A terrific 15-minute video edited from the worldwide Olympic feed showing all six of Mitcham’s final dives, the celebration after where he hugs practically every diver, the medal ceremony and him jumping into the stands to give his flowers and a kiss to his partner, Lachlan Fletcher.
Mr. Stewart described his anchorman character as “a sort of more adolescent version” of himself, and [co-executor producer Kahane] Corn noted that while things “may be exaggerated on the show, it’s grounded in the way Jon really feels.”
“He really does care,” she added. “He’s a guy who says what he means.
... What no one had seen, not even Weber, was that at the order to fire Carlo had stepped smartly sideways like a soldier forming ranks. Antonio Corelli, in a haze of nostalgia and forgetfulness, had found in front of him the titanic bulk of Carlo Guercio, had found his wrists gripped painfully in those mighty fists, had found himself unable to move. He stared wonderingly into the middle of Carlo's back as ragged and appalling holes burst through from inside his body, releasing shreds of tattered flesh and crimson gouts of blood.
Carlo stood unbroken as one bullet after another burrowed like white-hot parasitic knives into the muscle of his chest. He felt blows like those of an axe splintering his bones and hacking at his veins. He stood perfectly still, and when his lungs filled up with blood he held his breath and counted. 'Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque, sei, sette, otto, nove...' He decided in the arbitrariness of his valour to stand and count to thirty. At every even number he thought of Francisco dying in Albania, and at every odd number he tightened his grip on Corelli. He reached thirty just as he thought that he might be failing, and then he looked up at the sky, felt a bullet cave the jawbone of his face, and flug himself over backwards. Corelli lay beneaeth him, paralysed by his weight, drunched utterly in his blood, stupified by an act of love so incomprehensible and ineffable, so filled with divine madness, that he did not hear the sergeant's voice.pg 325
Ingredients: 
Mr Smith, a criminology lecturer, said: "Instead of complaining about the state of the education system as we correct the same mistakes year after year, I've got a better idea.
"University teachers should simply accept as variant spellings those words our students most commonly misspell.
The funniest part of the article is the Have Your Say section, many of which say something along the lines of, "Down with spelling errers and Americanization!"
From a less glib standpoint, there are actually a lot of really interesting things going on in the comments. For one, the British perspective towards the degeneration of English apparently includes American English. According to these comments, it's equivalent to txtspeak or typos, a lazy way of writing that is worthy of pet peeve status. I had no idea. (Although, it's interesting to consider that in light of "Britpicking," a secondary level of editing done within certain fan communities, transforming American writers' words into something passably British.) Second, unlike what I imagine American comments to have been, the British are not concerned about typos so much as people phonetically writing like chavs. There's an element of what accent you have and what that says about you in Britain that, for the most part, does not seem to be that huge in the US. (I could be completely wrong about that, though. I am, after all, from the Midwest and still in the Midwest.)
Oh, and for the record, I can't say I agree with Mr. Smith on this one. It would hurt my soul a little bit, if varients -- ha, see what I did there?-- became accepted rather than ridiculed.
“Some days I feel as if I do not actually speak the English language,” he writes, his verbal cortex overflowing. “It is,” he observes, “like trying to remember all the trees one sees through the window of a train.” Once he stares for a while, amazed, at the word glove. “I find myself wondering why I’ve never seen this odd term that describes such a common article of clothing.”It's like my life, except with a slightly more expansive vocabulary. But only slightly more. Also, I really want to read this book.
As we walked through Fullerton’s downtown, Weev told me about his day — he’d lost $10,000 on the commodities market, he claimed — and summarized his philosophy of “global ruin.” “We are headed for a Malthusian crisis,” he said, with professorial confidence. “Plankton levels are dropping. Bees are dying. There are tortilla riots in Mexico, the highest wheat prices in 30-odd years.” He paused. “The question we have to answer is: How do we kill four of the world’s six billion people in the most just way possible?” He seemed excited to have said this aloud.
As teenagers’ scores on standardized reading tests have declined or stagnated, some argue that the hours spent prowling the Internet are the enemy of reading — diminishing literacy, wrecking attention spans and destroying a precious common culture that exists only through the reading of books.
But others say the Internet has created a new kind of reading, one that schools and society should not discount. The Web inspires a teenager like Nadia, who might otherwise spend most of her leisure time watching television, to read and write.
