It was a surreal nightmare. I fell asleep early last night, exhausted from covering a high-profile trial involving a certain widow.
I woke up around 1a.m. to find saxophonist Rob Lowe asking school marm Mare Winningham if she was still a virgin. They were attending a party thrown by Emilio Estevez for the woman (Andie McDowell) he was stalking.
Fortunately, I was too exhausted to stay awake.
A few hours later I awoke to Jeremy Piven sobbing at his brother’s funeral. Could it be — yep, there’s Jon Favreau. And Christian Slater. I had gone from “St. Elmo’s Fire,” the second worst-movie ever made, to “Very Bad Things,” the worst.
I turned off the TV, determined not to wake up to Tom Cruise writing checks his butt can’t cash.
(The 10 worst movies I paid money to see can be found here.)