cookouts and coming out

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.

According to some gay Web site, "Coming out to your parents means that you have now self-identified as a lesbian or gay man. Initiating this discussion with parents can be nerve-racking. It can also be the start of a more open and honest relationship with them."

Unless, of course, your name is Rob Lowe.

Friends, wish me luck. For, I am embarking on fairy express this weekend and coming out to my parents. Mean-spirited, perhaps? But can you blame me, especially since they named me Rob Lowe.

Let the Memorial Day fun begin. See you Tuesday.

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The Island of Misfit Queens

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.

Greg and I walked into the Friendship with unequal levels of anxiety. I knew it was a gay bar, he didn’t. I was without Daniel, my gay advisor. He was without a proper frame of reference. Let’s just say Greg's blissful ignorance gave him the upper-hand. I was nervous.

Inside, there were about 15 guys in several groups around the bar and tables. We took a seat at the bar, nodded politely to a few and ordered up some beers. The place is covered in nautical kitsch, and its walls had a voice louder than anyone in there. Or so we thought.

Upon first pass, I was visually awestruck and emotionally saddened by my dusty surroundings. This was the home to the disenfranchised members of a disenfranchised sub-culture. It was the island of misfit queens.

“Dude, this place has more sausage than Father’s office.” Greg whispered.

He was right, not a fag hag in sight. No lipstick lesbians or butchy dykes. Just some old queeny beach bums and a few go-go boys at a table.

“I’m Sherlock,” the guy next to me said as he stuck out his hand.

“I’m Rob, this is Greg.”

“Nice to meet you boys,”

“You too,” said Greg.

Sherlock appeared older than his years. He was English, with a mountainous crop of white hair and a tan, leather face. He looked like a gay Santa in an ill-fitting tank top (as if Santa has a straight bone in his body. For God’s sakes he tucks red pants in black boots--Fabulous!).

Sherlock looked like he spent many a day being dandy with the fellas at the Friendship, enjoying the proximity to the beach and the warm California sun. But those days have long passed and all he is left with is an English accent and the teeth to match.

“That’s me, back in the day,” he said as he pointed to a picture of six guys on a fishing boat. He was blonde, sun-streaked and the visual antithesis to his current state of tank-topped disarray. It was Frankie Avalon in his most heroic and homoerotic form.


“Steve, take that from the wall,” Sherlock said, motioning to the bartender.

Steve took the black and white photo down and handed it to him. Sherlock pointed to the people and shared their stories. The glass was deep with greasy fingerprints on each face. It seemed this was a normal ritual for Sherlock with anyone who would listen. And we gladly did.

We became so immersed with the stories that we forgot it was a gay bar. To us, it was just a bar that played lousy music. An hour later, there was a group of about five aged-queens telling stories and laughing around us. Some were sad, others were happy. But all made us feel strangely satisfied, yet fleetingly aware. There would never be a moment like this for us again. For them, too. A captive audience of two young (and dare I say, “handsome,” straight men) was what they needed to get their blood going. Lord knows, the go-go boy table looked at the queens with disdain.

I was prepared for the Friendship to go a number of ways. Greg could have been a homophobe and stormed out, he could have asked me if I were gay or he could have come out himself. But none of that happened. We simply enjoyed our time and left, exchanginghandshakes with the former fabulous five. It seemed they just needed company, and I guess, looking back, so did we.

As Greg and I walked out that door into the Santa Monica night, I looked at him and said:

“You know that was-”

“Yea, dude, I know,” he said without making eye contact. For all the we gained, it would forever be our secret.

So we took our cars and quietly headed back to our lives. Both gaining something unexpected from the evening that will stay with us as long as Sherlock’s memories of that fishing trip.

I guess that’s why they call it the Friendship.

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Friendship

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.

My missions are living, breathing, sizzling, shedding, humping, lusty animals. And I truly appreciate the comments I get from my blog friends because they offer an outside perspective that guides me through my missions and beyond. If you’re somewhat of an obtuse man like myself, something can be right in front of your face and you won’t see it. Except for tits, of course. Guys never miss tits.

Libby thinks I need a “fag hag.” I guess that is the gay equivalent of a Wing Woman, well almost. I do have a friend named Tracey who fits all of the qualifications, except she is pretty smokin' and has a little “Rob Lowe on the brain”(can you blame her?). It’s a very tempestuous relationship with a slight 80’s teen movie flair. I have never had my way with her, but I know she's always a drunk-dial away. But I wouldn't go there because it would destroy the dynamic of our relationship. And that is more important to Rob Lowe that dropping a meaningless load on a pair of fake boobs nestled in Agent Provocateur. Don't you love my sensitive side?

Last night, I realized just how fucked up this city is when it comes to transportation. A big-rig jackknife on the 405 freeway screwed over almost the entire city. I could not budge in traffic, so I called a nearby friend to get a beer and wait out the mess.

I headed over to Father’s Office in Santa Monica. No, it is not a gay-fetish bar as it's name could easily imply. Actually, it was more of a straight-bar sausage party yesterday (tons of guys) which was fine by me. I was in character, so the least female distractions I encountered, the better.

After a brief test of my “gaydar,” I spotted four blips on my screen. I thought it was interesting that gay people go to straight bars all the time, but most straight people are afraid to even mention the name of a gay bar.

Let me digress for a second. I try to limit the amount of friends who know about this blog. The tier-two friend I was with at the bar, Greg, falls into that "clueless about it"category. So he had no idea I was now living the gay lifestyle or last month, hunting cougar. It was better that way. He did make a comment that my shirt was “gay” though, but he always makes comments like that. By the way, he was right. That shirt is gay as fuck. In fact, it’s the gayest shirt I own (and it was bought prior to this mission). Yikes!

So I thought I would try a test. Daniel told me about this bar, the Friendship, in Santa Monica, near the beach. It is an old-school queen bar with a ton of Hollywood history and folklore attached. It is king kitsch and has a crazy nautical theme. The question had to be asked.

"Hey Greg, want to do something different?"

He was already on his third 10% alcohol beer, so he agreed. By the way, the only thing greater than the sausage at Father’s Office last night was the beer selection. The best in L.A.

I talked him into going to The Friendship, under the guise that it was a “historical” bar in Santa Monica where Marilyn is rumored to have delivered an illegitimate child. He bit. We went.

From there I entered uncharted territory. We were two straight guys (one wearing a gay shirt) in a gay bar without my gay guru, Daniel. Did Rob and Greg survive the advances of grey-haired queens in aloha shirts? Did they leave in a Miata? Tune in tomorrow to find out.

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The Scent of a Man

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.

Generally speaking, my mental acclimation to the gay lifestyle has been relatively easy to this point. Honestly, I thought the mindset would be the hard part until I realized the simple, yet universal truth among all men.

We think with our dicks.

That insight has provided me with a stable jumping off point. Something I could take with me as I cross the bridge into the land of gay.

I’ve also discovered another universal truth--friends are friends, whether they stick it in the crack of a man or a woman. Because to really gain something from this mission, I need to do more than just look good in a tight black Helmut Lang tee. I need to be able to frame things beyond my own lens. To not merely accept that a man can be attracted to another man, but understand why he is, and befriend that.

It’s funny, Daniel's friends are constantly asking, “Would you?” to each other, as in “would you do that guy?” My straight friends do a similar thing girls, except they say, “Woudja.” The answers seem to run a parallel course with each group: “Fuck Yea,” “Sure" or “Why Not.” As you can see, men set the bar high.

In my short time spent with Daniel’s friends, I have been able to find beauty in the things I am working to understand. They are a great bunch of guys, and I have been gladly accepted into the fold. I am an official "Friend of Dorothy." In fact, I have my own nickname, “Sex Tape,” which narrowly (and thankfully) beat out “Raw Blow.” I did ok considering some of the others:

Daniel is “Furby”
Quentin is “Big Mac”
Jim is “Hansel”
Robert is “Grizzly”
Tim is “Tim the Spinner” or "Spinning Top" (he gets around)
Harris is “Dirty Boy or DB”

So I am moving forward with Furby and the others into the Memorial Day weekend. The gay party barge is about to take off, and “Sex Tape” is on board. Care to Join?

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Being Rob Lowe

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.

I'm a pretty normal dude. I know it's hard to believe considering the past month or so. I've been constantly asking myself, "Rob, what the fuck are you doing?" But, I have been lucky to this point. There has been a spiritual silver lining to even the most improper of challenges.

I’ve always been fascinated by the theory that life is a series of seven-year cycles, and with each one we change as a person. Logically, who we are and what we become depends largely on our experiences. And when we alter them (like hooking up with a distinctly older woman, yum!) we change in ways we may not realize for years to come.

Last weekend at the wedding, I went deep into my mission to bed a 21-year-old and stayed "present." During those 48 hours of yogi-like clarity, I realized I had two selves. One is a formerly-repressed free spirit who is now having his way through these unorthodox stunts. The other is an introspective thinker who finds the meaning in the method. He's the self who's been dominating my spirit for 29 years, but lately has been relegated to mere note-taker status. By separating the two selves, I realized I had a much more insightful perspective. So, for that reason I will not try to make written sense of my missions while they are happening. Rather, I will be present at my mission and deal with the analysis afterward.

The gay lifestyle is already changing me. First of all, I have kept my shirt on for a total of about one hour all weekend. No shit. Prior to my wax job, whenever I saw a guy without a shirt outside of the beach or a yoga class, I would politely offer up the “shirtless guy alert” to my friends. But, now I am the one causing the stir. Bad boy.

There are other upsides to the gay lifestyle. So far I look better, have a better social life, and according to a fellow Angeleno and thespian, Urban Bella, I am learning what it is like to be inside the head of a woman. And you know what? I'm guessing that's the only way I'll be inside a woman for the next month, so I better enjoy it.

Coming up this week on Lifestyles of the Gay and Fabulous:
1. My Fiercely Gay Club Experience
2. My Coming out Research
3. Fashion and primping

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Drop it like it's hot

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.

Damn, I feel sexy. Like a sexy man-meat sandwich with sexy man-gravy on a lightly toasted (and sexy) ciabatta roll, super-sized.

In other words, I have never felt, uh, sexier.

I was late for my wax appointment. I’m always fucking late. Only 10 minutes, but heed this advice: when you put your trust in the hands of a stranger who is wielding a hot wax wand within inches of your Underdog 7, you want to keep said person on your side.

Last night, even the effect of hard alcohol couldn’t hide my surprise when I set foot in that place. Knowing Daniel, I expected it to look like the love child of Burke Williams and Sephora. But instead, it had more of an, ahem, pedestrian flair. Well, actually it was an awful mini-mall nail salon with a striped-green awning. I was at least hoping for a bit of glamour to get me into the spirit of things. Oh well.

When I arrived, an Asian woman looked at me and said, “he’s here.” All the women came over and just sort of looked at me. Maybe I was just feeling self-conscious. Then the silence was broken with two words “Wesh Wing.” Here we go again. I’m not sure if they really thought I was Rob Lowe or were just fucking with me behind a cultural veil. Regardless, I did turn to Daniel and saw him hiding a smirk between hugs with the nail ladies. Jackass.

This woman, “Jimmy,” (don’t ask) walked us back to a room with a green curtain. That was all that separated shirtless Rob Lowe from the droves of middle-aged women with ugly bunions in the main cabin. Daniel noticed my apprehension and let out, “She’s the best.”

Then he whispered in my ear, “Ask for happy ending.” That part took the edge off.

I took my shirt off, had a towel around my jeans and looked up into the water-stained acoustic drop ceiling.

“Very Nicsh, Mr. Raw Low. You have nicsh chesh. Thish no problem. Thish be easy.” She said.

Without another word I felt something warm on my chest. It kind of felt good. In fact, I thought it was going to be super hot, but it was warm and brushy. This woman was not bad looking either. A little old, but she was "in play" for me.

However, our honeymoon was cut short when the first piece of material destroyed 29 years of hair growth in a single tug.

”OUCH.” I screamed.

“Ish OK MR. RAW Low,” she said, “You get use.”

And you know what, I did get used to it. It hurt like hell, but I made it through. It was a strangely painful yet pleasurable experience. I’m not the pain/pleasure guy either. At least I thought I wasn’t.

That being said, I have been thinking about some strange stuff ever since I hooked up with that cougar though. And now I am experiencing a masochistic regression to a hairless boy state in the hands of yet another woman as old as my mom. I’m sure only Freud would understand what’s going on here. I fucking don’t.

But, for now, I’m just going to forget that psychology shit and enjoy the bounty of a perfect and hairless chest. I feel reborn, reinvigorated. It’s amazing what hairless pecs can do for your self–esteem. My transformation has taken on a life on its own, and I’m just going to enjoy the ride.

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Rob Lowe's Makeover

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.

I’m gay. Well, not really (just practicing). But, I will embrace the gay lifestyle for all it’s worth. Otherwise, I’ll just be a frat boy in hot pants who has learned nothing from this mission. Nobody wants that. No, for this to provide me some catharctic release from years as living as Rob Lowe’s second-in-command, I must take away more from this month than a hairless and perfectly chiseled chest.

So, be it for anal or method reasons, I thought I would start where I’m sitting and spruce things up around the old blogstead. I had a few friends design a new template and color scheme. Considering this month’s mission, I thought the new palette was on point. Besides, the lime background was sooo yesterday.

I’m also going to come out to my parents. I’ve been a bit pissed at them lately and I thought this would be fun. Call it Tom Green on allegory, whatever. All I know is they’re getting a call this weekend, from their "gay" son.

Anyway, a bunch of people have told me how much this whole chest waxing action is going to hurt. I fucking hate discomfort and really tried to get out of it. I asked Daniel if I could just shave my chest. He just gave me one of his looks and said, "Puhleez, that’s what straight guys do." You can't argue with a gay guy when he plays the "Puhleez” card.

Then, I had a great epiphany. I realized that if I had to argue against something that was next to necessary within the gay community, then I wasn't giving my all to this mission. I just needed to trust my instincts, for better or for worse, and truly get into character. That's why I was having such a hard time the past week, I did not fully embrace what I was about to become, a gay guy (without the gay sex).

So I’ll pop some aspirin (thanks Indie in Summer), drink a shitload of tequila (thanks Jenni), bite my lip and endure the pain. Because when the wax settles, I’m going to be fucking hot, and all you gay guys are going to want a piece of me.

This will surely be the most character-building and eye-opening month of my entire month. Watch out West Hollywood. Here comes Rob Lowe.

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The Mangina

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.

I have been blessed with good skin—soft and supple. From the back of my neck to the crack of my ass, it is smooth, hair-free and generally well-liked by all who come into contact.

The chest is another story, or so I learned. I am slightly patchy around my abs and have a “yummy trail” (according to Daniel) that extends north from my belly button to my chest. This area is not necessarily Abercrombie hair-free, but it is not Magnum P.I. either. Let’s just say my minimal chest hair has never earned me any complaints. Until now.

My gay tour guide said “Oh, my God, Robert, you need to take care of that,” while his jiggly finger pointed to my abs.

“What do you mean?”
“That, that hair. That, furry MANGINA.”
“Daniel, that’s nothing.”
“No sugar,” (he calls me that when he’s feeling sassy) “this is NOTHING.”

In the middle of the Century City Mall, Daniel ripped off his shirt off to reveal a near-perfect chest, replete with anything resembling a follicle. I had seen him shirtless before, but never really noticed just how hairless he was, or how public we both were. It was Rob Lowe and a shirtless male beauty in an outdoor mall. So this is gay?

I knew what was coming next. And as much as I wanted to fight it, I knew I couldn’t.

“I’ll set you up with my wax girl,” he said.

This was going to be a long month.

The gay community has some pretty high standards, I found out. And men will go to great lengths to compete against other yoked and smooth men. As a hetero, I thought I looked pretty good, but I fell short within the gay community. The imperfections had to go.

I felt a bit weird about going to a wax place, but Daniel said he would call, and I had no choice other than to be a sport. He grabbed his cell phone and made the appointment for Thursday evening. I did enjoy the little back and forth with the hair lady as he explained it was for Rob Lowe, but not the one she was thinking of. Finally, someone else gets to experience my name trauma. But tomorrow, I’m guessing I won’t have the last laugh.

Off to exfoliate before the big day!

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The Yang of Macho

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

As the suns sets on Mission #1, I now reflect on a month spent chasing pussy of the young and old alike. Have I changed for the better or the worse? Did I have my eyes so far on the prize that I lost my integrity? Fuck no. But as I look back on Mission #1, I am faced with a few profound truths that I must process. Truths that have not only influenced my character, but have also influenced my next mission.

During Mission #1 I had to overcome many obstacles. As I said before, I’m not really a player but noticed that I had started to become one out of necessity. Also, prior to this mission, I had only been with 9 women in 29 years. Last month, I had been with two women. That’s 25% of my total conquests in a single month. That’s not who I want to be either. Banging and running is the sex-tape Rob Lowe, not me.

So the only way I can regress from a newly-chauvinistic, chick-obsessed player is to take extreme measures. That’s why in my second mission, I plan to take things completely in the other direction to achieve balance in the head of Rob Lowe:

Mission #2: Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.

What does that mean? Well, it’s pretty simple:
1. I will grow a mustache but not give another man a ride on it.
2. I will hit the gym, but won’t hit a dude named Jim.
3. I will stock up on really expensive creams for my hair and body, but will never use them as anal lubricant.
4. I will dance at gay clubs, but won’t fuck guys there.
5. I will shave myself bald from the neck down, but won’t blow dudes.

Sorry, ran out of near-funny word plays near the end of the list, but you see where I’m going with this. It’s the gay lifestyle, without the gay sex. It’s the fabulous fashion, absolute decadence and live-for-the-moment lifestyle, without the anal intercourse. It’s the opposite of who I was the last month and will definitely serve as a refreshing antidote to the past few weeks of supreme macho-dom.

So starting tonight, I will shop. John Varvatos blazers at Fred Segal. Prada pants on Rodeo. My dear friend Daniel, who is heavy into the gay lifestyle (and anal sex) will be my gay tour guide for a trip through Elizabeth, Judy and Tammy-faye Land.

Daniel has courteously established a few rules for me:
1. No sex with girls during this period (no problem there), I’m kind of sick of meeting them.
2. I can only wear approved outfits after 5 p.m. and on weekends.
3. I can never say that I am gay or lead a guy on. I can only infer it by my ridiculously tight and expensive striped-peacock shirts.
4. I can only drink Evian in clubs and when he touches his nose, I must pour the bottle on my chest. I also must remove my shirt upon his command.
5. No Sportscenter.

I’m sure there will be more rules, but for now, that’s all he's concocted. Gay guys are cool, and the gay lifestyle is even cooler (I think). So wish me luck, because Rob Lowe is about to turn seriously FIERCE.

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Action

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

Her blowjob number was lower. That was the first indication that I could have this woman. She fit the profile, a month away from her 22nd birthday, young, nimble,(no mustache). Well, actually the profile just had to be a warm 21-year-old body. The rest was just in the cards, I guess.

What do I mean by blowjob numbers? Well, whether a girl has performed more oral sex than intercourse tells a lot about her. Girls with a higher BJ number are more likely to take care of you orally and then put the brakes on. But really, at that point who are you to complain?

Girls that have a lower BJ number generally give it all up more easily. To them, a BJ isn’t a fantastic consolation prize, but a path to the grand prize.

Finding someone 21 was no problem. It was easier than in L.A. because I could just ask around. But once a friend leaked word out about my mission, no one wanted to help. I don’t really blame them. I didn’t want to be the guy who hopped on a plane then hopped on someone's friend. Yea, this was a bit trickier than I had anticipated, especially if I wanted to come out as a good guy.

“So I hear you’re looking for a young one, Mr. Rob Lowe?” I turned around and here was a gum-chewing, apple-martini-drinking youngster. I had no other recourse than to offer the truth, “busted,” I said.

“I’m 21,” she said as she held up the glass as proof.
“Great,” I answered apprehensively.
“Don’t you think I’m cute.”
“Well, if by cute you mean really, really drunk, then, yes, you are cute.”
“Huh?”
“Forget it, yes, you are cute. But, I’d rather not with my friend’s drunken younger sister.”

She walked away. If she had put up the slightest argument I would have caved. I might have won a mission and lost a friend--guys do stupid shit like that all the time.

Bottom line, a wedding’ s not as easy pickin’s as I thought. But as the garter was coming my way and I backed up to avoid the spectacle, I did notice a bright light. After my eyes adjusted, I had a great idea, why not the photographer?

It was a mother/daughter team (can you believe my luck?). They were both pretty hot, and I would have gladly taken the mother as fast as the daughter (I got the flava now for the mature ones now).

The daughter went to college nearby and helped her mom on weekends. Now, if it was just a week ago, I would have tried to tag the mom. But I already had the cougar on the wall. Now it was the cub's turn.

I was in the wedding party, so I had a bit more of an in with the photographer. But banging the help is a challenge in itself. I put this on par with picking up a bartender, waitress or a stripper. That shit doesn’t happen often. So, I decided to make the odds work in my favor and meet on neutral grounds. I invited her to meet a few of us for a beer or two and even offered a cab to take her. She agreed to the group thing and I showed up in front of her house an hour later. We talked and drove. I was pretty lit and slowly (and smoothly) worked in the BJ number question before we got to the bar. It then became my mission to lose.

We sat at the bar and then walked along the river, all the way back to my hotel. And as the sun rose over the NY skyline and Mission #1 was coming to a successful close, I realized that I was fast becoming the only Rob Lowe that really mattered to me.

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Purist 6. Under Dog 7.

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

I swore to myself that I was going to treat this blog more honestly than I have treated anything in my life. If things come up that are embarrassing, hurtful or put me in a bad light, they need to be presented as honestly as possible. For this to have a therapeutic effect, it is necessary for all walls to come down. Rob Lowe must reveal himself.

So, being true to that philosophy, I'm going to write about something I'm not particularly proud of. Last night, I measured my penis for the first time.

The evening went something like this: I was watching Lost with some friends and after a few beers there was a debate between who was better hung, the black guy or the Korean guy. Seemed academic to me, but there were strong arguments for both sides. But in the end, common sense prevailed and the black guy was proclaimed the authoritative winner.

From there, the conversation naturally flowed to our own members, and how they stacked up against the aforementioned characters. The funny thing is out of six guys in the room, Mr. Rob Lowe was the only one who could not accurately gauge his length (although It was a safe bet he was bigger than the Korean dude). Everyone else could spout their measurements instantaneously. And when I was asked, no one believed I had never put ruler to flesh. They thought I was hiding something. Was I?

So I asked around a few other friends at the bar later on. Let me first say if the subject doesn’t come up naturally, it’s hard to just scream, “Have you ever measured your cock?” over AC/DC. But, that’s exactly what I did. In my informal poll, everyone I spoke to had measured it at least once. Some even had their girlfriends do it. I had no other choice. I went home and got out my Westcott.

The stainless-steel ruler was in hand, my member was cooperating and I was ready to go. But wait, do I measure it from the top or bottom? I decided to measure both ways to see if it was the same. I gained an inch from the bottom, which made me happy but I wanted to do this the right way.

So naturally, I went online and Googled, “how to measure your cock.” Surprisingly, there are two schools of thought. First, I call the Purists; they do it from the top and think that is the only accurate measure. Then, there are the Underdogs, people who claim the penis begins at the taint, so it should be measured as such. Confused, I called my friend at 3 a.m. to ask for advice. He hung up.

So as it stands, Rob Lowe has a Purist 6 and Underdog 7. To think I was the only man in the country to never measure may be a stretch. But now being on the other side, I feel like I am in the majority. I wonder how big the other Rob Lowe is?

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Take Me Away

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

I have a wedding this weekend in Rockaway N.J. This opens up a world of possibilities for hooking up with a big-haired 21-year old. I have met three girls since this challenge. Unfortunately all of them have been 23 and above. I’m starting a sweat a bit, because I only have five days left.

But with my new cross-country possibilities for hooking up, I also must deal with the inevitable downside--introducing myself to new people as Rob Lowe. That’s right, this weekend I will have a whole new crowd of people who will inform me that I have the same name as that 80’s heartthrob, Sex Tape King, West Wing Star, Rob Lowe. Great.

Top 10 things people say when they meet Rob Lowe:

10. "About Last Night was his best movie."

9. "Do you spell it the same way."

8. "Have you ever met him?"

7. "Are your families related?

6. "I notice the resemblance."

5. "That Rob Lowe sex tape was something.Have you ever made one?"

4. "Do you like him?"

3. "I was so upset when he left West Wing.Were you?"

2. Smile politely, and say "I see."

1. "Do you know who Rob Lowe is?"

It’s funny, I’ve carried the Rob Lowe name burden all my life, but it has never manifested itself in anything tangible. This blog is great because it forces me to sit down and put my own thoughts into perspective. Before, I just dealt with abstract frustration, but now I have things like top 10 lists and polls. It is cathartic.

Honestly, I must have been asked each question a Gazillion times. But it even gets weirder. One girl in college said, “I’ve never had sex with a famous person before.” I don't mean to fuck with your life score card, baby, but technically I’m not really famous. I just share a name with someone who is. Get it? I wonder how she carries this story years later, "yea I had sex with Rob Lowe in college." Maybe she just leaves it at that.

The thing that really bugs me is how in people's minds I seem to fall into a Rob-Lowe-like Venn Diagram. It follows that since we share the same name, our circles must overlap. Ok, maybe I’m being a bit abstract, but I have no deeper connection to the actor Rob Lowe than I do to Peter Jennings or Joe Piscopo.

This weekend I will keep a tally to see how many times I get asked those questions. I will also count how many people believe I am hearing the Rob Lowe connection for the first time as it poetically flows from their lips. Yea, sorry slicked-back hair New Jersey guy with the band coller shirt, but I've lived 29 fucking years hearing the same shit daily. The obtuseness and self-importance of people other than myself makes me angrier than Alanis Morisette on the patch.

Speaking of Alanis, do you think in 10 years she will be Alanis “you oughta know” Morissette? How about Alanis Morissette “You oughta know.” The reason I ask is because of an e-mail I just got for an event at Pierce College in Woodland Hills. This weekend there's an outdoor home show with two acts--Air Supply and Christopher Cross. In-and-of-itself, there was nothing particularly engaging about this e-mail. Sure, I could go and indulge in a pair of guilty 80’s pleasures, but there was something that was being communicated that went beyond a mere announcement.

Truth is, Air Supply could live on its own, but Christopher Cross apparantly could not. It seems the purveyors of the event did not think the Christopher Cross name carried the same cachet it did 20 years ago. So the name "Christopher Cross" got a bit of an image makeover. Now, he is known in home show circles as Christopher Cross “Sailing.”

How sad it must be to have a song attached to your name so people know who you are. It makes my name situation, which up to this point had been the bane of my existence, seem like a 29-year, hooker-and-balloon-filled limo ride.

I was trying to think how many other acts have their hit attached to their name. Kim “Betty Davis eyes” Carnes comes to mind. I’m sure there are tons more. Love to hear them.

So, if you are in Southern California this weekend, see Christopher Cross “Sailing.” Tell him Rob Lowe sent you. I'll be across the country, a Jack in one hand and a 21-year-old in the other.

Wish me luck!

EVENT INFO: Friday-Sunday, May 13th-15th on the green at Pierce College in

Woodland Hills on Victory at Winnetka. Show hours are Friday-Noon to dusk

(8:30-9), Saturday 10 A.M. to Dusk and Sunday 10A.M.-6 P.M. General

admission is only $6.75 for adults. For information go to TheHomeShow.com

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About last night

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

I fear that one of my strongest relationships may be coming to a close. There's no doubt it has waned over the last few months. I remember in the beginning, everyday was fresh and fun. I would come home from work and there was so much for us to do together. We would laugh, cry and share. But now, I feel like we are complete strangers, and I have no idea what to do.I am of course talking about my year-plus relationship with TiVo. I may be ready to move on.

We've been having trouble for a while. Ends of shows would be cut off with no explanation, calls would not be made. It was troubling, but I could look past the small stuff. Because when TiVo was on, it was on. There was no one in the world but the two of us.

But then, it went beyond minor mistakes, doing things simply to hurt me. Rob Lowe Sex Tape showed up on my Wishlist. In fact, any Rob Lowe movie ever made was automatically captured. I had "St. Elmo's Fire," "About Last Night" and the ubiquitious "Class." It was almost like TiVo was doing it just because Rob Lowe was such a sensitive subject with me.

In the beginning, TiVo was full of great suggestions, sports, drama, reality TV. But isn't that always the case in relationships?

Once I opened up, she powered down. The "suggestions" area, once vibrant and personal, felt obtuse and rushed. Yes, TiVo began to simply "phone it in." On one emotion-wroght night, I remember shouting at the box, "You don't even know me anymore? Since when would I be interested in an Ernest movie?" That evening I turned away from TiVo and turned to the bottle.

Eventually, things got so bad I had to move her out of the bedroom and into the living room. I couldn't sleep with her in the room. I had nightmares about my 35 hours being filled with infomercials, Sunday morning worship and dog shows.

But last night was the final straw. TiVo knows how much I love the OC. And she failed me when I needed her most. Here's how it all went down:

Since The OC went from 8-10, TiVo decided not to record any of it because of conflicts in the second hour. By the time I had realized what happened, I was already an hour into it. I missed an hour of Seth's quips , an hour of Ryan brooding and an hour of Summer's hot tits. I was beside myself with fury and regret.

The only saving grace was my relative drunken state. I had just come back from a crappy UCLA bar that looked a lot like a crappy TJ bar. Regarding my mission, I did not hook up with a 21-year-old last night. But I think the conversation of the evening had to be this:

Rob Lowe: What's your name, again (speaking to a pretty hot UCLA coed who seemed drunk and interested)
Girl: Jenny, I've been telling you all night.
(Rob Lowe presents a mischievous grin and looks at his drink, as if that is causing his memory loss.)
Rob Lowe: Oh, right. Hey Jenny, let's get out of this shithole?
Girl: Uh, sure, what did you have in mind.
Rob Lowe: Casa Escobar is right down the street.
Girl: Yea,that sounds cool. Let me just tell my friends.
Rob Lowe: Jen, by the way, you won't have trouble getting in there will you? They check IDs harder at that place than they do here. (My sly way of asking her age)
Jen: No, I'm 23. See. (shows me her license).

Yikes, she was too old for me. I can go younger than 21, but not older for the sake of this mission. So I pretended my cell vibrated and made up some lame excuse that I needed to pick up a friend who was too drunk to drive. I got her number and when this challenge is over I will call her. And I will bang her like the drunken sorority fuck doll she wanted to be last night.

But that will be the extent of it. I'm not sure if I'm ready for another relationship this soon. TiVo really took a lot out of me. I think I need some time.

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That time of the month

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

Tomorrow marks the one-month anniversary of my blog. In Internet years, that's kind of a 10-year anniversary or something. I thought this would be a nice time to reflect--to stroll down memory lane and recount the last 30 days.

This is the first in a series of "What I've learned from blogging in the past month."

As a guy who has had to live with Rob Lowe jokes my whole life, it's nice to finally create my own identity. I feel like this month has been the most developmental of my whole life. I have found sensitivity through insensitivity, chivalry through vulgarity.

There is a true sense of community within the blogging world. There is a sense of freedom that is sparked by respect and underlying trust. But sometimes that trust is exploited with misleading comments on unrelated posts that send people to religious sites, etc. That is a true invasion of trust, and I think that sucks. If you've done that, please stop. If I need your God, I will seek her out. Theology through manipulation won't earn you converts.

I'm already wasted. Well, buzzed. Cinco de Mayo is a pretty serious holiday on the West coast. I imagine tonight I will engage in a brief and highly inappropriate relationship with a 21-year old. I may even drop a "digit" in the "special place." I'll wait till 9 to go out though. It is The OC night, after all. Regardless, whoever I decide to take tonight, I doubt it will compare with my 54-year-old lust woman. I am still feeling the effect of her menopausal glow.

In case you haven't noticed, I'm much more confident about myself. Because Rob Lowe is starting to become his own person. I'm not the St. Elmo's fire or the West Wing guy. I am much more than that, and in just a month I have realized just how far this blog has taken me. I am a real person, not a stand-in. I am the only Rob Lowe I really care about.

Thanks to all who have made this site a success: My friend from Puke Planet who bought the Rob lowe can you go site for me. Out of nowhere he says, "Pack your bags, I've got a site for you." Those hand jobs are coming, my friend, just like you asked for. As an aside, the Puke Planet guy is quite striking--not the knuckle dragging, puke-obsessed pervert you would think. He is tall, smart, is a big brother and just did his first solo mission in an airplane. He could get handys from any guy he wants, and to think he comes to me for them. It really is a confidence booster.

To Liz, for being such a great writer and inspiration. No one can keep up with your stamina and wit. To BBQ Junkie, for always making me feel sexy. You got me into blogging, and really are the unsung hero of this site. And finally, thanks for everyone who commented, read and helped me become a better person over the last month. The first task is just the beginning. Watch the fuck out. Especially if you are 21 and are planning to party in L.A. tonight. Rob Lowe is on the prowl.

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Looks like we're naked

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

I am not a smoker. But I did share a cigarette late Sunday afternoon. What better way to cap the cinematic epic that just unfolded in a Mid-Wilshire high rise than a cancer stick? After all, I was sharing a bed with a beautiful woman 25-years my senior.


How it unraveled
It unfolded just like I expected, unplanned and natural. Seems, this weekend was a bachelor party for a friend in the Bay area. Actually, it was one of those things where he was told it would be the following weekend , but we would kidnap him off guard the weekend before. Unfortunately, that plan took me by surprise as well. Thank God, for Southwest airlines.

So, I booked a last minute ticket for Saturday morning (couldn't get a Friday flight). I grabbed my clubs, hopped in my car and was off to the races. The weekend was fun, but uneventful for the purposes of this post. However, the return flight was another story.

Now Calling Section "A"
When you fly Southwest, don't expect seating assignments. They divide you up by A, B or C. I was in the A line and looked over at an older woman near the beginning of the B line. We shot glances back at each other, and there was a pretty obvious mutual attraction. Game on.

Mile High Clubbin'
I got on the plane, and saw Madame X following about 15 people behind me. I tried to look as menacing as possible to the other passengers to avoid them parking their ass on the seat next to me. Sheer will worked a while, but eventually someone found my seat to be inviting. I dropped my bag and told him my mother was coming on board in a moment. I flipped my ipod back on and I see Madame X standing hovering over the seat with a large and oddly shaped case in her hand.

Huh?
All I saw was lip movement and eye contact. I took my earphones off and asked her to repeat what she said. This time, it was crystal clear, "Your mother, huh?" came out as she pointed to the seat next to me. My smile was answer enough, and she sat down. General note: if you ever need to say something in relative secrecy, take off the earbuds. Apparantly, the entire plane knew I was holding the seat for my "mom."

The large case she was carrying held a violin. She was playing in San Francisco with some symphony this weekend. We talked a bit about our weekends, our lives. She was divorced and lived by herself. Had a daughter at UCLA. The conversation flowed smooth and delicate. It was like old friends catching up at a reunion, five minutes of awkward theatrics followed by a world of meaningful reflection. It was like nothing I had ever experienced.

And the look of this women. She was beautiful. And not beautiful like a 25-or 35-year-old, but beautiful as a woman in her fifties. Theres a certain natural courage, a vibrant zest for life that made me look at her differently than the woman last week. It reshaped how I thought of beauty, and how age can be irrelevant. I was changing, and we were only 15 minutes into the flight.

Delivery for Mr. Lowe
Her name was Amanda, and the flirtiness of our interaction must have caused a stir for the passengers within earshot of hearing she was my "mom." I felt like oedipus in a baseball hat.

I knew that I was given the gift of her being placed next to me. I also knew that I would not be foolish enough to leave the rest up to fate. I think that's where many people (including myself) go wrong. We assume fate brought someone here, fate will deliver to the end. I think that's kind of farcical. Maybe fate delivered her in the hope that I would have the sense to close the deal. Thankfully, I had a little Barry Manilow on the mind and remembered the lyrics from Mandy, Oh Mandy well, you came and you gave without taking, but I sent you away. This Mandy was not going to be sent away.

The flight from Oakland to LAX was a short one. I asked her how she was getting home, and she said Supershuttle. I offered to take her home, but then I stopped. I told her I forgot I had my golf clubs and my car is a two-seater. With that giant violin, I wasn't sure if it could fit. But I thought, screw it, if it didn't fit, I would take a cab with her and come back to get my car. I couldn't lose this opportunity.

Luckily, everything fit and we hopped on the 405 with the top down and two giant bags sticking out the top. Me and my "mom," the golfer and the violinist, on our way to an incestual rendevous.

We arrived at her place and she invited me in. If not, my backup plan was to help with her bags (even though she had a door man). We went up to the 17th floor and she poured me a drink. From that point on, the life-changing moment was in full swing. Sunsets, whiskey, floor-to-ceiling views of the Pacific, Billie Holiday-- and the romantic attention of a beautiful woman as old as my mother.

In the end, we knew it was a one-time thing, but we both had enough class not to actually say it. I just gathered my belongings and rode off into the sunset. A better man than celebrity Rob lowe will ever be. A better man than I have ever been.

Epilogue
This profound moment generated two useful stats that came into my head as I drove on Sunset with a post-coital glow:

1. I am now in the double digits for hook ups. (10 lucky ladies have fallen under my spell).

2. I have 2 weeks to bed a 21-year-old. Liz thinks that part will be easy, since younger chicks are sluttier. Sweet.

3. I have not only trumped Celeb Rob lowe in this task, but also Colin Farel. It seemed he unsuccessfully tried to Seduce a 70-year old. Maybe he should fly Southwest air?

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