That’s a bold statement to make isn’t it? Well let me explain. No, I don’t know what you’re thinking, that would suggest I had the sort of powers Nicolas Cage often appears to have in some of his terrible, predictable, and yet unfortunately unmissable movies. Their appeal is like movie-crack. The trailers tantalise you and promise a pleasure that is near-impossible to resist, and for such a small amount of money. Go on, one hit won’t hurt you. Add to that the ability to witness these films in a cinema with digital projection and exceptional surround sound, and there I already am, eating popcorn that I don’t really want and finding myself watching another terrible film. (continue reading…)

Greetings. I’m writing from the men’s dressing room backstage at Playhouse on the Square, and I am dead. Not physically, or emotionally, but theatrically. Alas, as the Prince of Cats I manage, every Thursday to Sunday until April 19th, to massively redirect the lives of history’s most famous young lovers. Nasty piece of work me, and for that, I get to be dead for, what is in our production, all of Act 2.

I spend this time in a number of different ways. Today I read several pages of Slash’s “autobiography.” The first 51 pages have been monstrously boring. Slash’s ghost writer embellishing rather uninteresting stories of his childhood and his early-age epiphanies that turned him into the Slash that we all know. Boring. Get to the tours and whores. I don’t care that you rode a BMX and stole a lot of shit.

The second thing I attempted was to watch Toy Soldiers. I love this movie, but I don’t have time to watch all of it, so I stopped.

The third thing I did today was create this blog. And now I must put on my pants and go and bow a dead man’s bow.

Be seeing you,

Rory