previous: Exit 6: Provo, Utah I returned from my two-week stint at B.Y.U. full of piss and vinegar. At least, that's what my parents seemed to think. As I dove into my senior year of high school, my parents complained to me more and more
I guess this is celebrity week here at Memos from the Moon. I can't seem to stop droning on about the subject, and I really can't seem to get away from droning on about the subject as it relates to my observations of John Turturro. So
I ran into John Turturro again today. (Not today as you read this, but today as I write this, which is more than a month before this memo is scheduled to appear.) Well, okay, I didn't really run into him. I actually just passed him on the sidewalk
Not long ago, a new colleague at the office told me that I reminded her of Dennis Miller. You know, old news anchor from Saturday Night Live who's now in movies and has his own show on HBO? The comic who's so witty and sarcastic and
In one of these recent memos, I mentioned something about how teenagers can always be counted on to do the wrong thing. In the great tradition of using myself as proof of whatever thesis I'm propounding, here's another example to help nail the lid of that
I rarely walk out of movies. Somewhere deep inside, I suppose I consider the contract between artist and audience so sacred that I can't help but uphold most of my own end even when the artist or artists are failing miserably to live up to their own. That
I wonder what ever happened to Butch Harper to make him such a mean bastard. He must have had some pretty serious unhappiness to contend with. Of course, when I was in 7th grade, I didn't care two figs about Butch's unhappiness. I was only concerned
The following piece was written in January 1997, under the pseudonym "Daedalus," for Alexis Massie's now-defunct Web site Pandora's Box of Tricks. I feel free now to reveal that the Thayne of this essay is in reality author Sean Stewart, and the book
So there I was, sitting in the BYU lecture room that served as a chapel for my Young Adult ward in Provo, waiting for sacrament meeting to begin, talking to a girl who sparked a certain interest in me. I have to confess that I don't remember her
I didn't develop my bullshit detector until rather late in life. (If I'd had it earlier, I might have avoided a few psychotic girlfriends . . .) I guess I was about six—this would have been the summer when my family lived with my uncle in Liberty, Utah,
Okay, we all have dirty little secrets in our pasts that we've never ever told anyone. I'm about to share one with you. If you're a regular reader of "Memos from the Moon," then you've surely realized by now how
previous: I'm Special! This third edition of "Korihor's Corner" is something of a special event. Today—Tuesday, February 17, 1998—my good friend Bob Howe and I are swapping essays. When we discovered we were each writing pieces on the theme of panhandling, me
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