On a sunny spring morning in an office park off Highway 277, on the way into downtown Columbia, a group of workers sits in three rows of cubicles, headsets on, computers fired up and call monitoring screens displaying pertinent data above their heads.
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You may have seen the story this week about the Washington Post’s investigation into Mitt Romney’s troubled, private school past in which he played “pranks” on fellow students that, today, almost 50 years later, don’t reflect well on Romney’s character, judgment or (most importantly) electability.
Greetings race fans, and welcome to the Greater Darlington Racing Region, home of the Lady in Black, the Track That’s Too Tough to Tame, the Raceway in a Small Town on the Way to the Beach, the High-Banked Oval That Should Have Been Built in Florence Except They Were Still Into Trains Back Then and Really Weren’t Interested, and so on and so forth.
Perhaps you have received the following, or a reasonable facsimile of it, in a recent email:
Spring has sprung. Warm weather is here. The grass is green and at ballfields all around you can smell the leather and the bubble gum; hear the “bink” of high-tech metal connecting with horsehide and the screaming of parents whose children aren’t living up to lofty expectations.
FLORENCE — Watching the opening night scene at Francis Marion University’s brand new baseball stadium, just two days after listening to the Florence City Council debate (and eventually turn down a commitment to) a new city gymnasium, I can’t help but think of … football.
When it comes to energy, we Americans are a spoiled and wasteful lot. Gas prices are about as high as they’ve ever been, but just barely. The long-term energy picture actually looks pretty good.
Rowrr roufff, roufff, roowrr, rouff, rouff, rouff, rrrrrrr….Oh, c’mon. Seriously now. Did you actually think I was going to write an entire column in Dog? And do you really think dogs have a written language, or that we’d spell “rouff” with a “U” if we did? Answer: Arf! Arf! Timmy’s in the Well!. … Just kidding.
As I say whenever asked, and whenever I speak in public, the newspaper business is difficult these days because we are in a time of transition
How long do you have to live in South Carolina to feel like a native? Don’t know but I must be getting close. I’m starting to think about secession.
We watched it from Boy Scout summer camp. The only TV set around was in the mess hall. They propped it up on a counter, made popcorn and keep fiddling with the antenna. A blob of aluminum foil squeezed and shaped just so finally did the trick. We had a picture and just in the nick of time. The door to the Lunar Excursion Module (LEM) opened, Neil Armstrong climbed down the ladder and hopped off into the powdery lunar soil.
The noble Atlantic Sturgeon, an ancient fish capable of living in both salt and sea waters, receives scant praise and precious little attention from most South Carolinians. But in one of those ironic twists of which Mother Nature is so fond, he/she/it might become one of the state’s leading economic engines in the very near future.
Presidents are usually rich and that's probably a good idea.
If there really are dead voters in SC, the candidates will surely be courting them.
We were a little surprised -- and disappointed -- at the reaction of some readers to photos in Thursday's paper of two Muslims praying in Florence.
Football season is wending its way toward the climatic end of the season, and across our country passions are running high.
Santa, who I understand is resting comfortably this morning, is a right jolly old elf. And, as I my son and I discovered one Christmas years ago, he’s pretty handy, too.
It’s possible that the Great Recession was caused by a perfect storm of uncontrollable events, what those in the financial industry who should be getting the blame for this mess but aren’t, like to call the “financial tsunami.”
Women may fancy the comforting companionship of a hair salon or a spa, but when he man wants to get back in touch with his own kind he goes to … the tire store.
When Effingham resident C.J. Hamm bought $5 worth of sweet potatoes from his good friend Glen Carter recently, he thought he’d purchased himself a couple weeks worth of good eating.
There are few entertainments that match up with the color and interest of serious college football.
The story goes something like this: During the Great Depression, my grandfather’s wholesale grocery business wasn’t doing so well, so he and my grandmother took a job running a small hotel in a small railroad town in southern West Virginia for the bank had just foreclosed on it, until they put together enough money to buy the place.
Mr. Wall was a blue collar guy. He wore boots to ball practice and his accompanying work shirt that always had a pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket.
At a recent meeting of the Florence Rotary Club, the club’s humorist regaled the crowd with the tale of a recent mystery at Texas A&M University.
The “Occupy” movement has been derided for its lack of focus, but if the occupation ever gets around to taking over Florence — or better yet from a personal convenience standpoint, Quinby — I’ll be right there with it (them?) because of that scattershot philosophy.
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