Tunnel Vision

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 Four: Re-take the SATs.

I have officially alienated almost everyone in my life for this mission. It is amazing that the things that seemingly mean the least have a way of coming to the forefront of my occasion.

As much as I have gotten my shit together over the last few months, I have pissed it all away in this stupid challenge. This goofy little escapade has taken on a life of its own. I have preserved nothing of the last few months as I put blinders on to just about everything around me. I wonder if it is fate. If the gods wanted to build me up to bring me down. I have delusions from studying. I sometimes wonder if I am mentally ill, but wake up the next morning with an erection and no recollection.

Alex is taking this whole thing much less seriously. Truthfully, it doesn’t surprise me. And you know what, he will probably do as good or better than me. It is something I have come to terms with in my 30 years of friendly competition. Alex is an Ivy league boy, and as great as UCLA is, it really cannot compete with Columbia. I have a few friends who have gone to Ivy League Schools, one who graduated with an English degree who is helping me quite a bit. But mostly we’ve been communicating by e-mail because of our schedules. That’s ok by me, since my social life has been nonexistent for the past month anyway.

I’m not a hugely competitive guy, but I do get tunnel vision whenever I set my mind to something. I want to know it inside and out. I want to take it apart and smash it and try to put it back together. I want to find out everything I can about whatever captures my interest. It is unbridled and often comes at the expense of other things in my life. And sometimes, nothing else matters.

The test is this Saturday. The practice test went extremely well, but that only pushed me harder. I know my selves well enough to allow the person inside who is pushing ahead to do his thing. It took me years to recognize that, but once I did all the pieces seemed to fall into place, at least inside my head. Outside of my conscious, my life is haphazard and delusional. I need the connection of friends to help me chart my course. I need Saturday to be over. Because Rob Lowe has definitely become a self-serving little jackass during the course of this mission, and I think I owe the people in my life an apology once this is over.

The other thing strange about this mission is how internalized it has become. There is no tangible tasks worth writing about, instead it is a deliberate retreat into my inner being, one that hasn’t been easy to share. I made a point in every other mission to bring everyone along. This time everyone was left at the station. Doesn’t make for a good read.

Jim’s been reading my blog lately. He’s a pretty smart dude and was the one that enlightened me to the above epiphany. And he said it with the grace of the soft-spoken IM.

Lowe ur blog sucks ths month. Give us shotgun.

I had no idea what he was talking about, but the next day it sank in. I wasn’t allowing the reader into the world, to ride alongside me on my silly little adventures. Instead I was excluding them. It seemed to make sense even in the nebulous context of a shorthand IM.

I didn’t bother to call him until after I understood the meaning. Because he’s a guy that will die with a riddle. If you don’t get it, you don’t deserve to. I’ve learned that the hard way. I picked up the phone, ready to take my lumps.

“Hey it’s Rob,” I said.

"That's the only reason I picked it up. Well, because that porno mustache picture comes up whenever you call. I love that picture."

"Ok, do you really want to talk about pictures again, because I have a few comments about that."

"Uncle."

"Yea, that's what I thought. Do you have a minute to talk?" I asked.

“Actually, I’m on-set,” he said.

“It’s 10 pm dude, and you call me a workaholic. Call me back.”

“No it’s fine, let’s talk. I just need to hide," he said, whispering, "It's sort of a rule not to talk on the cell phone...”

“You fucking nerd, my god, you're the teacher's pet." I said interrupting, "Anyway, I get what you were saying on the IM about the shotgun. It made sense.”

“Lowe, you know you need to tell me, you can’t trick me with that shit.”

“I wasn’t. I know you wanted me to bring people along for the ride, not leave them on the outside.”

“Yea, that’s part of it. It was an easy one. I figured your brain was shit anyway with those logic problems. Are you ready for Saturday?”

“I guess.”

“You win this and I’ll meet you in Vegas for the victory party. It’s cold as hell here.”

“Sounds like a plan. But its cold there too.”

“Whatever Lowe, I’ll see you at Christmas. Make me proud with those gay SATs.”

“This is the lamest conversation we’ve ever had. I'm embarrassed to have you as a friend.”

“More embarrassment to come. Oh, and tell Alex I hate him. And let me know if he gets a girlfriend. I'd like to fuck her,” he said jokingly.

“You're a great friend. Seriously though, that fucker hasn’t been studying a bit. He totally lost interest.”

“Yea, he’s a shithead. Let’s get him drunk when I get home.”

“Fuck him, get me drunk.”

“Ok, I really have to go.”

“Yea, me too.”

I went to the balcony and grabbed a beer. This was an exile, even though it was self-imposed. I could smell the freedom of Saturday. I could smell the escape.

I could smell the night.