Celebrity Is The Religion Of Our Time.

Women Have Become So Obsessed With Not Withering, They've Forgotten That There Are Infinite Ways To Be Beautiful.

Everybody Is Continuously Connected To Everybody Else On Twitter, On Facebook, On Instagram, On Reddit, E-mailing, Texting, Faster And Faster, With The Flood Of Information Jeopardizing Meaning. Everybody's Talking At Once In A Hypnotic, Hyper Din: The Cocktail Party From Hell.

Eric Schmidt Looks Innocent Enough, With His Watercolor Blue Eyes And His Tiny Office Full Of Toys And His Google Campus Stocked With Volleyball Courts And Unlocked Bikes And Wheat-grass Shots And Cereal Dispensers And Haribo Gummi Bears And Heated Toilet Seats And Herb Gardens And Parking Lots With Cords Hanging To Plug In Electric Cars.

Wooing The Press Is An Exercise Roughly Akin To Picnicking With A Tiger. You Might Enjoy The Meal, But The Tiger Always Eats Last.

I Feel Like I Owe It To The Readers To Try To Pull Back The Veil And Give Them The Honest Version Of What's Going On. But It's Not More Fun. If Obama, As He Does Sometimes Already, Gets A Little Snippy With Me About Something I've Written, You're Thinking, 'oh God, The President Of The United States Is Already Annoyed With Me.'