. They don’t squirm with an awkward reservedness when you ask them about the bigger questions in life. I was flat out asked if I had any faith and I laughed before being met with concerned looks. Oh, they wanted a serious answer from me? Okay… How I honestly feel is personal and I did share it with them at the time because it seemed appropriate as everyone else was being so open and honest but the blogosphere is not the place to discuss such things. I will tell you we discussed Thomas Aquinas’ watch theory. It’s one of my favourites, I think because Aquinas manages to perfectly take both spiritualism and science hand in hand, encompassing all. It goes along the lines of, you find a watch on the beach. You marvel at it’s intricacies, it’s inner workings. You naturally come to the conclusion that someone has made this watch and it has not formed itself naturally. Now personally I think mother nature could itself be interpreted as a deity for all the things it does but it makes the mind boggle to think about all the things it achieves, this force we’re supposed to accept is unintelligent just because its without form. Right that’s enough of that. No more hints of my religious affiliations anyway.

I guess this was just a quick blog to remind people to find beauty in grey places. In car parks. In ambulances. In everything that you do. I’ve had some crazy nights recently and can’t help but escape the feeling that I’m exactly where I need to be right now, drink in one hand, smile on my face, dancing like a loon with some awesome awesome company. It’s not majestic, but it’s life. And it’s frigging fantastic, tears and all.

The Midnight in Paris (before my 21st birthday)

Vickytoria91 — Thu, 07 Mar 2013 20:01:52 +0000

I snap back, aware again of our urgent mission, “What is the quickest way to get to the Eiffel Tower!?”
The French clerk looks at me, raises an eyebrow and says, (with a stereotypical, beautiful, excessive French accent that I can only describe akin to ‘Allo ‘Allo), “By reading.”

Woody Allen got it wrong. You don’t go backwards in time at Midnight in Paris, you lose it altogether, or at least you do if you spend it with an eccentric Parisian barowner, a crazy French cougar, a feisty American barista, two lovely Irish drinkers random drunk locals and their dogs named Elvis and the perfect, equally as drunk, boyfriend on the eve of marking 21 years of your life on this planet.

But we’re not there yet. Remember, I’m a creative writing student, I have to set the scene, establish character, or just use this as an excuse to tell you some pretty funny stories about the French.

So generally, the French were lovely. At the end of the day, we were two ignorant English tourists and I don’t blame any of them for getting annoyed in that very cool French detached manner that we hear so much about. In fact, I found it hilarious. The problem I have, and I’m sure may of you have, is that in a foreign country, if you make an attempt to speak the language, one of two things will happen. They will suss out immediately that you are English through lack of correct pronunciation or the union jack displayed proudly on your t shirt, and talk English straight back to you, (this is the preferred reaction, I won’t lie). The other, more scary and off putting thing that might happen is that… they will talk back to you, in French. You don’t understand French. You learnt basic French phrases, practiced them on your parents and your friends before you left, got the accent down to a tee. Would laugh in that addictive French pompous way and live off a diet of bread, coffee, cheese and cigarettes. But when they speak back at you, you suddenly realise you are not prepared for their answer and confess, guiltily, ashamedly, “Je suis Anglais! Anglais!”. Let me tell you something. They already know this. They are messing with you.

So we are running late for an Eiffel Tower tour having spend most the morning trying to find famous graves in Montparnasse. We don’t have time to work out the Metro stops, we needed to get on a carriage five minutes ago to get their in time, so we run in to the info desk and ask the clerk, “Parle vous Anglais?”

He replies, quick as a cucumber, “Non, je peine parlent même pas français.”* Dave laughs. He speaks a little French. I do not and stare at him, bemused. Eventually he says, in perfect, arrogant English, “What do you want?”

I snap back, aware again of our urgent mission, “What is the quickest way to get to the Eiffel Tower!?”

“Within minutes, we had met and befriended Nacim, the owner, and Colin and Robert, the two Irishmen who had failed to make it to La Rochelle, on account of getting sidetracked by drinking. A lot of drinking.”

The French clerk looks at me, raises an eyebrow and says, (with a stereotypical, beautiful, excessive French accent that I can only describe akin to ‘Allo ‘Allo), “By reading.” He hands us a stack of leaflets to the left of him which are a replica of the same giant posters plastered all around the station. They clearly state, in English and several other languages, just exactly how to get straight to the Tower. We thank him, embarrassed and amused. Dave explains to me what the Frenchman said (*No, I barely speak French) and we laugh the whole way there on the metro.

Another French man, when I, less willing to speak in French asked him if he could speak English replied, “Non.” And walked away, smoking. So clearly he could then.

To me, and to Dave as well, this only added to the wonderful city that is Paris. It’s strictly French, it doesn’t even try to cater to tourists, the cars have no quibbles about nearly running you over if you’ve crossed the road on the wrong bit and the bars, restaurants and vendors will serve you what is obviously the wrong thing because you got your French mixed up, even though they know well what you meant. If you think about it, in a way, it’s very accommodating. You’re not being treated any better or worse than a French local would be. You are getting the authentic experience, and I adore this. You feel the bustle of the city. The living, brutal and yet elegant organism that is Paris. If you ask for a coffee you get an espresso, but what better thing to drink in Paris anyway? I should note as well, if you ask for a glass of red, what you’ll practically get is half a bottle squeezed into one glass too, or so was the experience we had at the bar next door to our hotel.

“Reviews of pictures would reveal there to be a riverdance session in the middle of the street where Blanche (who drank nothing but Blanche), the sixty year old neighbor from across the road took it to prove to us all just how high her leg could go into the air and told us how her twenty something boyfriends in the past kept trying to steal her cats and Persian rugs.”

We were staying in the Opera district, which in my opinion, is the perfect place to be. The rates are cheap and the attractions local. It’s quaint, somewhere stuck between the handsome uniformity and symmetry of le Champs-Élysées and the higgledy piggledy bohemian splendour of Montmatre. More importantly, The Hotel Albion was amazing. the staff were fantastically helpful, the rooms were basic but clean and pretty, the shower was awesome and the view… a picture says a thousand words right?

One evening, having got back from seeing about a million tourist sights, we collapsed onto our bed and heard music playing on our street. We made mental notes, this seemed like a fun place to be and vowed to explore the district the next night. We kind of explored. That is, we got as far as the bar next door, but we needn’t go any further. Within minutes, we had met and befriended Nacim, the owner, and Colin and Robert, the two Irishmen who had failed to make it to La Rochelle, on account of getting sidetracked by drinking. A lot of drinking. Holly the bartender took a bit of warming up, but we did order food after she had closed the kitchen as well as keep her there till 3am that night (at which point, she left, whilst we all kept going in the lock in until I would say about 5am). She was from Chicago, but had lived in Virginia for years before she came to France. It was where I would be going to study in just a few weeks for an entire year. Over the next few days, she was the first person to not just ease my fears about America but also to get me excited about going.

I can’t be particular about the details of this night. For some reason they are a bit hazy in my memory. Reviews of pictures would reveal there to be a riverdance session in the middle of the street where Blanche (who drank nothing but Blanche), the sixty year old neighbor from across the road took it to prove to us all just how high her leg could go into the air and told us how her twenty something boyfriends in the past kept trying to steal her cats and Persian rugs. I remember discussing politics with Robert, who was a school teacher. There is something inherently naughty feeling in getting drunk with a school teacher. A couple of sweet French girls showed up. I also remember Dave telling Colin to pursue his dreams of being an actor… and then somehow we all ended up inside literally dancing on the bar.

“The Hotel Albion was amazing. the staff were fantastically helpful, the rooms were basic but clean and pretty, the shower was awesome and the view… a picture says a thousand words right?”

The next morning we woke up, unsure as to what had happened the night before. I was still in my party dress Dave even awoke with Robert’s sunglasses on his face. We spent the day recovering at Versailles. I would suggest there is no finer place to do this. The next night, our last night, we swore we would just go to return the glasses. Robert was there and greeted us immediately with such fondess like we were old friends, but Colin was still awol so we waited till 10pm for him to show. Apparently, they had stopped out till even later than us the night before, and, having failed to book reservations for another unplanned night, had to run across the city all the way to le Musee d’Orsay where their hotel was before midday. When Colin appeared after attempting to visit Jim Morrison’s and Oscar Wilde’s grave, we agreed it would be rude not to stay for a drink with him too. Before we knew it, it was 11 o Clock and so it seemed silly not to stay till midnight as that would technically mark the start of my birthday. On the stroke of midnight, Nacim comes out with the bottle of champagne, I’m presented with two shots of Jamesons and some random French passerby who we have just met also would like to buy me a drink. If that’s not accommodating, I don’t know what is.

Thank you Paris. Thank you readers.

The Beautiful Eden of Monticello, or more correctly Omelas…

Vickytoria91 — Thu, 07 Mar 2013 19:54:44 +0000

If Jefferson stands for equality, justice and human rights, than we shouldn’t tar him with scandal. The American psyche is dependent on this image so they themselves can embody everything he represents. Which is great.

I’ve recently downgraded my favourite forefather to the drunken, genius womanizer that is Benjamin Franklin. I think he would be cool to have at a party AND a convention. Always a good quality in a politician. Cough Bill Clinton Cough. Who did it use to be? Aaah Thomas Jefferson. How the mighty have fallen. Now this was a forefather I used to admire. I remember being envious of the craftsmanship of his writing long before I understood the amazing repercussions the content had in History. I feel the Declaration of Independence was something which resonated throughout all of human history, not just America. It sums up what humanity to me is all about. Inspired by great philosophy, politics and great leaders, who could argue with the character of the guy that wrote, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

Well I think Thomas Paine who it was plagarised off might have a bit to say to start with, (if you haven’t read into Thomas Paine, Common Sense is a good place to start, because, bless his heart, he needs a bit of credit) and secondly, I’m going to argue him to be a hypocrite. How can a man who wrote that all men are created equal be a slave owner? How could he have left the problem of slavery to a new generation? I’m not saying it didn’t bother him, his writing shows it played heavy on his conscience, and yes he did treat his slaves far more superior than a lot of slave owners did, but he didn’t even declare all his faithful slaves free in his will. Not even Sally Hemmings, the half sister of his late wife whom has recently been proven to have bore at least one of Jefferson’s children, and whom (most likely), he had a relationship with for longer than he was married to Martha Jefferson.

Saying this, walking round Monticello, one of the most beautiful places I have ever been, I couldn’t help but view the Eden before me as Omelas.

Symbolically, to me, a child who is half a founding father and half a black slave sums up the paradoxes evident in America even to this day.

I’m not going to discuss that much more. I have come to peace with this contradiction because I arrived at a conclusion some time ago that as much as it may matter historically, it is better for a person of such legendary value to be thought of and remembered in favourable light. If Jefferson stands for equality, justice and human rights, than we shouldn’t tar him with scandal. The American psyche is dependent on this image so they themselves can embody everything he represents. Which is great.

Saying this, walking round Monticello, one of the most beautiful places I have ever been, I couldn’t help but view the Eden before me as Omelas.

Omelas is a city that features in a short story by Ursula Le Guin. It’s a concept I’ve come across before, I thought maybe from Wittgenstein but if anyone can help me out, I think it appears in a novel. Answers on a postcard. Anyway, it was recently, coincidently, set as reading for my Creative Writing class. I like to test people with this one and say: “Imagine you live in a world that has no suffering; is the epitome of happiness, of fairness, is everything you’ve ever dreamed of for yourself and the people you love, a tangible utopia… but the reason there is no suffering is because locked in a dungeon is a child who suffers unimaginable eternal torture. They suffer so true happiness can exist. Compassion is bred out of knowing what pain is after all, and there can be no comparison, no scale of joy, without a world that houses sadness too. When you come of age you are taken to see the child and understand the reality in which you live. You can continue to live in this world or you can leave. You cannot help the child. Do you stay? With all the problems and suffering inflicted upon one so that you and the world can be happy? Or do you leave? Unable to affect the torture, to walk out into a world where you can be inflicted with it yourself.”

I get why Thomas Jefferson did it. I buy clothes from Primark. Not all my food is fair trade. I drive a car. He loved his country, his estate, and didn’t want to bankrupt it. I think the reason it bothers me so much is because his crimes are ours too.

Most people say to me they would leave. I then tell them that they already live in this world. I point to the clothes produced in sweatshops, the food they are eating which has exploited a farmer, the petrol they are pumping which devastates peoples homelands. We are the benefactors of society, though it may not feel like it most of the time. The third world is the child locked in the dungeon and just like the ones who walk away from Omelas, as an individual, our decisions have little to no impact on the global issues we today face.

I get why Thomas Jefferson did it. I buy clothes from Primark. Not all my food is fair trade. I drive a car. He loved his country, his estate, and didn’t want to bankrupt it. I think the reason it bothers me so much is because his crimes are ours too. The beauty of Monticello was almost unbearable because of the vast inequality it presented to me. I bought some seeds cultivated from the gardens for my grandparents, I think so that I will always have a reminder of that feeling, of just how lucky and privileged we are. And because I love my grandparents.

Would you like a cheerier account of it? Well the book collection was one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen and apparently he sold most of it the library of congress, so I know have a date with that building! They wouldn’t allow you to take pictures inside the house but I might see if there are any online. Alcove beds are the cutest thing ever. Everything in the house was so Parisian inspired, like the dumbwaiter which delivered Jefferson all the wine he drank (and gee did he drink a lot of wine), the wallpaper, the art- it reminded me very much of the Petit Trianon at Versailles. The gardens… oh the gardens… And the view! Words fail me but I could have sat there forever just to take it all in.

I guess the moral of this story though is not to forget that as people from privileged enough backgrounds to be educated, to travel, to love and laugh and dance with friends, we are all living the dream already.

You can take the girl out of Mardi Gras…

Vickytoria91 — Thu, 07 Mar 2013 14:37:36 +0000

“By this time, I don’t need the assistance of liquor to scream my lungs off to have complete strangers throw beads and coconuts in my vague direction. It becomes apparent how much Mardi Gras has changed me.”

I said it before and I’ll say it again. People are awesome. I simply don’t know where to begin. My party mode switch has been left permanently switched on from the carnival festivities reverberating through out my bones for the rest of time and life will never been seen, felt or experienced in the same way again. Such is the effect New Orleans will have on you, Mardi Gras or no Mardi Gras.

I was going to narrow it down to my top five Mardi Gras favourite moments but the truth is, there were too many to chose from. Every turn onto a new street led to a new adventure, kooky stranger or bonkers moment, piling up on top of another to create a three day montage of gorgeous insanity. Music blared and bounded from every nook and cranny of the town with drums, trombones, beatboxers, guitars, choral singers and saxophones and friendly Louisiana accents twanged around the streets with cheery jingles and laughter from bewildered tourists, like myself. The city didn’t let up for a moment, and neither did we.The journey there itself was more than eventful. I met a lovely nuclear physicist on my first plane who appreciated Elton John as a fellow musician but not a person, was just offered a job in Lynchburg and who, despite his opinions on nationalism being applicable to the USA but not anywhere else like “that Korea country or those middle Eastern ones”, I still managed to persuade that socialism could be a good thing and capitalism was flawed.

He turned out to be rather charming and wanted to buy me wine but I had to get my connecting flight where I met a New Orleans native returning for the carnival from his boring sales job who gave me many dos and do nots for the festivities. We discovered we had once been at the same club on the same night in D.C. Small world I guess. Next I met two rowdy business men, already wasted on the shuttle bus who were very disgruntled about being held up by the bad weather up north but perfectly delightful to me regardless. It was their first Mardi Gras too.Finally it was just me and the driver on the bus who until now hadn’t uttered a word but suddenly became very vocal about the state of New Orleans in Mardi Gras time and felt like he had bonded with me over this even though I was half falling asleep, half fascinatingly peering out the window at the pizza boy in a tuxedo on a skateboard, the half naked party goers, the people rocking out to an ambulance siren and the piles and piles of beads strewn on the streets, muddied yet still glinting with a magic and mysterious quality I was yet to understand.Eventually I arrived very very late on Friday night and had a much needed catch up with my lovely friend Brigid who I stayed with just off St Charles street with her equally lovely roommates and company. On Saturday, we woke and dressed, me in Mardi gras colours and heels with curled hair and Brigid in a much more sensible but still beautiful outfit. It didn’t take long for the humidity to get to my hair or the crooked cobbled streets to wreak havoc with my heeled feet but this didn’t stop me having what would be the first of three amazing days.

“I even caught myself screaming for a gentlemen’s club who suavely came by on motorised reclining chairs, sipping Jack Daniels and smoking cigars and pipes”

Saturday

We started off with a carnival on St Charles, a stones-throw from Brigid’s apartment. I had never seen anything like it, it was mental. Everyone was dressed up in crazy outfits and screaming at the top of their lungs as floats led by tractors (with often miserable drivers we would attempt to cheer up as time went by with increasingly ridiculous measures) went by and threw out beads and, if you were lucky, other various objects like sunglasses, plush toys, coconuts or masks.As a subdued Brit, needless to say, I didn’t immediately get into it. It seemed to go against everything I had ever known to be shouting out for attention for something as meager as a shiny beaded necklace made in China. Brigid explained the origins of the Mardi gras Carnival floats came from when their were times of great disparity and the rich would drive around once a year and give out gold and stuff. Somehow, this heritage didn’t make me feel better about the whole thing, only worse, so even though it was still technically the AM, we went to a cute little cafe/bar in an old trolley car and I ordered a straight whisky as well as getting talked into a neon red rum filled cocktail drink I would come to know and love called a ‘Hurricane‘. They were consumed in minutes and suddenly the festivities seemed much brighter and yelling at complete strangers seemed very ordinary indeed.We wandered down town and I got a peek at the famous Bourbon street, famous of course for many a girl flashing her boobs to get the attention and goodies of the festival goers on the balcony. Despite being the middle of the day and few to no things occurring I still got my first sight of public nudity of the weekend. Since we had managed to out walk the carnival to Canal street, we decided to kill time by grabbing some food (and yes more booze) where I got a taste of delicious Louisiana cuisine.

“My favourite thing I saw in the parade though had to be an elderly couple dressed up as pirates clearly wasted wandering through the procession about four floats ahead of where they were supposed to be, holding themselves up and laughing as they went by.”

I started off mild and had some yummy crabcakes and while Brigid was in the loo, took the liberty of ordering some more hurricanes which came in fetching gold goblets that handily hung round your neck leaving your arms free to frolic. We went back to the main drag and got prime spots for another parade, and this time, I really threw myself into things. I even caught myself screaming for a gentlemen’s club who suavely came by on motorised reclining chairs, sipping Jack Daniels and smoking cigars and pipes. People get a little bit vicious and literally steal things out of your hands in the commotion but despite this we came away with a good haul including some Elvis sunglasses, garlands and many, many, many beads. My favourite thing I saw in the parade though had to be an elderly couple dressed up as pirates clearly wasted wandering through the procession about four floats ahead of where they were supposed to be, holding themselves up and laughing as they went by. When the parade finished, one of my all time favourite moments in life commenced as a few (probably to be honest, Frat) boys ran into the street after it and started an impromptu dance off to the music one of the nearby vendors was playing. Within moments, dozens more people rushed to join them and just as Kesha’s Die Young started to play, we joined in too, diving into the crowd of young lunatics, dancing like no one was watching, despite the hundreds of onlookers around. It was incredible, but Brigid did lose her phone in the madness. Of course this is New Orleans, and that story goes on to have a crazy end to it. I assured Brigid the universe would return it to her and lo and behold it surely did.

Enter Koen.

We texted Brigid phone to see if anyone had picked it up and received a message from a guy called Koen. Later that night in a bar downtown (where I had the good pleasure of meeting another fellow UEAer and other wonderful company), we all started to wonder about who this Koen character could be. A tall dark handsome hipster? A shy jazz musician? An old local who wore bow ties and would tell us wild stories about fights with alligators? This is what happens when writer friends get together. Our imaginations tend to run away from us and in New Orleans where anything is possible, our creative juices were flowing like run away trains on steroids.

Sunday

The next day commenced with a plan to rendezvous with Koen at a hotel on Canal street. We assumed he worked there but when we asked the concierge she had no idea who we were talking about and grew very concerned about our safety. She escorted outside to the drinks stand which played the music responsible for the street dance the day before and looked around at the various people hanging about. Could the man waiting on the corner be Koen? Was Koen a man at all? Eventually we phoned him and it turned out to be the most normal guy in all of New Orleans, which when you think about it, is a little extraordinary. Unsure of if he would want a reward, we quickly left.

The rest of the day was completely chill and utterly mad. We went to the birth place of Jazz (very exciting), Jefferson square where I tried blackened alligator which was just lovely. Then we sat down by the banks of the Mississippi. It was gorgeous and so peaceful. You could feel the warmth waving up from the water as we sat on the old wooden Jetty. Within moments we were offered wine from a hobo who had nothing and lived under the nearby bridge and then weed from complete strangers from Memphis who shared with us a taste in films and a passion for travel. We declined both. Brigid, her roommate Yasmin and myself could hardly tear ourselves away from the bank, it would have been a perfect weekend of have simply just stayed there the entire time, making various Huck Finn references, getting into deep talks with strangers about moving to Australia and watching the steam boats go by.Fortunately for the rest of fated events though, we did eventually move and went home so I could finish an essay because I’m hardcore like that. After bashing it out, we visited the adorable French Market with its fairy lights, friendly vendors with loveable dogs and kooky merchandise which was unfortunately being packed away on account of it getting on for 1am. A few bars were lucky enough to enjoy our presence including Maison, a jazzy live music venue which presented us with a poetry slamming midget accompanied with a afro haired slap bass guitarist. After joining and mocking some scene kids upstairs by imitating the dances they were taking far too seriously, we came back down to witness the magic that is the beautiful Big Easy Brawlers.

“The coffee was good and the beignets were fun. Brigid and I left hastily after an icing sugar fight and wandered along the river once more before reaching a bandstand where we proceeded to sing at the top of our lungs.”

I wish I had clearer photos of them because they were stunning, not just as human beings but especially as musicians. The lead singer/rapper doubled (of course, because its New Orleans) as a trombonist and was accompanied by many musicians including the most handsome pair of sexy saxophonists, some guitarists, a keyboard player and a bassist. If their looks weren’t impressive, they’re sets which consisted of jazz funk covers of Led Zeppelin riffs, broken down covers of the Beatles merging together into an awe inspiring blues version of Baby Got Back would hush the most harsh of critics. Their intensity was stunning. Their tunes were danceable, enjoyable and so distinct, it was as if they had constructed an air of melodic indulgence around you which you simply wanted to just camp out in till the sun came up, regardless of climate. Between dancing with a guy dressed as scooby doo, drinking local beer and making intense eye contact with sexy saxophone guy number one, we were lucky enough to chat to some of them outside and they’re great guys. You can find them on reverbnation and facebook but unfortunately not spotify. Brigid told me on the way home that this is what her life was like and she saw bands like this all the time. It’s probably my first sincere moment of jealousy in my life.

The walk home at about 5am, in case you haven’t realised a pattern emerging here, was also cray cray. Brigid was insistent on taking me to Cafe Du Monde, supposedly famous for its coffees and pastries known as beignets. So famous, a tall Louisiana old man on the way there remarked how he wasn’t a stalker but knew exactly where we were headed and why. He was convinced he had no accent, lived in swampland and owned a truck. We asked if it was red. Eventually he told us it was silver and when Brigid said this was a mistake he replied in the thickest Southern drawl I have ever heard, “I did not!” He was also fairly insistent Cafe Du Monde was closed. It wasn’t. The floor appeared to be covered in snowfall, coated with the icing sugar of the hundreds of beignets already served for the day by staff who seemed to be stuck in a timewarp harping back to the fifties. This is also where we met Kevin, Galaxy, Addleburg and Gabriel for the first time. Yes those are their real names. They were (and still are) charming Californians who we would cross paths again with the next night.

The coffee was good and the beignets were fun. Brigid and I left hastily after an icing sugar fight and wandered along the river once more before reaching a bandstand where we proceeded to sing at the top of our lungs. Belting out Ichytoo Park, we were cheered on and joined in by some enthusiastic motorists who started to beatbox with us, probably unaware what we were singing but agreeing that life really is #aaaall tooo beautiful . I may have also sung in a police officers face. I actually saw him the following day, apologised and had a brief chat about gun control laws. We met some guys from Miami in our final drag and proceeded to have a sarc-off fest which was so sarcastic, we didn’t realise they were being serious when they asked us to show them our boobs. Once the creepiness became apparent, we quickly left, had a deep talk for the rest of the journey which was so engrossing I couldn’t tell you about all the other mad things that were probably happening right in front of us as we walked.

Monday

Monday is supposedly the day to stay up all night so we kicked things off, me dressed in a rainbow tutu, at Juan’s Flying Burrito, a cute little Mexican restaurant where we drank margaritas in preparation for a night of debauchery. And debauchery was had. An insanely large group of us gathered in Brigid’s apartment for predrinks before heading down to, what is now in my mind, a very hazy parade. Quick note about the parades, aside from the fact that they’re awesome- Everyone only really cheers for the floats because they’re the only ones with the beads. You’ll have a great time if you remember to cheer for all the awesome school children brass bands and cheerleaders though because once in a while, you make these obviously exhausted but still enthusiastic kids smile, and that’s just lovely. Anyway, after the parade we went to a pub, made some questionable choices on the jukebox machine, had a few drinks and then made our way to Bourbon street for the evening.

I cant begin to describe the craziness that is Bourbon by moonlight, its just one of those things you’ll have to see for yourself. Brigid and I, wanting to fully emerge ourselves into the situation, went to a strip club in order to gain access to one of the upstairs balconies so we could throw beads at people down below. We didn’t degrade anyone, don’t worry, but it wasn’t the most pleasant experience in the world and so we once again, quickly left in search of more alcohol. I became an official booby scout for the boys, not that they needed one, seems as there was so much on show, in fact after about half an hour walking down, we started to crave some more socially acceptable human interaction and decided to go back to the French quarter, not before a group of somewhat over zealous Christians attempted to save our souls of course.

We ended up going back to the fabulous Maison, where an incredibly kooky band with a tiny crazy girl in a red shiny top rocked out and sang on a trombone bigger than she was. It was hilarious, don’t get me wrong, but I got into to it anyway, started to dance when I sunddelyr ealised I was dancing with Kevin. I turn round and see Gabriel. It cant be! In the confusion I rush outside and Brigid and Yasmine are talking to Addleburg and Galaxy! Yes the universe had conspired to reunite the charming Californians with us in a random corner of New Orleans. Such is a small example of just how right everything somehow seems amongst all the madness of Mardi Gras. We talked to them for a while, drank for a while, danced a while, made future plans to meet up on at West Coast and eventually at an odd hour, called it quits, said our emotional goodbyes and started to walk home where I would meet my penultimate fasncinating stranger of the trip.

“He rode off on his bicycle moments later like it was the most normal thing in the world. Thing 1 was lost in the Ether that is New Orleans.”

Random Creepy North Laandaan guy. Walking home, remarking on how blissfully happy we all are, I suddenly realise how Brigid, in her normal extroverted manner, is no longer beside us, but in fact a few paces behind remarking how she overheard this guys accent and is questioning his nationality. Turns out he’s a North Londoner with the most amusing dialects and starts talking about football and wanting a boy he would name “Johnny Jnr” and “two gells” to boot. He then literally out of nowhere, accosts and snogs me because I’m “laavley” which we take as our unmistakable cue to leave. Very* quickly this time. We half walk home before giving up and getting a taxi, again indulging in casual philosophy and semi-deep conversation as well as reviewing the past few days with dopey smiles on our faces remarking how not very drunk we are, when probably this is not the case.

Tuesday

The next morning, I begrudgingly start to pack, stuffing beads and other prized possessions in amongst my new tutu and green, pink and gold clothes before heading down to my last awesome parade. By this time, I don’t need the assistance of liquor to scream my lungs off to have complete strangers throw beads and coconuts in my vague direction. It becomes apparent how much Mardi Gras has changed me. I say my goodbyes in the street to the awesome people I have met, go to collect my stuff and then, whilst waiting for a taxi for the airport meet my final New Orleans stranger. I’m stood on the side of the road, freaking out about missing my flight when Thing 2 out of nowhere comes running down the road and then stops with no explanation. I immediately think of my Dr Zuess obsessed friend back in Catawba, and being caught up in the socially acceptable forward craziness of the town, I chased him down and got a picture. Turns out his name is Ryan, lovely guy. He rode off on his bicycle moments later like it was the most normal thing in the world. Thing 1 was lost in the Ether that is New Orleans.

Later in the airport, I discover my neck is blue from all the beads and have amusing conversations with all the staff about their own festival shenanigans. I’m so charmed by the nacho lady and so tired and broken and hungry, I end up purchasing a ton of nachos I don’t even like which I subsequently fall asleep in. Brigid sends me the following message:

I’m sitting here trying to glue my brain back together. Only problem is that there are bits all over the place and they keep getting lost under all the beads.

And as much as I can relate, I find myself having no regrets. Even after I discover my kindle is broken. Even after I wake up in my disgusting nachos. Even after the long bumpy journey on the two suspiciously small propeller airplanes which I’m forced to do my reading on in prep for school the next day, when all I really want to do is pray for it all to stop. It was the best three days of my life and I can’t thank New Orleans or more importantly Brigid enough for it. <3

Google Glass or Myo: Which Do You Prefer?

Neal Piper — Mon, 25 Feb 2013 23:06:33 +0000

As technology rapidly evolves, we ask “How will people share their Living the Dream stories in the future?” Well there are two products soon to be released that will drastically shape the way we capture life; Google Glass and Myo.

Glass is capable of taking photos, recording videos, looking up answers on Google, showing reminders (such as for a flight) and sharing whatever you’re looking at — either via messaging or through a Google+ Hangout. As Google co-founder data, Sergey Brin revealed previously, Glass will also have an automatic picture-taking mode, snapping pics at a preset intervals (such as every 5 seconds).

MYO is able to measure electrical activity in your muscles instantly. The result is a seamless way to interact with computers, and a truly magical sense of control.

Want to see how Glass actually feels? It’s surprisingly simple. Say “take a picture” to take a picture. Record what you see, hands free. Even share what you see, live. Directions are right in front of you. Speak to send a message, or translate your voice. Get the notifications that matter most. Ask whatever’s on your mind and get answers without having to ask.

All video footage captured through Glass.

Want to see the Myo armband in action? This video shows someone scrolling by waving two fingers in the air (mimicking the standard OS X trackpad gesture), snapping fingers to start iTunes playing, rotating a fist to increase the volume, holding up a hand in a ‘stop’ motion to pause a video, gesturing backwards to rewind a video and snapping fingers to play the video. The demo also illustrates a variety of other uses for the device, from delivering a presentation to controlling a remotely-operated vehicle.

Unlike Microsoft Kinect, no camera is required, but the armband approach means it will work only with gestures made with one hand rather than detecting whole-body movements.

What would you prefer using to capture your Living the Dream story? Check out the videos and let us know in the comments.

While you are waiting to get your hands on one of these, submit your Living the Dream story today! Regardless how new or old your technology is, your story deserves to be shared!

Grammy Nominated Artist Christylez Bacon Unites Cultures through Music

Neal Piper — Mon, 25 Feb 2013 05:03:09 +0000

Christylez Bacon is a GRAMMY Nominated Progressive Hip-Hop artist and multi-instrumentalist from Southeast, Washington, DC. As a performer, Christylez multi-tasks between various instruments such as the West African djembe drum, acoustic guitar, and the human beat-box (oral percussion), all while continuing the oral tradition of storytelling through his lyrics.

With a mission towards cultural acceptance and unification through music, Christylez is constantly pushing the envelope – from performances at the National Cathedral, to becoming the first Hip-Hop artist to be featured at the Smithsonian Folklife Festival, composing and orchestrating an entire concert for a 12-piece orchestra commissioned by the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts and the Smithsonian Institute, or recording a Folk/Hip-Hop children’s album.

Christylez was influenced by Washington DC’s Go-go music scene and his mom’s playlist, which included a lot of hip-hop. As a child Christylez used what he could to create music and started by banging on buckets and trashcans. He wanted to make beats that blended with his rhymes and as a result created his own unique style.

Christylez enjoys intersecting things that would typically be polar opposites, such as mixing classical music with a hip-hop beat. After a performance with Rick Franklin, Nistha Raj and Wytold at BloomBars, Christylez said “I enjoy mixing hood music with world music in a tasteful way.”

As a long-term goal, Christylez said, “ I want to travel internationally, learn indigenous styles of music and teach what I know from my own culture and experience and take that information and create collaborative albums with others. To me, that’s living the dream.”

Christylez Bacon breaks down Progressive Hip-Hop, his talents on multiple instruments, and mission through music.

Christylez Bacon performs at TEDx

A recent collaboration between Christylez Bacon and Niṣṭha Raj – Spaces: Bhairavi Beatbox