Just Be

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.

I'm pretty confident this weekend will be the weekend. It just feels right. I'm not planning anything, but if it happens, it happens. Hell, I could just as likely hop on a plane to bed a 50-year-old in Minnesota, a 60-year-old in Vegas or a Octogenerian right here in my home state (they do wonders with plastic surgery in L.A.). Who knows?

My newfound confidence seems to have kicked in some macho pheromomes or something. I may need to grow a mustache to keep up. The girls around me seem to a bit more agreeable to my ways too. Can girls smell confidence? A friend of mine told me that most times women want a masculine mate to protect them, but during their ovulation cycle, they want someone more nurturing, that will be able to take care of their kids. Not sure if I buy it, but it could be instinctual.

Anyway, I'm not going to dwell on this task. Where and when it will happen is anyone's business. It all depends on me. In fact, I'm so sure about that I will soon score, I'm not not even going to talk about it anymore. Instead, I thought it would be nice to take you through my history of cologne.

Rob Lowe's History of Cologne
As a pre-teen, I experimented with whatever my dad had on the shelf. Those early experiments were with Jai karate and Pinaud Club Man. I remember seeing a Benny Hill commercial for Jai karate, feeling justified, thinking, "hey that's my brand." Only years later did I realize that my brand was the butt of the joke. But by that time, it wasn't my brand anymore. My taste had grown more sophisticated, more urbane. I was a polo man.

To this day, the warm musk of Polo has to be one of the century's most recognizible scents. It was sweet, pungent and took the cologne scene by storm. Polo, combined with feathered hair, a large comb in the back pocket and a Coke shirt, made even the biggest poser a virtual chick magnet. Polo lasted through most of my teen years until a new scent came on the scene. A scent to different, so unique, I had not choice but to shelve my half empty polo bottle, and embrace this new scent in the sophisticated matte bottle. Drakkar Noir was about to change the lives of millions.

Drakkar was a rebirth of scent. As if my nose had finally awakened after a 15-year slumber. My bottle of Polo became as insignificant as a empty bottle of Coke. It sat on the self for years collecting dust. In retrospect, I feel a bit sad about this. I just used it up and shelved it as a half-empty bottle. It didn't even get a chance to live a full life. Polo, I am sorry. I never intended to hurt you.

After Drakkar, I entered my experimentation phase. First, came Patchouli oil, or "the hippy cologne." This pungent oil smelled like something between bong resin and a girl that doesn't shaver her pits. I guess that's why most people are stoned who wear it. When college was over, so was my patchouli party. It is pretty overwhelming scent in elevators. So I ended it, and that bottle met the same fate as Polo, shelved before completion. My experimentation phase continued with CK1 and to my present cologne, CK Be. Luckily, throughout all of this, I had the wherewithall to see through Polo Sport.

I still enjoy the fresh, crisp scent of CK Be. The mild citrus bouquet and gender-agnostic, free-spirit attitude makes it all the more interesting. It's been three years with Be, but who knows when the day comes when this scent will hit the dusty graveyard.

I smelled Polo today in the hallway. I was surprised people in L.A. still wear it. But it did bring me back to my youth, even if it was brief. You can't put a price on those moments. I was delivered back to the most confident era of my life, and I was able to see how everything had come full circle. It was more than a smell. It was a sign.

I may go out tonight. Will I bag a cougar? That's anybody's business. But one thing I know for sure. I will smell like the 80's. Polo, here I come.

Next week: A trip down memory lane with my hair products!

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Saturday night at 2 a.m. in Hollywood.

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.

There's a certain uneasiness in the faces that surround me. Because at 2 a. m. in Hollywood, the brilliant hopes of the day turn into the harrowing reality of the night. Closed bars, cabs and lonely faces tell the story.

But at 2 a.m. in Hollywood I am oblivious to the desperation that surrounds this place. Because, I am not just watching the action. I am part of it. Because at 2 a.m. in Hollywood, I am basking in this neon wasteland with a women clearly 30-years my senior. Yes, I finally had a cougar in my grasp. And yes, I was lonely too.

I connected with her in spite of myself. You see, this wasn't really a planned outing, sort of like a last minute thing. I didn't have time to make myself nervous. I just happened to be at 7-11 with a cold six-pack in my hand. And then it hit me. I couldn't bear going home to a night of HBO and Heinekin. Not tonight.

I popped over to this bar, and there she was. Her name was Kelly or Kellen (I just called her Kel), and she was a talent agent. It's funny how your outlook changes when you set an off-beat demographic for your lustful conquest. I barely even noticed the oogles of other hotties at this place until about 10 minutes into the conversation. Hot and young was off the menu for me Saturday night in Hollywood. I was in the mood for something a bit more aged.

Drinks led to flirting. Flirting led to dancing. Dancing led to strolling. And strolling led to 2 a.m. in Hollywood. We left our cars, hailed a cab and went back to her place in Laurel Canyon. Our exit strategy was so clean, our progess so well-paced I couldn't help to think I wasn't the first drink/flirt/dance/stroll boy she had ever picked up. But I didn't give a shit. She was using me for pleasure. I was using her for something else.

At her door, she fumbled for her keys, but I think that was more to put me at ease. To show that she wasn't as methodical as her eyes absently revealed. We weren't inside for a minute before I had a glass of whiskey in hand. It was on.

Drinks/flirt/dance/stroll/cab/house/whiskey. Now we arrived at the main attraction of the night--heavy petting. And believe it or not, I actually enjoyed it. Sure, I had my eyes on the prize and knew this task wasn't about feeling good. But who was I to complain.

Which brings me to the bad news part of the night. Yea, there was some. No, she wasn't missing a limb or had an extra one between "her" legs. That I could have overlooked with the help of whiskey. No, seems there was a picture of her and another guy on a shelf, and I asked who it was. The conversation went something like this:
K-My husband.
R-Your ex-husband?
K-Nope.
R-Separated
K-Oh, no.
R-Uh, ok well--
K-He's ok with this-- (HAND TOUCHES MY WRIST)
R-Huh?
K-We have an open marriage. He's probably out doing the same thing now. It's no big deal.
R-(Something drunk and unintelligible)

So I left. I left her lair in Laurel Canyon. I left my prized cougar. And I walked back to Hollywood. Back to my car and a warm 6-pack of Heinekin. Back to Sunday. Back to the L.A. Times and frisbee and burnt toast. Back to green grass and water after water. And as the sun hit me, I realized last night was not a total bust. I did learn something more than my reticence to perform adultry.

Remember that super lame sunscreen song that talked about troubles that "blindside you at 4 pm on some idle Tuesday." For some reason that came into my head. I fucking hate that song, and couldn't get it out of my head for the rest of the day, but I digress.

Then I realized, Life's troubles don't have the corner on the random act of nature. Shit, I just proved you can be on the road to success that way too. And when you don't plan, you don't primp and you take a step in a different direction, doors open. And Saturday night at 2 a.m. in Hollywood, a door did open for me. But I slammed it shut a few hours later. Whatever, there are other cougars in Hollywood. That's for damn sure.

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Blissfully Lethargic

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.

I was feeling a bit down today. Last weekend took a lot out of me, and here I am butt up against another one. Normally, I love weekends, hanging out drinking, going to bars. But when I usually go out, I just kick back with friends and get retarded. But with this whole multi-generational sex thing, I totally need to bring my "A" game. Ugh.

Just as I was about to drink myself into oblivion last night, I got an e-mail from a friend Tracey. Inside, there were a ton of pictures of dorky guys. Okaaay. When I got down to the bottom it said, "you are the second hottest Rob Lowe on the Internet." I was like, sweet.

It wasn't until that point that I realized the weight I have on my shoulders. This is some serious responsibility and I plan to wear it with pride. I think this is just the kick-in-the-ass my self-esteem needed. Yea, I may have lived in his shadow, but what about the sorry ass mothers that live in my shadow? The Rob Lowes that are 10, 11 even 100. Being Rob number 2 ain't that bad after all. But like all ugly Americans, I won't be happy until I take over the top Rob spot.

This weekend I will hunt cougars and cubs together in their natural day setting, the Century City Mall. This is the one place I can meet quality 54-year olds and 21-year olds. I do have a couple of other leads that I will follow up, so wish me luck. I may need it.

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You're so vain, you probably think this sign is about you.

First of all, let me solemnly declare, right here and now, that I will never wear pleated pants. Not just because it's 2005, and no one badass wears them. I just think they look goonish. Even if fashion changes, my hard-line views on pleats will not. Same goes for double-(ick) breasted suits. I'll never rock either look.

Unfortunately, I can't say the same for Rick James. He's just another sorry ass sap like myself who shares the same name as someone famous. But rather than lament about it online and do cool things like try to bang 54-year-old chicks, this dude chose another drug to numb the pain--Politics.

Part of me wants to give props to this dude because he has enough sack to run for council in Bumbfuck, Mississippi with the name Rick James. Part of me thinks he's a dumbass. Seems Rick keeps getting his signs stolen and seems oddly confused that they would be of any value to pot-head college kids. I guess that's the same side of his brain that can support such ill-derived fashion cues.

I don't usually seek out stories about people in the same boat as me, but my friend at BBQ Junkie e-mailed it to me. Seems he had a minute between brines to toss some good, ahem, humor my way. Yea, I get it, in some way I'm still the butt of his joke, but I won't go down without a fight (or $20 and a nice hair massage).

Anyway, since my BBQ friend was looking at me through the lens of Rick James, I'd to the same and see who comes out on top.

Rick James vs. Rob Lowe:


1. There are no Rob Lowe catchphrases that have stuck- If there are any, I've managed to effortlessly escape them. But thanks to Dave Chappelle, Rick constantly hears, "I'm Rick James," even when he drops his daughter off a school. Rick 0, Rob 1.

2. Rob bangs chicks at conventions, Rick burns bitches in his kitchen- So what if Rob Lowe got his rub on with a young girl at the democratic convention. It pales in comparison to burning a ho with a crack pipe. Rick 0, Rob 2.

3. No one has yet to say, " I thought he was dead."- Thankfully, Rob is still very much alive living 1.5 hours up the coast in Santa Barbara. But Rick, that dude is toes up underground. I'm sure Mississippi Rick hears countless people blurt out that moronic catch phrase, I thought you were dead." Rick 0, Rob 3.

4. My look is way hotter- Yea, I get it, he lives in Mississippi, but don't they have pants besides dockers there? And the pigment-died button down shirt, puhleeze. Even on 4/20 I would never be wasted enough to put my arms through one of those overwoven sacks from Mervyn's. Rick 0, Rob 4.

5. His name is easy to fuck with visually- Rick James, how about Dick James or Prick James? Anyone with a sharpy and half a wit can really do a number on his signs. But what could they do to me? Rib Lowe, ha ha. Nice try sucka! Rob is victorious.

By the way, I'm still looking to bang a 54-year old and a 21-year old (my sister just turned, thankfully). Keep me posted with any ideas. Oh, and I can't pay for sex. Against the rules.

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The Switch

Mission Number One:

1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.

The Hunt
Saturday night turned to Sunday morning with no real advancement on the mission. I went to this upscale Cougar bar with my friend Tracey. She is one of those "friend" girls that you see in movies and you immediately sense that she is attracted to her "boy" friend. And as you watch, you wonder how this guy can be so obtuse as to not realize the attraction. Truth is, most guys aren't. It's just easier to stay friends. And it's nice to have friends that would go down on you in a theater.

Anyway, Tracey volunteered to be my wingwoman for the night. She told me about some company that rents out girls to help guys pick up, and thought she would give it a try. We laid down a few ground rules. The actual age of the women would have to be determined by Tracey. The other rule was that I could not have any sex until I bag the elusive 50+ cougar. Which means, I will get no play until I climb that mountain. Not that big a deal for me under normal circumstances, but knowing you can't have sex is different than just not having it--in a very guy sort of way.

If you're cougar hunting, here are my top five tips:

1. Bring a girl. It made it really easy to make introductions. Especially if she's hot.

2. Find the women by herself. Be wary of hookers, though. Groups of ladies will act crazy in public, but you have a better chance of picking up a waitress in a strip club than bedding one of these convention floosies.

3. Don't use your real name. This is especially true of me (hello, Rob Lowe). I became Rob DiStephano for the night.

4. Don't be a cheapskate. To find the best talent, you need to go to the expensive bars. And make sure you buy her a drink as soon as you exchange hellos.

5. Leave the frat boy at home. Work alone if you don't have a wingwoman. Dress nice and leave Chet and Zane at home to tend to their beer bongs and Playstation II.

My Disenchanted Evening
So, here's a brief recap of the evening. I met four woman, only one was above 50, but she looked 30. She, unfortunately was a hooker. Tracey told me that would be cheating. I then moved on to a group of two (where I learned the second tip). About halfway through the night, I discovered this was not going to be an easy task. Hopefully, part two of this exercise (taking home a 20-year old) would be easier.

Flipping the fifty switch
This is Hollywood, so you find some tasty talent in the 40+ range, whether it comes by God's hand or a plastic surgeons. However, most guys flip the switch off at 50. And let me solemnly declare the pickin's are a bit more slim around the half-century mark.

Damn, I wished my mom had me when she was 16. This would be so much easier. I totally could bang a 45-year-old.

Next weekend, the Century City Mall. Let's see what Cougars do during the day.

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Mission Number One: Multi-generational sex.

Ok, I'm a bit nervous about my first 101 in 1001 mission since it has to do with sex. I'm not so worried about the sex part, I think it's the first impression part that concerns me.

1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.

Fact is, I'm not a real sexually active person. I have only been with nine ladies in my life. By putting this sex thing first on my 101 in 1001 list, I think it will motivate me to take charge of this aspect of my life. I just don't want people to think I'm the kind of guy that works up mad numbers in the L.A. clubs every weekend wearing a trucker hat, hoisting a PBR and banging celebs. I'm not. In fact, I haven't scored in a year and rarely drink domestics.

I probably could have more sex. I've had the opportunities, but find it can be messy sometimes. No, that's not the obsessive-compulsive in me worrying about my linens (although I do hate to do laundry). Moreso it's the whole "let's make small talk in the morning and I'll act like I'm interested in your cat" conversation that really bugs. I need a moment...

Phew, ok, now that we know I'm not a snake (just a guy who will use women as objects for some offbeat list), I could really use some help. I live in Santa Monica and was looking for some places to find youngish and oldish females. My sister turns 21 in a week, and I will wait till then to start looking. Should I try Web dating, like Jdate or something? Does it matter if I'm Jewish or not? How about match.com? Any of those sites good? I just joined Friendster and will soon be on myspace. Can I hook up there?

I got some recent advice to check out urbancougars.com. It's a poorly designed yet slightly humorous site that facilitates hook ups between young dudes and old ladies. They recommend Casa Del Mar in Santa Monica for cougar hunting. Maybe I'll check it out this weekend. I haven't paid $10 for a beer in a while.

Also, perhaps I'm speaking out of turn, but if anyone wants to volunteer and are in my demo 21-22 or in their mid-to-late 50's, drop me a note. I won't be too picky. So old and young, brace yourselves--There's a new Rob Lowe on the block, and he's about to dive into a 30-day dating pool.

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What's the Point?

30 Days

You've heard me yarn. Yea I have always lived in the shadow of celeb Rob. I'm not going to make this a pity party, but I thought I did need to provide some context before I went into the point of this online experiment. Hopefully, I've made my point.


Moving forward, this site will serve as my personal diary for doing things I know Celebrity Rob would never do, like make a custom nursing T-shirt. These goals will help me create my own identity for the world to see. If I could eclipse CelebRob, that would be great, but for now I'm taking baby steps.

There's this thing, 101 in 1001, where you do 101 things in 1001 days. That will serve as the foundation of my identity experiment. I will begin making my list, and try to check accomplishments off my list as they are completed. Not normal things like get married or have kids (I know he's beat me at that), but rather EXTRAordinary things like hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month. That sort of shit. So stay tuned for my adventure(s).

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12 inches just for you

My friends encouraged me to do this blog. Said it'd be cathartic. My friends also send me doctored pictures of Rob Lowe naked. It's great to be loved.


Last week, I got an e-mail from one such friend with a Rob Lowe link. It was a an eBay page that was selling a picture of the young heartthrob in a tux. Oh, and he was shoeless. Made me wonder if the zany photographer that snapped the pix knew it would one day wind up on an online (huh?) auction site as a source of sexual pleasure for gay men.

Needless to say, that seems to be the hook for this eBay seller. But the boner doesn't end with Rob. No, there are boatloads of shoeless celebs out there to serve as much needed masturbation material for those so inclined to use it as such. Hey, who am I to judge.

So I decided to try a little experiment. Why not post my feet online and see if mine could fetch a higher price. I tried to make my feet as sexy as possible and the fruit of my labor can now be found on eBay, here.

It would be nice to get more money for my feet than celeb Rob, but if not I understand. One day I will win at something, and if this is not the time or place, I'll just keep stepping forward.

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Why not Robert?

One of the first questions I get is "Why don't you go by Robert instead of Rob?" Sure, Robert Lowe is one step removed from the guy who banged the teenager at the democratic convention, but still, it just doesn't feel right.

Bob Lowe is even worse. Sure, I do have some flexibility that I could use to distance myself from the West Wing star. Yea, I'm not as bad off as a guy with the same name as Ashton Kucher (not sure if there is even one, but stay with me on this). The George Michaels of the world (which I'm sure there are tons of) really have no recourse but to roll with it. The Michael Jacksons seem to fall into the middle. They can go "Mike" but even that will elicit giggles. I guess, considering my bretheren that share the same name as someone famous, Rob Lowe is not half bad. So why not Robert? Because that's not who I am. I'm Rob Lowe, and I have every right to use the name as that other guy. Case closed.

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Unfamous

Yea, unfamous is probably not even a word. I say probably, because I'm just too lazy to make a few clicks and see if dictionary.com lists it. Whatever. It's the only way to really sum up my situation--I was born with the same name as a famous 80's heartthrob, and not a day goes by when I'm not reminded of it.


I am Rob Lowe, son of Lois and Steve Lowe. I have no familial, religious or other affiliation to the more famous Robs and Chads who carry the same surname. I live in West LA with my dog, Pete, and work in academia for a living. So if you are looking for beefcake pictures or some insight into St. Elmo's Fire, I can't offer that. But if you've ever wanted to know what it's like to be laughed at for your name, or how if feels to not be The Rob Lowe, then hang around.

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