National / International News

Why can't YouTube turn a profit?

Marketplace - American Public Media - Thu, 2015-02-26 14:50

YouTube is to online video what Google, is to search: All but the default option for so many, far outstripping any competition. But unlike its parent company, YouTube isn't making a profit, and its competitors are growing.

"The thing that really hits you is how tough it is to run YouTube," says Wall Street Journal reporter Rolfe Winkler. "This isn’t a site that makes money." 

The company investing in tons of servers worldwide to make sure that you get speedy videos with no buffering. They are also spending a lot of money paying creators to produce the content available on the site. 

But YouTube is only breaking even, possibly because most people visit YouTube the way they would Netflix, instead watching linked or embedded videos on other sites.

Winkler says YouTube hasn’t expanded its audience beyond teens and tweens, which could be a contributor. Tee company is working toward offering subscription services, starting with a Spotify competitor that will offer ad-free music from YouTube's extensive library.  

 

 

Why can't YouTube turn a profit?

Marketplace - American Public Media - Thu, 2015-02-26 14:50

YouTube is to online video what Google, is to search: All but the default option for so many, far outstripping any competition. But unlike its parent company, YouTube isn't making a profit, and its competitors are growing.

"The thing that really hits you is how tough it is to run YouTube," says Wall Street Journal reporter Rolfe Winkler. "This isn’t a site that makes money." 

The company investing in tons of servers worldwide to make sure that you get speedy videos with no buffering. They are also spending a lot of money paying creators to produce the content available on the site. 

But YouTube is only breaking even, possibly because most people visit YouTube the way they would Netflix, instead watching linked or embedded videos on other sites.

Winkler says YouTube hasn’t expanded its audience beyond teens and tweens, which could be a contributor. Tee company is working toward offering subscription services, starting with a Spotify competitor that will offer ad-free music from YouTube's extensive library.  

 

 

Why inflation is the new variable to watch

Marketplace - American Public Media - Thu, 2015-02-26 14:49

Jobs and the labor market have held our national attention for so long, it almost seems kind of strange to now talk about inflation.

The Federal Reserve has two main jobs, one is to maximize employment. The other is to keep inflation at a certain target. Why? Because inflation and growth go hand-in-hand, and the Fed aims for a "Goldilocks" rate of inflation that will ensure wage growth and economic well-being. 

The Fed’s target is 2 percent inflation. And once we hit that point, the Fed will start to raise interest rates, to be sure the economy doesn't overheat (Goldilocks, remember!).  But we're nowhere that point, not least because falling fuel prices are holding inflation down. And they may continue to do so. So we can expect interest rates to remain low for a while yet.

What will turn things around? TD Securities economist Millan Mulraine says keep an eye on wages. They are trending higher, and should ultimately push inflation back in the right, upwards, direction.

Man is charged with murder of woman

BBC - Thu, 2015-02-26 14:44
A 37-year-old man is charged with the murder of County Antrim woman Pauline Carmichael.

Greek violence ahead of debt vote

BBC - Thu, 2015-02-26 14:38
Greek police clash with rioters after the first protest against the left-wing government, ahead of a key German vote on extending the bailout.

Death in the suburbs: Reinventing the American mall

Marketplace - American Public Media - Thu, 2015-02-26 14:30

Rumors of the mall's death have been slightly exaggerated. Anchor stores are leaving -- stores such as Sears and JC Penney -- but high-end malls are reporting record sales.  And many suburban malls are witnessing a rebirth.

Some are being turned into mixed-use spaces that include retail, offices, and residences.

Others are being taken over by city governments for use as police stations, fire departments, and libraries.

Another group of developers have discovered that niche malls targeting specific ethnic populations, such as Hispanics or South Asians, can also offer new avenues to retail success.  

For the full story, click the audio player above.

Water and writers: Paolo Bacigalupi

Marketplace - American Public Media - Thu, 2015-02-26 14:17

We've been talking a lot about water this month in our series, Water: The High Price of Cheap. We take it for granted, and that gets us in trouble.

As part of our series, we asked a couple of novelists to talk about water in their work and what water means to them. Author Paolo Bacigalupi, who is known for "The Windup Girl" and "The Drowned Cities," has  His new novel, out soon, is titled, "The Water Knife." 

The Windup Girl (Excerpt)

“No! I don’t want the mangosteen.” Anderson Lake leans forward, pointing. “I want that one, there. Kaw pollamai nee khap. The one with the red skin and the green hairs.”

The peasant woman smiles, showing teeth blackened from chewingbetel nut, and points to a pyramid of fruits stacked beside her. “Un nee chai mai kha?”

“Right. Those. Khap.” Anderson nods and makes himself smile. “What are they called?”

“Ngaw.” She pronounces the word carefully for his foreign ear, and hands across a sample.

Anderson takes the fruit, frowning. “It’s new?”

“Kha.” She nods an affirmative.

Anderson turns the fruit in his hand, studying it. It’s more like a gaudy sea anemone or a furry puffer fish than a fruit. Coarse green tendrils protrude from all sides, tickling his palm. The skin has the rust-red tinge of blister rust, but when he sniffs he doesn’t get any stink of decay. It seems perfectly healthy, despite its appearance.

“Ngaw,” the peasant woman says again, and then, as if reading his mind, “New. No blister rust.”

Anderson nods absently. Around him, the market soi bustles with Bangkok’s morning shoppers. Mounds of durians fill the alley in reeking piles and water tubs splash with snakehead fish and red-fin plaa. Overhead, palm-oil polymer tarps sag under the blast furnace heat of the tropic sun, shading the market with hand-painted images of clipper ship trading companies and the face of the revered Child Queen. A man jostles past, holding vermilion-combed chickens high as they flap and squawk outrage on their way to slaughter, and women in brightly colored pha sin bargain and smile with the vendors, driving down the price of pirated U-Tex rice and new-variant tomatoes.

None of it touches Anderson.

Ngaw,” the woman says again, seeking connection.

The fruit’s long hairs tickle his palm, challenging him to recognize its origin. Another Thai genehacking success, just like the tomatoes and eggplants and chiles that abound in the neighboring stalls. It’s as if the Grahamite Bible’s prophecies are coming to pass. As if Saint Francis himself stirs in his grave, restless, preparing to stride forth onto the land, bearing with him the bounty of history’s lost calories.

“And he shall come with trumpets, and Eden shall return . . .”

Anderson turns the strange hairy fruit in his hand. It carries no stink of cibiscosis. No scab of blister rust. No graffiti of genehack weevil engraves its skin. The world’s flowers and vegetables and trees and fruits make up the geography of Anderson Lake’s mind, and yet nowhere does he find a helpful signpost that leads him to identification.

Ngaw. A mystery.

He mimes that he would like to taste and the peasant woman takes back the fruit. Her brown thumb easily tears away the hairy rind, revealing a pale core. Translucent and veinous, it resembles nothing so much as the pickled onions served in martinis at research clubs in Des Moines.

She hands back the fruit. Anderson sniffs tentatively. Inhales floral syrup. Ngaw. It shouldn’t exist. Yesterday, it didn’t. Yesterday, not a single stall in Bangkok sold these fruits, and yet now they sit in pyramids, piled all around this grimy woman where she squats on the ground under the partial shading of her tarp. From around her neck, a gold glinting amulet of the martyr Phra Seub winks at him, a talisman of protection against the agricultural plagues of the calorie companies.

Anderson wishes he could observe the fruit in its natural habitat, hanging from a tree or lurking under the leaves of some bush. With more information, he might guess genus and family, might divine some whisper of the genetic past that the Thai Kingdom is trying to excavate, but there are no more clues. He slips the ngaw’s slick translucent ball into his mouth.

A fist of flavor, ripe with sugar and fecundity. The sticky flower bomb coats his tongue. It’s as though he’s back in the HiGro fields of Iowa, offered his first tiny block of hard candy by a Midwest Compact agronomist when he was nothing but a farmer’s boy, barefoot amid the corn stalks. The shell-shocked moment of flavor—real flavor—after a lifetime devoid of it.

Sun pours down. Shoppers jostle and bargain, but nothing touches him. He rolls the ngaw around in his mouth, eyes closed, tasting the past, savoring the time when this fruit must once have flourished, before cibiscosis and Nippon genehack weevil and blister rust and scabis mold razed the landscape.

Under the hammer heat of tropic sun, surrounded by the groan of water buffalo and the cry of dying chickens, he is one with paradise. If he were a Grahamite, he would fall to his knees and give ecstatic thanks for the flavor of Eden’s return.

Anderson spits the black pit into his hand, smiling. He has read travelogues of history’s botanists and explorers, the men and women who pierced the deepest jungle wildernesses of the earth in search of new species—and yet their discoveries cannot compare to this single fruit.

Those people all sought discoveries. He has found a resurrection.

The peasant woman beams, sure of a sale. “Ao gee kilo kha?” How much?

“Are they safe?” he asks.

She points at the Environment Ministry certificates laid on the cobbles beside her, underlining the dates of inspection with a finger. “Latest variation,” she says. “Top grade.”

Anderson studies the glinting seals. Most likely, she bribed the white shirts for stamps rather than going through the full inspection process that would have guaranteed immunity to eighth-generation blister rust along with resistance to cibiscosis 111.mt7 and mt8. The cynical part of him supposes that it hardly matters. The intricate stamps that glitter in the sun are more talismanic than functional, something to make people feel secure in a dangerous world. In truth, if cibiscosis breaks out again, these certificates will do nothing. It will be a new variation, and all the old tests will be useless, and then people will pray to their Phra Seub amulets and King Rama XII images and make offerings at the City Pillar Shrine, and they will all cough up the meat of their lungs no matter how many Environment Ministry stamps adorn their produce.

Anderson pockets the ngaw’s pit. “I’ll take a kilo. No. Two. Song.”

He hands over a hemp sack without bothering to bargain. Whatever she asks, it will be too little. Miracles are worth the world. A unique gene that resists a calorie plague or utilizes nitrogen more efficiently sends profits skyrocketing. If he looks around the market right now, that truth is everywhere displayed. The alley bustles with Thais purchasing everything from generipped versions of U-Tex rice to vermilion-variant poultry. But all of those things are old advances, based on previous genehack work done by AgriGen and PurCal and Total Nutrient Holdings. The fruits of old science, manufactured in the bowels of the Midwest Compact’s research labs.

The ngaw is different. The ngaw doesn’t come from the Midwest. The Thai Kingdom is clever where others are not. It thrives while countries like India and Burma and Vietnam all fall like dominoes, starving and begging for the scientific advances of the calorie monopolies.

A few people stop to examine Anderson’s purchase, but even if Anderson thinks the price is low, they apparently find it too expensive and pass on.

The woman hands across the ngaw, and Anderson almost laughs with pleasure. Not a single one of these furry fruits should exist; he might as well be hefting a sack of trilobites. If his guess about the ngaw’s origin is correct, it represents a return from extinction as shocking as if a Tyrannosaurus were stalking down Thanon Sukhumvit. But then, the same is true of the potatoes and tomatoes and chiles that fill the market, all piled in such splendid abundance, an array of fecund nightshades that no one has seen in generations. In this drowning city, all things seem possible. Fruits and vegetables return from the grave, extinct flowers blossom on the avenues, and behind it all, the Environment Ministry works magic with the genetic material of generations lost.

Carrying his sacked fruit, Anderson squeezes back down the soi to the avenue beyond. A seethe of traffic greets him, morning commuters clogging Thanon Rama IX like the Mekong in flood. Bicycles and cycle rickshaws, blue-black water buffaloes and great shambling megodonts.

At Anderson’s arrival, Lao Gu emerges from the shade of a crumbling office tower, carefully pinching off the burning tip of a cigarette. Nightshades again. They’re everywhere. Nowhere else in the world, but here they riot in abundance. Lao Gu tucks the remainder of the tobacco into a ragged shirt pocket as he trots ahead of Anderson to their cycle rickshaw.

The old Chinese man is nothing but a scarecrow, dressed in rags, but still, he is lucky. Alive, when most of his people are dead. Employed, while his fellow Malayan refugees are packed like slaughter chickens into sweltering Expansion towers. Lao Gu has stringy muscle on his bones and enough money to indulge in Singha cigarettes. To the rest of the yellow card refugees he is as lucky as a king.

Lao Gu straddles the cycle’s saddle and waits patiently as Anderson clambers into the passenger seat behind. “Office,” Anderson says. “Bai khap.” Then switches to Chinese. “Zou ba.”

The old man stands on his pedals and they merge into traffic. Around them, bicycle bells ring like cibiscosis chimes, irritated at their obstruction. Lao Gu ignores them and weaves deeper into the traffic flow.

Anderson reaches for another ngaw, then restrains himself. He should save them. They’re too valuable to gobble like a greedy child. The Thais have found some new way to disinter the past, and all he wants to do is feast on the evidence. He drums his fingers on the bagged fruit, fighting for self-control.

To distract himself, he fishes for his pack of cigarettes and lights one. He draws on the tobacco, savoring the burn, remembering his surprise when he first discovered how successful the Thai Kingdom had become, how widely spread the nightshades. And as he smokes, he thinks of Yates. Remembers the man’s disappointment as they sat across from one another with resurrected history smoldering between them.

Water and writers: Pablo Bacigalupi

Marketplace - American Public Media - Thu, 2015-02-26 14:17

We've been talking a lot about water this month in our series, Water: The High Price of Cheap. We take it for granted, and that gets us in trouble.

As part of our series, we asked a couple of novelists to talk about water in their work and what water means to them. Author Paolo Bacigalupi, who is known for "The Windup Girl" and "The Drowned Cities," has  His new novel, out soon, is titled, "The Water Knife." 

The Windup Girl (Excerpt)

“No! I don’t want the mangosteen.” Anderson Lake leans forward, pointing. “I want that one, there. Kaw pollamai nee khap. The one with the red skin and the green hairs.”

The peasant woman smiles, showing teeth blackened from chewingbetel nut, and points to a pyramid of fruits stacked beside her. “Un nee chai mai kha?”

“Right. Those. Khap.” Anderson nods and makes himself smile. “What are they called?”

“Ngaw.” She pronounces the word carefully for his foreign ear, and hands across a sample.

Anderson takes the fruit, frowning. “It’s new?”

“Kha.” She nods an affirmative.

Anderson turns the fruit in his hand, studying it. It’s more like a gaudy sea anemone or a furry puffer fish than a fruit. Coarse green tendrils protrude from all sides, tickling his palm. The skin has the rust-red tinge of blister rust, but when he sniffs he doesn’t get any stink of decay. It seems perfectly healthy, despite its appearance.

“Ngaw,” the peasant woman says again, and then, as if reading his mind, “New. No blister rust.”

Anderson nods absently. Around him, the market soi bustles with Bangkok’s morning shoppers. Mounds of durians fill the alley in reeking piles and water tubs splash with snakehead fish and red-fin plaa. Overhead, palm-oil polymer tarps sag under the blast furnace heat of the tropic sun, shading the market with hand-painted images of clipper ship trading companies and the face of the revered Child Queen. A man jostles past, holding vermilion-combed chickens high as they flap and squawk outrage on their way to slaughter, and women in brightly colored pha sin bargain and smile with the vendors, driving down the price of pirated U-Tex rice and new-variant tomatoes.

None of it touches Anderson.

Ngaw,” the woman says again, seeking connection.

The fruit’s long hairs tickle his palm, challenging him to recognize its origin. Another Thai genehacking success, just like the tomatoes and eggplants and chiles that abound in the neighboring stalls. It’s as if the Grahamite Bible’s prophecies are coming to pass. As if Saint Francis himself stirs in his grave, restless, preparing to stride forth onto the land, bearing with him the bounty of history’s lost calories.

“And he shall come with trumpets, and Eden shall return . . .”

Anderson turns the strange hairy fruit in his hand. It carries no stink of cibiscosis. No scab of blister rust. No graffiti of genehack weevil engraves its skin. The world’s flowers and vegetables and trees and fruits make up the geography of Anderson Lake’s mind, and yet nowhere does he find a helpful signpost that leads him to identification.

Ngaw. A mystery.

He mimes that he would like to taste and the peasant woman takes back the fruit. Her brown thumb easily tears away the hairy rind, revealing a pale core. Translucent and veinous, it resembles nothing so much as the pickled onions served in martinis at research clubs in Des Moines.

She hands back the fruit. Anderson sniffs tentatively. Inhales floral syrup. Ngaw. It shouldn’t exist. Yesterday, it didn’t. Yesterday, not a single stall in Bangkok sold these fruits, and yet now they sit in pyramids, piled all around this grimy woman where she squats on the ground under the partial shading of her tarp. From around her neck, a gold glinting amulet of the martyr Phra Seub winks at him, a talisman of protection against the agricultural plagues of the calorie companies.

Anderson wishes he could observe the fruit in its natural habitat, hanging from a tree or lurking under the leaves of some bush. With more information, he might guess genus and family, might divine some whisper of the genetic past that the Thai Kingdom is trying to excavate, but there are no more clues. He slips the ngaw’s slick translucent ball into his mouth.

A fist of flavor, ripe with sugar and fecundity. The sticky flower bomb coats his tongue. It’s as though he’s back in the HiGro fields of Iowa, offered his first tiny block of hard candy by a Midwest Compact agronomist when he was nothing but a farmer’s boy, barefoot amid the corn stalks. The shell-shocked moment of flavor—real flavor—after a lifetime devoid of it.

Sun pours down. Shoppers jostle and bargain, but nothing touches him. He rolls the ngaw around in his mouth, eyes closed, tasting the past, savoring the time when this fruit must once have flourished, before cibiscosis and Nippon genehack weevil and blister rust and scabis mold razed the landscape.

Under the hammer heat of tropic sun, surrounded by the groan of water buffalo and the cry of dying chickens, he is one with paradise. If he were a Grahamite, he would fall to his knees and give ecstatic thanks for the flavor of Eden’s return.

Anderson spits the black pit into his hand, smiling. He has read travelogues of history’s botanists and explorers, the men and women who pierced the deepest jungle wildernesses of the earth in search of new species—and yet their discoveries cannot compare to this single fruit.

Those people all sought discoveries. He has found a resurrection.

The peasant woman beams, sure of a sale. “Ao gee kilo kha?” How much?

“Are they safe?” he asks.

She points at the Environment Ministry certificates laid on the cobbles beside her, underlining the dates of inspection with a finger. “Latest variation,” she says. “Top grade.”

Anderson studies the glinting seals. Most likely, she bribed the white shirts for stamps rather than going through the full inspection process that would have guaranteed immunity to eighth-generation blister rust along with resistance to cibiscosis 111.mt7 and mt8. The cynical part of him supposes that it hardly matters. The intricate stamps that glitter in the sun are more talismanic than functional, something to make people feel secure in a dangerous world. In truth, if cibiscosis breaks out again, these certificates will do nothing. It will be a new variation, and all the old tests will be useless, and then people will pray to their Phra Seub amulets and King Rama XII images and make offerings at the City Pillar Shrine, and they will all cough up the meat of their lungs no matter how many Environment Ministry stamps adorn their produce.

Anderson pockets the ngaw’s pit. “I’ll take a kilo. No. Two. Song.”

He hands over a hemp sack without bothering to bargain. Whatever she asks, it will be too little. Miracles are worth the world. A unique gene that resists a calorie plague or utilizes nitrogen more efficiently sends profits skyrocketing. If he looks around the market right now, that truth is everywhere displayed. The alley bustles with Thais purchasing everything from generipped versions of U-Tex rice to vermilion-variant poultry. But all of those things are old advances, based on previous genehack work done by AgriGen and PurCal and Total Nutrient Holdings. The fruits of old science, manufactured in the bowels of the Midwest Compact’s research labs.

The ngaw is different. The ngaw doesn’t come from the Midwest. The Thai Kingdom is clever where others are not. It thrives while countries like India and Burma and Vietnam all fall like dominoes, starving and begging for the scientific advances of the calorie monopolies.

A few people stop to examine Anderson’s purchase, but even if Anderson thinks the price is low, they apparently find it too expensive and pass on.

The woman hands across the ngaw, and Anderson almost laughs with pleasure. Not a single one of these furry fruits should exist; he might as well be hefting a sack of trilobites. If his guess about the ngaw’s origin is correct, it represents a return from extinction as shocking as if a Tyrannosaurus were stalking down Thanon Sukhumvit. But then, the same is true of the potatoes and tomatoes and chiles that fill the market, all piled in such splendid abundance, an array of fecund nightshades that no one has seen in generations. In this drowning city, all things seem possible. Fruits and vegetables return from the grave, extinct flowers blossom on the avenues, and behind it all, the Environment Ministry works magic with the genetic material of generations lost.

Carrying his sacked fruit, Anderson squeezes back down the soi to the avenue beyond. A seethe of traffic greets him, morning commuters clogging Thanon Rama IX like the Mekong in flood. Bicycles and cycle rickshaws, blue-black water buffaloes and great shambling megodonts.

At Anderson’s arrival, Lao Gu emerges from the shade of a crumbling office tower, carefully pinching off the burning tip of a cigarette. Nightshades again. They’re everywhere. Nowhere else in the world, but here they riot in abundance. Lao Gu tucks the remainder of the tobacco into a ragged shirt pocket as he trots ahead of Anderson to their cycle rickshaw.

The old Chinese man is nothing but a scarecrow, dressed in rags, but still, he is lucky. Alive, when most of his people are dead. Employed, while his fellow Malayan refugees are packed like slaughter chickens into sweltering Expansion towers. Lao Gu has stringy muscle on his bones and enough money to indulge in Singha cigarettes. To the rest of the yellow card refugees he is as lucky as a king.

Lao Gu straddles the cycle’s saddle and waits patiently as Anderson clambers into the passenger seat behind. “Office,” Anderson says. “Bai khap.” Then switches to Chinese. “Zou ba.”

The old man stands on his pedals and they merge into traffic. Around them, bicycle bells ring like cibiscosis chimes, irritated at their obstruction. Lao Gu ignores them and weaves deeper into the traffic flow.

Anderson reaches for another ngaw, then restrains himself. He should save them. They’re too valuable to gobble like a greedy child. The Thais have found some new way to disinter the past, and all he wants to do is feast on the evidence. He drums his fingers on the bagged fruit, fighting for self-control.

To distract himself, he fishes for his pack of cigarettes and lights one. He draws on the tobacco, savoring the burn, remembering his surprise when he first discovered how successful the Thai Kingdom had become, how widely spread the nightshades. And as he smokes, he thinks of Yates. Remembers the man’s disappointment as they sat across from one another with resurrected history smoldering between them.

Two men are killed in A9 crash

BBC - Thu, 2015-02-26 14:00
Two men, believed to be aged 47 and 48, are killed in a two-car crash on the A9 near Dunkeld.

Living Small In The City: With More Singles, Micro-Housing Gets Big

NPR News - Thu, 2015-02-26 13:58

Single people represent the fastest growing category of households in the U.S. That's made small dwellings — from micro-apartments to stand-alone tiny houses, a big force in the real estate market.

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Crunch Cardiff council budget passed

BBC - Thu, 2015-02-26 13:54
Lengthy talks to settle how Cardiff will deal with a budget shortfall of £48.3m ends in agreement.

Pebble Time breaks Kickstarter's record

Marketplace - American Public Media - Thu, 2015-02-26 13:50

There’s a lot of buzz around the upcoming Apple Watch, expected this spring, but Apple isn’t the only company in the wearables game.

Pebble has returned to Kickstarter with an upgraded product, Pebble Time, a smart watch that may give Apple a run for its money. Pebble Time launched its Kickstarter project on Tuesday, February 24 and raised its first million in just 49 minutes. Since then, the company has raised over $10 million in two days, breaking Kickstarter’s record.

Pebble has funding from venture capitalists and did very well the first time they created a Kickstarter project, but the benefits of using Kickstarter go beyond simply raising funds.

“It’s a great source of marketing, but I think it’s also a massive opportunity for us to engage with our customers. Engage with the people who want to see us succeed,” says founder Eric Migicovsky.

Migicovsky is not worried about competition. He says, “We’re a company that doesn’t have any distractions. We don’t have an existing user base. We don’t have any other sources of capital. This is what we do, and having another company like Apple is pretty good validation that what we do matters.”  

Actress's $150,000 Oscar dress stolen

BBC - Thu, 2015-02-26 13:41
A $150,000 custom-made Calvin Klein Collection by Francisco Costa dress, worn by actress Lupita Nyong'o at the Oscars, is stolen in Hollywood.

For One Parliamentarian, A Stronger Jordan Key To Fighting ISIS

NPR News - Thu, 2015-02-26 13:38

Arab youths dissatisfied with the present are looking longingly to the past, and Islam's glory days. That, and a dearth of opportunities, says Jordanian politician Rula Alhroob, make ISIS attractive.

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VIDEO: Made in Wales: The Millennium Falcon

BBC - Thu, 2015-02-26 13:19
With a new Star Wars film looming, Carwyn Jones looks back at when Pembroke Dock built the "fastest hunk of junk in the galaxy" - the Millennium Falcon.

Robshaw reveals Ireland motivation

BBC - Thu, 2015-02-26 13:17
England captain Chris Robshaw says the memory of losing last year's Six Nations to Ireland is motivating his team.

Ahead Of Netanyahu's Speech To Congress, Hints Of A Thaw

NPR News - Thu, 2015-02-26 13:15

The Israeli leader will meet with Sens. Mitch McConnell, R-Ky., and Harry Reid, D-Nev., after his March 3 speech. Also, two senior Obama administration officials will address the AIPAC conference.

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Everton 3-1 BSC Young Boys (agg: 7-2)

BBC - Thu, 2015-02-26 12:55
Romelu Lukaku scores five goals in the tie as Everton cruise past Young Boys to make the last 16 of the Europa League.

Llama chase captivates Twitter

BBC - Thu, 2015-02-26 12:38
Two unlikely fugitives go on the run in Arizona

Will The Dietary Guidelines Consider The Planet? The Fight Is On

NPR News - Thu, 2015-02-26 12:25

A panel of nutrition experts recommends a diet lower in meat in part because it's better for the Earth. But the meat industry says environmental policy doesn't belong in nutrition guidelines.

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