Hey old friend. Life is good.

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.
Mission Six: Live Life.

I thought of you this weekend. The collective you, the you who I spent nearly every waking hour documenting my life with not so long ago, the you who I have recently become unattached and transposed. But there was one thing I wanted to say to you.

Hey old friend, life is good.

I was not so thrilled about living a life on display, so I have chosen not to do it. New relationships, new friends can see what I did that year. Because all of those crazy mishaps were a part of me. They helped me understand and grow. They helped me reelect my own love of life and participate in its workings more than any other time. But now, I am more that a documentarian, and you are more than a eavesdropper.

I went to Palm Springs this weekend for Gay Pride weekend. It reminded me of you. That’s why I am writing. God knows, I have been an absentee blogger for some time. But I remember the old days of virtual gaydom. That crazy month that we spent together, talking and listening. I forgot about most of it, but it all came streaming back as I entered what will not doubt set the bar for the gayest hotel I have ever stayed at. But enough of that.

It was so much easier just being me this time around. Not trying to fool or assimilate. I was a guy out with old friends, drinking and carrying on. There were no agendas. There were no preconceptions.

I am becoming quite the connoisseur of gay bars, from Santa Monica to West Hollywood to Pennsylvania and now to Palm Springs. And as I recall each and every one, the only thing I can say is it is all different, it is all the same.

Some things I learned this weekend:

I can sing every word from Escape (the Pina Colada Song), but I don't like getting caught in the rain.

The guys in Palm Springs are either 60 or 20. Ever scarier, they kind of look the same.

If you are an old gay man on steroids wearing nothing more than a mystic tan you will be mocked by other gay men. Oompa Loompa is what you will be called. Get off the juice.

I look good pretty good in a pink cowboy shirt.

Listen to your friend’s advice when he says, “If you have to go to the bathroom, let me know and I will escort you.”

G-strings are never flattering on guys, no matter how you are built.

Never try to outgay a Gay guy. You will fail.

If you are not a bartender, never take your shirt off in a gay bar, no matter how narcissistic you are. Especially if you are straight, oops.

Don’t get so wasted at a gay bar that your friends will begin using you for parlor tricks.

There is no greater sign of coolness than being a gay guy who brings a straight guy to a gay bar. That one is a bit confusing.

Regina Spektor could get me to do anything if she asked in song.

If you nickname a person after a state, you will most likely never forget his or her name.

Even with the badge of pride that comes with such an effervescent score, never pick up the straight hot-blonde bartender in a gay bar. Knowing you could should suffice even the biggest ego.

Whenever I hang with my gay friends, I am wholly diabolical for at least 10 days following.

That’s about all I will share. On the personal front, everyone in my life is doing well. New people, new challenges , new places to make mistakes. I have a new job, new industry and some new friends. Life is new, but the old is never forgotten. At least for me.

So for all of you wondering if I am still alive, I guess the answer is yes. At least for now anyway.

Currently in My 25 most played:

Regina Specter
Azure Ray
Placebo
Ottmar Liebert
Brian Jonestown
My Morning Jacket

Currently watching:
Shark
Heroes
Lost
Sunny in Philly


Anyway, look me up on Myspace. Be seeing you.


Peace

RL

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Golden Slumbers

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

Ok, so I quit my job, get in my car and drive around the country for just the summer, and already people know about my CYTOMEL AND CYNOPLUS consumption and want to sublet my space. Nice friends.

This summer has been amazing. I realized how much of my life I have been in a virtual sleep, cascading through the day-to-day without any regard for the big picture or what I want. The blog helped with that. I was able to push through a year, doing things I never thought I would or could do. My admiration with myself fell short of putting up a motivation poster, but it really did clear things up. Or so I thought.


That initial euphoria began to wear off and things like work, money and happiness started to enter the picture as more strategic players. I needed to get away from it all. So I packed up shop, and began a three month pattern of throwing my life across the country. It was collectively the most resounding moment in my life. I still dream about it. The uncluttered sleep. The pure dreams and the absence of everything that makes life actionable in every sense but the figurative.

So now I am back. Integrating my past and present into a confusing fabric. I'm not really sure what to do, or how to do it. I've had a few job offers. Better than my old job. I've even been offered my old job back. But I'm not ready for commitment. I am just dusting off the summer memories and trying to make sense of them. Trying to do a sunset review on the most amazing few months of my life. The most personal time I have ever spent. And as it now stands, will probably keep it as such.

I'll be back. And maybe better than ever.

Hope this post makes sense, because I didn't read it. Probably never will.

peace
rl

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Rob Lowe on MySpace

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

I love wireless internet. It is a beautiful gift for those who want to stay in touch, but lack the resources of cash or in my case a home base.

I'm on the road, and right now I am logged into "Andrew is God," and boosting his wonderful signal at "good" state. I've been doing this across the country. If Andrew really is God, I imagine I will have some explaining to do come judgement day.

I've been trying to look up old friends on myspace as I make my way around the country. I've been in PA for the floods and New York for the Fourth of July. Days are melting away and I've found myself walking around without a watch. I judge time merely by asleep and awake, and my body decides what to do.

I will probably find a job soon, but right now, I'm more concerned with finding my way around the country. Last summer was great to teach me how to live off the land. I'm really glad I did that whole experience.

I've tracked down some college and high school friends. One guy I hadn't seen since high school, and was not even really a friend. It was strange and awkward, but in the end it was necessary. He still had that weird thing on his ear. That's all I could think about.

I check myspace more than I check my blog, so if you want to be my pal, stop by myspace.com\roblowecanyougo My latest friend is the loveable "I Pinch" crab from those Honda Element Commercials (he has it on his profile if you haven't seen it). I love those commercials and when I found him, I had to add him. His blog is pretty funny too. He's a much better writer than I ever was.

Anyway, time to leave "Andrew is God," and search for my next linkys connection.

Happy trails.

RL

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Where's Rob

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

I left my job. I got really, really bored with it. The door was left open for my return, but I'm not sure if I want to reenter again.

So I've been on the road, bumming around and enjoying life wearing stupid grins and gay $5 sunglasses. I got real busy at work and decided I had enough of a nest egg to drop out of life for a while. No one really knows, even my parents. Pretty funny when I show up on their doorstep. First I come out, next I'm jobless.

Anyway, I may or may not write from the road, but am having a good time visiting old friends and making new ones. And believe me, I do have my priorities in order. Maybe for the first time in my life.

I'm en route to PA, but took a brief detour in Texas. I love oil. And Bush, so why not. I'll probably hang in Tennessee with an old UCLA friend too, and I might meet alex who's somewhere in the midwest shooting.

I haven't subletted my place to any Euros like last summer, but I'm leaving that open. The ribs are better and I haven't had sex in 4 weeks. There's just no excuse for that.

Be well my friends
rl

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A New End

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

Life is a strange fucking beast. Seriously. I didn’t know what I was getting into with this blog, writing about people and events within a singular discretion. But a few weeks ago, I had a strange realization--maybe my life wasn't meant for the world to witness. It got me thinking. And that is always a bad thing.

Well, to clarify a bit more, it was not so much my life I was concerned with. It was the lives of the people around me. The Daniels, the Jims, the Heathers and Tracys. The Alexes. The moms and daughters, the Shelfies. The intersecting, sometimes scattered lives of family, friends, people I have slept with, etc. They are the ones that make my blog world all the better. But it seems I haven’t really been returning the favor.

To make a long story short, which can be hard for me at times, I noticed a bunch of people coming here from a certain fan site. I followed the link and found a public forum discussing the assumed identity of Jim. Not sure how they found me, but they had gone through every entry, matching up details, dates, times. It was a bit overwhelming. One of the comments was that, “He doesn’t sound like I thought he would sound.” Although I can’t really say who Jim is, as a public figure, I must be accountable for his perception, even when he is simply being human. Or a friend.

Anyway, I'm not bitter. But I did end up in the middle of something that was not supposed to happen. I’m a bit wiser about tracking and search engines after this, and I’m not going to even mention who they thought Jim was because I don’t want searches coming here. But suffice it to say that I will no longer be writing about Jim, even though he doesn't seem to give a shit either way.

This weekend Rob Lowe and his assorted cast of characters helped celebrate the wedding of a good friend. This was the bachelor party I attended in Vegas a month or so ago (remember Circus Circus?). It was a beautiful Saturday night--one of the 15 days in Beverly Hills where you can see to the ocean. It was a great time filled with Mojitos, blood orange martinis and a slew of finely crafted fake titties. In other words, it was perfect. And yes, I did play some stinky stick after a prolonged period of medically-induced abstinence. The ribs were go. So was the Underdog 7.

I’ll be keeping my blog, but will be a bit more scattered in my postings. I’m still processing this twilight zone moment. Bear with me.

And on a final note, perception is not reality. We all have roles, and they change.

Now, my role is changing too.

Take it real.

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Hey Party People

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

Something nice happened at work today, so I decided to go to an irish bar on Wilshire for some beer and darts at lunch. I'm quite good at darts, although most people wouldn't think it. I even have my own. Yea, a bit nerdy, but when you're from PA, using someone elses darts is like wearing someone elses underwear. By the way, I'm pleasantly buzzed.

I woke up today thinking I was forgetting something, and I was right. I forgot I had a fucking blog. What a loser I am, not writing for almost two weeks.

I'm bored too, and sexless. I know everyone is tired of hearing about this so consider that info a minor update. I was actually considering going back to the well with Heather, but I know I'd hate myself for that.

Hi Lind.

Oh yea, I just found out someone told her about my site and I got verbal confirmation that I will never hook up with her. Not that I was really expecting it, but I thank my friends for making an obscure and blue sky reference between guys a strange and awkward moment for me. Sometimes I think I may be more connected to the Hollywood scene than I'd like to admit. It is a bit of a small town.

I got a call from Tracy while playing darts. Of course, I let it go to voicemail. My friends would have none of that, me talking to a girl during guy time. But on her message she invited me to a party at Shelfies. His daughter is having a birthday and my presence was requested. I think I may need some suburbia this weekend to get me even keel.

I do owe Trac one, so I probably will go. I just hope my need for sex won't have me poking around Tracy. That would be bad. In a good way, but still bad.

Ah, fuck, you know what I mean.

Have a great weekend. See you on the dark side.

p.s. Fuck you Alex and same for you Jim. I know you've been laughing all night, but payback is coming.

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Better Recognize

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

I turned down three offers for Coachella this weekend, including a place to stay that accompanied two of them. But I needed some personal Rob Lowe space, and I'm generally aware enough to know when to say when. I've been acting like a college kid lately, being dirty and scandalous into the wee hours with the wrong people. But unlike most college kids, I don't have sex. Regardless, before this whole lifestyle took its toll on me, I put the kebosh on it.

So instead of hanging with friends en masse in the high desert, I spent Saturday entirely in my underwear. I did nothing but listen to My Morning Jacket over and over and drink a day-old Jamba. It actually was a much better time than I'm making it out to be. On those days, there is no better friend to me than me. Seriously, maybe its a narcissistic thing, but I had a good time with myself. And "we" didn't even have sex.

Bad joke.

Saturday night, I watched Mean Girls, and loved it on so many different levels, including the increased level that was poking through my thread-bare boxers. Regardless of what you think of Linds as a paparazzi person, she does bring it in the adolescent looks arena. Lacey Chabert had the exact opposite effect on my boner. I hate to see cute kids grow up to be fug adults. I prefer my grown-up child stars to be absolutely fuckable.

Like Jessica.

I have to be honest about the whole Lucky Strike thing I've been traipsing out for months (which I am purposely not linking to from here, if you are in the know, you are in the know). I've been a bit afraid to blog about it. I think I just now recognized that fear was central to my avoidance. I've had my fair share of blogging-about-people-who-didn't-want-to-be-written-about moments, and I've handled them fairly well under the circumstances. But none of those people were dating some buff dude from the Fantastic Four. I've been advised to play it close to the chest, and after much internal review, decided that I don't give a shit and will write about it. I will change her name though, I'm going to call her Lisa. Or Lori.

By the way, one of the mind births of the past few weeks of drinking was a new mission brought up by Jim and Alex. They think under their astute guidance they can help me stick an often-maligned Mean Girl actress. And all they want me to do is hold off sex until I can get it from her. Fuck, my part's easy: have no sex. I've been doing that all my life.

They've got the mission to accomplish.

And guess what? If there is a red-haired pity fuck in my future due to some strange polarity, roadie mentality or substance-induced indifference, it will definately not be blogged about. Their rule, not mine. I'm not sure if I would even be proud of it. Ok, yea, I would. But hey, guys are pigs. And this weekend, I remembered what it is to be a guy. A guy in Saturday underwear. A guy with time to think.

I'm going to eat an orange now and hope for the best.

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