Word: m
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: during 1990-1999
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
...defend his heterodoxy. The Old Guard from the Reagan White House, who had arranged Morris' appointment as official chronicler, are all holding their breath, concerned only that their beloved President be lovingly portrayed, by whatever device. Said Ken Duberstein, Reagan's last White House chief of staff: "I'm not looking forward to it, and I don't know anyone who is." Perhaps not accidentally, the very boldness of Morris' device is bringing a flood of attention to the book, 14 anguished years in the making, and will surely spark an initial rush to buy it. Finally, it will rekindle...
...youngest of eight children in an Irish immigrant family, Naughton, who is married, had achieved the kind of success and air of invincibility that have become common among highflyers in the dotcom world. "I'm glad I'm at the top of the food chain," he wrote in a 1997 article for Forbes ASAP. But in his ramblings as hotseattle, he was playing an even more dangerous game than he realized. According to the FBI, he was pursuing another 13-year-old girl in the same chatroom. She turned out to be an FBI agent...
Last weekend 20 fans, some of them teachers, stood outside Morris' Manhattan hotel waiting for him to sign photos. "It was weird that I'm signing report cards in May," he says, "and now I'm signing autographs...
...role of Ziggy Stardust, an otherworldly rock-'n'-roller. Brooks makes it clear he's just playing a role, not living it or attempting some full Andy Kaufmanesque submersion. He may have recorded a rock CD, but he makes no claims that he's a rocker. "I'm a country artist," he says, "and very proud of that." His NBC special, Garth Brooks in...The Life of Chris Gaines (airing Sept. 29, 8 p.m. E.T.), will explain to viewers that Gaines is a fictional creation...
...look forward to parent-teacher conferences about as much as I do to periodontal surgery. The night before conference day, I usually have one of those dreams in which I'm in fifth grade playing dodge ball--naked. At my kid's school, we parents wait our turn in the hallway, drinking decaf and trying to hide our anxiety behind our briefcases. When I'm ushered into the classroom, I wedge myself into a Lilliputian desk. Mrs. Widget smiles down with practiced patience. She begins. Nine minutes later, it's all over, and we're shaking hands. By the time...