Dean Allen is six foot three, myopic, of Scots-Dutch descent, and losing his hair. A recovering graphic designer, he lives in the South of France with Gail Armstrong, two swell kids, two cats he loathes and some dogs. He is squeamish around insects and crying children. His favourite word as of this revision is dipsomaniac. Formerly a fan of the phrase “to clean one’s own rifle” in reference to the act of onanism, he now prefers one coined by Corey Keegan of Toronto: “landing the Johnson account”. He likes the music hard and loud. Once, during a game of mock sloganeering, his friend Gerry shouted “French filmmakers out of Hollywood!”, to which Dean shot back, “French filmmakers out of Candace Bergen!” Money falls like water through his hands. Though well past the age where doing so would be feasible, were he to front a rock ’n roll band, it would be named Egregious Philbin. He needs to drink more water and curb his childish interests, though clearly these two needs have nothing in common. The funniest thing Dean has ever witnessed was some footage of narcoleptic dogs in a Nova documentary on sleep disorders. The second funniest was an interview with a farmer whose Tourette’s Syndrome manifested itself not in tics or verbal outbursts but in an overwhelming temptation to touch a running chainsaw to his pantleg. If Dean recalls correctly, that was in a Nova documentary on neurological disorders. A gifted mimic, he nonetheless eschews regional accents for comic effect. In a previous working life, he occasionally took respite from the stresses of the day by locking the door of the office bathroom, turning out the lights and just, like, standing there for a really long time. He admires several people. He is a lousy correspondent, and for that he is sorry. Except for the times when he is ridiculously overprepared, he is inevitably underprepared. In general, he finds patriots, professional actors, cult-stud academics, neoconservatives, chiropractors and usability experts to be silly. At the moment his favourite PHP function is extract(). Sometimes a nice piece of grilled beefsteak is all Dean requires to be truly happy. He has of late, with comic results, been using power tools. His pen of choice is the Pilot Hi-Tecpoint V5 Extra Fine. If Dean has pissed you off, he is sorry. If it were down to you and him, Dean would prefer to drive. He doesn’t understand golf at all. Right now he is several pages into a hundred books. Since moving to the country, he sometimes goes days without looking in a mirror, and when eventually he does it’s always a bit jarring. Dean enjoys card games. He can and — even when not called upon to do so — will recite Orson Welles’ cuckoo clock speech from The Third Man. After several tries, he has the waffles just about right, but still cannot prevent messy batter runoff. Though he has referred to it in the past, Dean is not entirely sure what the subjunctive clause is. He is likewise uncertain of the proper way to pronounce gerund.

In an arm-chair, with an elbow resting on the table and her head leaning on that hand, sat the strangest lady I have ever seen, or shall ever see.

She was dressed in rich materials —satins, and lace, and silks— all of white. Her shoes were white. And she had a long white veil dependent from her hair, and she had bridal flowers in her hair, but her hair was white. Some bright jewels sparkled on her neck and on her hands, and some other jewels lay sparkling on the table. Dresses, less splendid than the dress she wore, and half-packed trunks, were scattered about. She had not quite finished dressing, for she had but one shoe on —the other was on the table near her hand— her veil was but half arranged, her watch and chain were not put on, and some lace for her bosom lay with those trinkets, and with her handkerchief, and gloves, and some flowers, and a prayer-book, all confusedly heaped about the looking-glass.

It was not in the first few moments that I saw all these things, though I saw more of them in the first moments than might be supposed. But, I saw that everything within my view which ought to be white, had been white long ago, and had lost its lustre, and was faded and yellow. I saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and like the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes. I saw that the dress had been put upon the rounded figure of a young woman, and that the figure upon which it now hung loose, had shrunk to skin and bone. Once, I had been taken to see some ghastly waxwork at the Fair, representing I know not what impossible personage lying in state. Once, I had been taken to one of our old marsh churches to see a skeleton in the ashes of a rich dress, that had been dug out of a vault under the church pavement. Now, waxwork and skeleton seemed to have dark eyes that moved and looked at me. I should have cried out, if I could.

You've seen it. There's the grin (not smile), the goatee he's worn since decades before everyone else did, the still-leonine head of hair that even at age 54 gives him the appearance of always plowing through the wind like a man on the prow of some very sweet ship. He's short, but people say you don't notice it because he never stands in one place long enough for the necessary comparisons. He's one of those fearless, twinkling guys you hear about who's always certain that the next thing — the very next — well, that will be something else, that'll be the best. Branson for better or worse is brio personified. Everything about him seems propelled. That figure he cuts is anything but irrelevant. The more you look, the more you realize it might be the most important of several important things about him.

…In the end it's not the deliriously ambitious branding ploy or even the deliriously ambitious appetite that attracts us to Branson and braces us, and offers us inspiration. It's something about the figure itself, the way it is not just sensible and straightforward but steadfastly alert and delighted and fun.

When is Branson working? When is he not? It all appears so seamless and so authentically pleasing. Unlike many of our most vaunted and imitated entrepreneurs, Branson forever strikes one as not compulsive or haunted or even, strangely enough, driven — though no one ever questions his drive. No, instead he just keeps looking like he's on the prow of that sweet boat, grinning because he knows a secret, happy because he doesn't know exactly what's next but is absolutely sure that it won't be dull and will quite possibly be a good deal better even than that.

Under all the powder her face black as Harpo. She got a long pointed nose and big fleshy mouth. Lips look like black plum. Eyes big, glossy. Feverish. And mean. Like, sick as she is, if a snake cross her path, she kill it.

It is certainly true that a computer can incorporate and manipulate all other media, but the true power of the computer is that it is capable of manipulating not just the expression of ideas but also the ideas themselves. The amazing thing to me is not that a computer can hold the contents of all the books in a library but that it can notice relationships between the concepts described in the books—not that it can display a picture of a bird in flight or a galaxy spinning but that it can imagine and predict the consequences of the physical laws that create these wonders. The computer is not just an advanced calculator or camera or paintbrush; rather, it is a device that accelerates and extends our processes of thought. It is an imagination machine, which starts with the ideas we put into it and takes them farther than we ever could have taken them on our own.

The juvenile sea squirt wanders through the sea searching for a suitable rock or hunk of coral to cling to and make its home for life. For this task, it has a rudimentary nervous system. When it finds its spot and takes root, it doesn't need its brain any more, so it eats it! (It's rather like getting tenure.)