But what is it, exactly, that makes facebook so attractive to investors? Well, to begin with, facebook is frugal; they didn’t even spring for a capital F.

North Carolina’s western sector is nothing short of glorious; it’s a wildly popular area known to millions of tourists as the scenic Blue Ridge Parkway and Appalachian Trail, and known to a former South Carolina governor as Argentina.

They’ve even come up with a new word to describe American over-eating, and all its attendant medical problems: Diabesity. “Diabesity! Because sometimes, gluttony just isn’t enough!”

Imagine it – a married man, suddenly on his own. Imagine a fish out of water. Imagine Bill Clinton in Cartagena. Imagine an Indonesian dog in the presence of a peckish young Barack Obama.

I remember when commercials were easy. Some polite human with sand-blasted teeth would point to a product, strongly suggest you buy it, and then shut up. Nice. Simple.

Being lazy, I’m rarely ever tempted to say the same thing twice. Heck, sometimes I need a coffee infusion, or some vague, looming threat of pending physical violence, before I’ll bother saying something once.

Timeline is a way to let you share your entire life’s story online, by posting an embarrassing amount of personal information on a non-secure website that’s potentially available to more bipeds than are listed in Madonna’s rolodex.

For over half a century now, I’ve been avoiding responsibility, and salads, and I have yet to get myself out of a fix by knowing the value of pi.
(True, I did say ‘hypotenuse’ once, but I meant something else.)

America has just come through one of the more odd highlights of every campaign season: Super Tuesday. This is a day when ten (eleven?) states vote (or caucus) to designate delegates (which may or may not be binding) for Presidential candidates (if their paperwork is in order). It’s like some kind of low-budget, fast-paced caper flick, starring expensive haircuts grafted on to grinning rich people.

This time, unfortunately, I had this new ‘non-generic’ prescription to fill. I’d brought the little tear-off sheet they gave me at the doctor’s, imprinted with their office location and phone, and bearing what was either my doctor’s handwriting or some kind of ink-based performance art. On faith alone, I assumed the unintelligible scribble was my prescription, though, for all I knew, it could have been an equation challenging special relativity, the Pentagon’s nuclear launch codes, or a line drawing of a hysterectomy performed during a hurricane.