On the road.

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.

I'm in Vegas. It is my 30th birthday. I did what I came to do.

I will not be sending flowers to my first grade teacher.


I thought I would hand-deliver them, instead.

On the road to PA tomorrow, driving until I don't feel like driving anymore.

Peace.

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The Girl with the Tits

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.

I had to check my messages. My parents would no doubt be worried that they didn’t hear from me in two weeks. I tried to keep up with them in the beginning, but it became too difficult, especially when I abandoned the cell.

So I went where few others go these days, the public telephone. In L.A., the cellphone is a staple, regardless of socioeconomic status. If you can scrounge $20 a month, you can talk your ass off. And people do, regrettably.

I dropped some change in, and dialed my number. I was trying to remember my answering code, when someone picked up.

“What is up?” The voice said.

“Who is this?” I said out of confusion more than anything else. But those words were not well-spent. There was no mistaking the voice of M.C.

“Who is this?” he answered back.

“M.C., it’s fucking Rob, what are you doing answering the phone?"

“It rang, I answer. Evan scream, ‘pick up the fucking phone’ and I do.”

“Fuck M.C., I told you to let the machine pick up my phone.”

“Yes, but Evan scream, ‘pick up fucking phone,’ he is here, you are not.”

“All right, put him on.”

“Ok, Rob, are you mad at us?” M.C. asked.

“I just don’t feel like explaining to my callers why I have two Austrian guys living at my place, that’s all.”

“We are German,” he said angrily.

“OK, German, whatever, Just put Evan on.”

“Rob Lowe, the movie star, is it really you?” Evan said.

“Evan, not in the mood. How long have you been answering the phone?”

“I do not answer phone, M.C. does. You should have beef with him.”

“Just tell me who you spoke to. Did my parents call at all.”

“Yes, I hear them on answering machine. We never pick up for them, too old.”

“Ok, phew, anyone else?”

“We only pick up for California girls, we hear them on machine, we pick up to talk to big tits. We talk to Tracy and Lisa.”

Fuck, I thought. I’ll never hear the end of this.

“Do not pick up the phone for anyone. You guys bought a fucking cell, just use that. I better not have a huge phone bill to Europe.”

“Rob Lowe, that would be dishonest, I am ashamed you think that. We only pick up the phone for social. We hear girls on phone, we pick up and talk. Tracy, does she have the big tit?”

“Forget it dude, I need to call back and check my messages. Please let the machine pick up and do not answer my fucking phone anymore.”

“I tell M.C.”

“All right, thanks.”

“Rob Lowe, wait. We have problem with toilet.”

“What’s wrong?”

“M.C. takes big shit, it cannot flush.”

“You need the plunger, and you need to hold down the handle. Is it the one in the hallway?”

“No, in bedroom.”

“I told you guys to use the other bathroom, fuck, I’m coming over.”

“See you.”

I got in the car, forgetting to check my messages.

I walked into my place and saw M.C. on the couch and Evan lining up beer bottles like 12 pins. M.C. got up to give me a hug.

“I am sorry about the shit. It is the fast food.”

I walked over to the closet and pulled out the plunger. “M.C., follow me,” I said.

We walked into the bathroom and I saw what looked like a small brown dog living inside.

“What the fuck is wrong with you dude?”

“I go big. I say already, the food.”

I handed him the plunger and he plunged away. But first he had to cut it with the business end of the rubber. I was mortified. He plunged and plunged, and I walked away to check my messages. I hit play. Evan was eating peanut butter with a spoon.

“He takes big ones, huh?” he said laughing.

“Yea, by the way, you guys owe me for the rest of the month that you added. I’ll need it tomorrow. I’ll stop by to get some stuff. I’m going away and need some clothes.”

“No problem, I have now if you want.”

“Ok.”

“You going somewhere special?”

“Vegas.”

Over Tracy’s voice on the answering machine, I heard M.C. from the bathroom shout out, “The Vegas, take me.”

“Not this time,” I said.

He walked out with the plunger dripping brown water.

“Dude, my fucking floor,” I screamed.

Evan burst out laughing, M.C. felt bad. “I clean, don’t worry.”

“That is the girl with the tits,” Evan said, hearing Tracy’s voice.

“Yea, that’s the girl with the tits,” I said, relenting.

He smiled.

I collected the messages, the money and to save me a trip, my clothes. I walked by the bathroom and took a good look at a man in his twenties. The beard was not working. Madison was right, beards are for ugly guys. I deserve more. I deserve a mustache.

I walked into my bedroom to digitally preserve the memory. Mustaches are for hot dudes, even Madison would agree to that. It will be my good luck charm in Vegas, "the Vegas."

“See you fuckers when I get back” I said, before saying goodbye to my place, saying goodbye to my twenties.

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Melted Gray

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.

Those dreams. Those fucking dreams. Without them, this 30th birthday thing would be a piece of cake. My conscious knows 30 is just a number, but my subconscious thinks otherwise. These night visions are turning me into a drama queen. This is what happens when I skip Yoga, I turn into a complete fucking mess.

I spent last night on the Santa Monica sand. Sleeping on the beach, much like fucking on it, is much better in theory than in practice. I’ve screwed on the beach twice. I don’t recommend it unless it is a “Plan B.” But last night was not about “the fuck” it was about the rest. It is illegal to sleep on the beach in Santa Monica and it becomes a misty ghost town at night. I had to lay low.

I took Sunset out and parked across from the ultimate tourist trap, Gladstone’s. I walked past the late-night clientele, sunburned in cruise wear, and found some peace at guard shack two. Unfortunately, there is a public bathroom near there, so I decided to head up another few hundred yards to the first tower. I took off my sweatshirt and crashed underneath the shack, underneath the stars. I needed some plausible deniability should I encounter the Five-0, so I decided to forego the sleeping bag.

The sand felt cool and warm at the same time. I took off my shoes and opened my flask. It was late, almost 11 pm when I arrived. It took a few belts and went to sleep. I first heard the sound at 2:22 a.m., but by the time I opened my eyes, it was 2:23. I awoke, looked at my watch and went to sleep again. I think it was a cat. Or an alien. Something.

I drifted away until I heard the sound again. This time I woke immediately. My watch read 5:55. I began to freak a bit. Why for the last few weeks have I been consistently awaking at times when the numbers are in a power of three? I sat up and looked around. The sun would be up soon, so I dragged myself to the water’s edge and took in the last few moments of dark silence. I tried to figure out the dream.

In it, I was in Cancun. The same friends were there that went with me during spring break, sophmore year. It was a strange trip filled with alcohol, drugs and confusion. I went down with a few friends, and another friend group had gone down earlier. We were with different tour companies, and didn’t know each other’s hotels. Our group got on a bus from the plane and drove to several different hotels, dropping off students along the way.

We saw our friends walking on the street and told them to hop on the bus, at least then they would know our hotel. It was crazy luck. We were the last people to get off the bus at some crappy hotel outside of Cancun. Our friends grabbed the luggage and we bought the remaining Dos Equis from the bus driver who was selling them for a buck a piece. Ah, Mexico.

The rooms in this hotel were bad. One key for every room. The beds were formed of pink concrete bases and the roofs were thatched. We scanned our luggage and found a bag that didn’t belong. Our friends just grabbed it since there was no one else on the bus. We were the end of the road. An ugly road.

The bag contained women’s undergarments. It didn’t take long for ten drunk guys to rip off their clothes and put on the bras and panties. It was our first night in Mexico. The next morning I woke up with a huge hangover and a small thong. I don’t know how woman can do it, but thank you all nonetheless. Thongs are definitely a high point in my life. Without them, asses would barely capture my attention.

That morning, we complained, moved out of the hotel, and left the underwear behind. They put us in another hotel by the Mercado. We checked in and checked out. This place was urban scary, and depressing. Our friends offered up their super plush digs. We offered to share our dope. We became one big happy family.

That night, we went to a bar. My friend and I were competing for the same girl. He had a bit of an “in” because she was staying at the hotel and he had talked to her at the pool. As I remember, she went to the bathroom at the bar and told me to wait. I did. She never came out. My friends left. I was stuck.

I only had a few pesos left, not enough to get me home. I didn’t even know exactly where home was. I forgot the name of the hotel, the street. My saving grace was 9th grade Spanish and a love for pizza. The hotel was “cerca de Dominos” (near Dominos, for you gringos).

As luck would have it, I met another girl. But not for the fuck, for the ride. She lost her money but had some at her hotel. If I would pay to get her to the hotel, she would get out money and get me to mine. I took the chance, grabbed a cab and we were off. It wasn’t sure if I was being played, but I wasn't about to blow the cabbie, so this seemed like a palatable option. We drove to her hotel and I waited with the cabdriver as she talked to the front desk person. Then, a box came out and out from that came money. Beautiful Pesos. I thought about fucking her, but didn’t. The cabdriver liked her ass.

The driver got me back, somehow. I went to bathroom girl's room. She asked where I went. We made out, and I got "outside tit." This time I left her. If I wanted to cop a feel, I would have gone back to my prom. This was spring break in another country. I needed more.

The rest of the week was uneventful for our purposes, but at the airport that all changed. Our friends’ plane was delayed by several hours, so when we got to the airport, they were still waiting. As we reminisced about the week, we spoke about the underwear, wearing them on our heads, sniffing them, the works. Right behind us in a seat, a girl got up and started screaming at us. Seems they were her underwear. We were in an airport with hundreds of people and we sat next to her, the underwear girl. I felt mortified, and by the looks of the underwear, a bit let-down. They were hot. She was not. She needed those sexy undergarments to get laid, and we pulled that rug out from her.

Back at the beach, I wondered why I was dreaming about Cancun. The trip was filled with uncertainties, and in the dream I was trying to get back home, but couldn’t. Is that the point of these dreams, that you can’t go back in time? Could a dream be that banal? Cancun wasn’t the answer, but what was?

Out in the distance, the sky melted gray into the ocean. The sea was flat with morning, less a few porpoises that would bleed through the gray with breath. Another symbol I wondered or just the upside of crashing on the beach. I chose the latter, the triple-number thing was already freaking me out, and I just needed to get on with my day--one day closer to future, one day away from the past.

I need to get laid.

Namaste.

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Deeply Alone

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.

I am amazed at my own preconceptions sometimes. Because, more often than not, they are totally wrong. I get caught up in these unrealized visions; they haunt my daylight dreams with uncertainty. But once I enter the situation and remove myself from the static, I find most of what I feared sat unrealized. The things I didn’t fear are what I had to worry about.

Living my version of the homeless life has been pretty easy, and it does have its perks. Ok, I know I’m overselling life on the streets, but my situation was temporary. And there are worse ways to spend a July.

The hardest part of this mission is keeping the secret from those close to me. I have been spending the greater part of this month filling the ears of friends and family with my own half-truths and oblique missives. I feel bad about misleading my friends and family, but for these missions to even have a semblance of perspective, that part of the equation must remain. To reap, I must mislead.

Rob Lowe is changing. I am becoming more outgoing. It is a step on the ladder to freedom, or at least it feels that way. I do what I must to survive. Living on the outside has forced me to look in, discover the person inside, and maybe reinvent him.

As part of this journey, I abandoned my cell phone. It didn’t seem to fit. I am amazed by how instantaneous our society has become for communication. Not only are we eating on the run, but we are also thinking on it. There is no time to sit and reflect. We communicate and meta-communicate, but when do we process? I surely couldn’t find the time.

I saw a story in the L.A. times about two geeky blue-tooth-eared kids who are best friends in the Bay area. They talk on the phone all day, watching TV, going about their lives. It is profound how the dynamic of these kids’ lives is impacted by the decision to do this. They are living half-lives, enacting and expressing their surplus reality. Volumizing and filtering. They are looking for conversation points rather than relishing in the languid and the mundane. They are running instead of taking walks.

I need time to think, to reflect, to spawn. I need to be alone with David Gray. I need to eat my soup at a table for one and make sexy eye-contact with strangers. I have a hard enough time deciphering my one life, I can’t imagine communicating it in real-time.

I’ve been going deeper into myself, and have been posting less. Internet access is a commodity when you don’t have a homebase. But I have found ways around it. There’s free WiFi in a few places near me, or I can boost some outside people’s houses. It is all very clandestine. It is all very exciting.

My 30th birthday is on Sunday. And although most of you are probably sick of hearing about Las Vegas, that’s where I will be to celebrate it. I am closing my eyes to type and I see myself with fistfuls of cash deep-throating a $50 cigar. I am holding court with perfect strangers. I share this moment with no one. I will live it pure and need to be alone to do it that way. There will be no earpiece, no cell phone. Just me and a few million other people in Las Vegas. Afterwards, I will walk away.

By now, I have roughly the money I saved/made for this month. I came up short of $10k because of my fucking brother and the whole car fiasco. But, I must acknowledge and move on. Anyway, I have 5K and some change that I was able to save/make this month by doing nothing more than vacating my apartment and trying to live a more simple life. So, since I don’t have $10k to spin on one hand, I’ll do the next best thing. (There’s some math here so stay with me). I’m going to throw down the $5k and if I win, I will throw down the lot on a final $10k spin. If I lose, I will hop on a plane and resume my life. Simple, huh?

If all goes as planned, by next week I will have made 20 fucking thousand dollars. I could buy two Hyundais for that and blaze them for fun. But instead, I’m going to treat myself. I want the money to remain in Vegas, where it belongs. It will be the only filthy rich,$20k weekend of my life, and what better time to do it than on my 30th fucking birthday. Either way, I will have no regrets. From now one, they don’t figure into my life. Oh, and I will probably not be writing about this. It will be a personal journey, one that I do not wish to communicate with my fingers at this time. It may come later, after I have had time to reflect, discover, process, and most of all, enjoy.

Here are the things I will definitely do, should I win:

1. Get a mac-daddy suite at the Wynn. By the way, their Web site is beyond bad. I get the creeps whenever I here Steve Wynn’s voice.

2. Get two super high-class call girls on my tip. I will drop several thousand to make this happen. I want to find girls that I could never get in real life. Girls that make me feel like I’m not paying for it. Girls hot beyond any reason.

3. Drive my car across country next week and drop it off with Derek.

4. Buy one of those 1977 Toyota Landcruisers. They are mad butch.

5. Send flowers to my first grade teacher. A giant fucking bouquet.

6. Tip my ass off: $500 to the dealer, $100 to the first homeless person I see and $100 more for the maid. That’s free and clear, no hand job required.

What I won’t be doing is giving the money to charity. Great thought, but I’m not feeling that plentiful. The people that suggested that don’t even come around anymore, so whatever. I’m jaded as my 30th approaches. This is my time, my life, my money. Shitty attitude, yes. But I didn’t go through this shit for the last month to give my cash to some kid with a limp. (I’m waiting for the lightning to strike me).

Anyway, that’s it. This task is entering the twilight of its days. I am apathetic to my own cause, ready to move on. This overly-indulgent side is new to me, but I’m becoming more of a bad ass. At least as much of a badass as Rob Lowe can be.

Watch out.

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Sugar Mountain

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.

I awoke in a rain cloud, wearing the mist of daybreak. Slowly, through the fog, my mind and body reacted and came together as being. It was a feeling of detachment and euphoria. It was fucking bliss.

The dreams kept me company throughout the night. I was subtly aware of where I was, yet conscious of being a stranger in the Santa Monica Mountains. The dreams were fertile and radiant, and they centered around one single subject, sex. I had to laugh at myself. As much as I try to bring depth to my understanding, biology is always the guiding factor in my life. In all men’s lives. Everything we do is for the fuck. Every word I type, every motion I make is to ultimately get me laid. And that goes for every man in the world. Sure, there is a lot of ground to cover in between, but those niceties only provide form. The essence of male existence is the fuck. It is the reason our heart beats.It is almost biblical in nature: good grades beget a good school. The good school begets a good job. The good job begets a nice car, nice clothes and a nice house. The nice car and nice house begets a hot piece of ass. A nice little Asian one if you’re lucky.

The morning was masked in the physical mundane. It was just like camping after the brain fog lifted. What do you do in the morning when you camp? There really isn’t much to do. So that’s exactly what I did, not much. And again, it was fucking bliss.

I had traveled light for three nights alone. First of all, I forgot water. I knew there was a creek there, so I didn’t want to be weighed down with bottles of Evian. It seemed superfluous. So instead, I bent down and drank from the creek. It tasted and smelled fine, and I didn’t have much of a choice. If I was to die from drinking this water, then fate was playing a big joke on me. I brought food, but not a toothbrush. Light, but not toilet paper. I made choices and lived with them.

The sun would soon set on the sweet-smelling eucalyptus trees that provided shade and backdrop to the day. Mustard plants and Burdock provided the color. Living here was difficult and simple, and I had yet to really get a taste of things. Familiarity began to set in. I developed patterns in my new surroundings. I needed a change.

So, I gathered up my belongings and with the last few hours of sunlight went deeper into the mountains to find my uncertainty. The confidence of daylight let me go to a place where I felt unconfident. Where I had to work again to complete that cycle. I wanted to see if I could do it again.

I began to make my own path, not counting my steps, not wasting time in the literal. This moment was to be pure and understandable. I knew I would never do this again. I was a salmon coming back to my spawning grounds, knowing every forward movement would be my last. But, I was in the figurative; their wet return was much more final.

I noticed a rundown structure. The door was gone as was the wall that held it. I cast the light in with a flick of my wrist. My eyes followed the light, looking for answers. Obviously, not all the houses met the fate of the wrecking ball. This remained.

I was afraid of these walls. It is a strange phobia I have had for years. I don’t like seeing objects where they do not belong. If I am in the desert and see a lone house or in a lake and encounter the brush of a buried tree against my leg, it arouses this fear. I was fine till this point. Now my mind was pacing backwards to the dirt road, the bike, to home.

Of course, living in the abstract this fear never manifested itself with anything but a nod to my own neuroses. But with the aid of heightened senses and a feeling of isolation, these fears began to take a hold on my mind, on my sweat. I breathed and walked inside with pure hesitation.

By now the darkness had eclipsed all but my beam of light. I put my fate in the hands of Duracell. Inside, there was a strange sweet smell of grass and mildew. Once inside, I realized this was not a house, but a childhood. It was mine.

In Pennsylvania, my parents lived near the woods. I was always going, exploring, playing. There was a man-made lake by my house. In the summer, we would swim in it, in the winter, skate it. But beyond the fires, hot chocolate, s’mores and sunburns lived a boy scout cabin. It was built on the side of a hill and remained only as disintegrated walls and other people's memories. A large stone fireplace was the only thing that was relatively intact, and it became the keystone for this neuroses. It was out of place. It didn’t belong in the woods. And so it began.

But the Topanga structure seemed a much more dysfunctionally developmental place. On the ground were a few rusted children’s toys, a few porno magazines and a small flask of old granddad, that was still half full for me, but for whoever drank it, it was half empty.

The floor was gone in places and was replaced by weeds. I sat on a joist and began to look around the room. It seemed in better days, this was a large storage shed rather than a house. It was an escape from an area that was already an escape. It was solitude from solitude.

On the walls were paintings. But rather than provide form, they were to provide color. This was a retreat. I imagined kids growing up here, meeting as their clubhouse, shooting bottle rockets. Their cars remain as the only reminder of that time. As they grew and their tastes changed from matchbox to alcohol and blue mags, their past remained untouched on the floor. I imagined them seeing these cars, but never removing them. They belonged as much as the bottle or porno mags. They represented a lifestage that the people weren’t ready to abandon quite yet. They were a retreat to the past that still provided context to the present.

So, I sat there for a bit, looking around, smiling. I picked up the bottle of granddad and took a whiff. Still smelled of alcohol. I put my tongue to the rim of the bottle. It was not piss. I leaned back with all my might and pulled a swig just as if I had paid $10 for it in a Hollywood bar. Besides, I needed a drink.

I took the bottle as a memory, and continued to drink it as I took a final look around the structure. On the back was a sign that read, “Sugar Mountain.” I guess that was the name of their clubhouse. I guess they still come back here. I guess it was time for me to leave. This time, I was the object that didn't belong.

So, I got my flashlight and said goodbye. I was not afraid anymore, not of this structure at least. I found what I came for only after I realized that I came for nothing.

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Green Darkness

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.

I am constantly drifting apart. The romantic and pragmatic inside me at odds with how to live my life. They bleed historic, always coming together for battle in thought. Topanga was their latest insurrection.

Entering Topanga was something my romantic self had always wanted to do. The place itself was just dirt, rocks and trees, but it was more representational of my process of deviation. Pragmatic Rob thought this was not a responsible decision. Entering these woods at night was illegal and dangerous. Pragmatic Rob thought as many of you did, that he did not need the green darkness to find himself. It could happen anywhere. But the responsible side had been the decision maker for far too long. It was time to taste the sweet from the top of my tongue. To make decisions that didn’t always make sense. It was something I had wished for my entire life, to squelch the responsible. To enlist the dreamer and unearth the soul.

So the romantic grabbed the hand of the pragmatic and lead him toward the path.

Lower Topanga is an area best represented cinematically by the dead presidents in Point Break. I don’t know why that came to mind, but it is an area of coastal beauty filled with society’s fringe. It was one of the last bastions of ramshackle seaside real estate in Southern California. This area opened wide to the Pacific Ocean and provided a majestic keyhole to a seaside village of 60’s time travelers. To them, the mansions of Malibu a mile north did not exist. Their mansions were their land. Their reward was salty sea breath.

A few years ago, the area got bought up as part of Topanga State Park, and all the ramshackle shacks were bulldozed and the residents displaced to a life of westside white shag carpet and orange peel ceilings. Gone were the funky art-carved doors and dilapidated fences. They did not matter anymore. Dump trucks carried the stained glass doors to their new home among grease-stained Styrofoam containers and corn nuts wrappers. Even their memory was erased.

I coasted my motorcycle down the dirt hill. The dust was kicking up brown clouds of black. The air was wet with ocean spray and the dust clung to me like a child. I wore the earth as a dinner jacket needed to gain admission to this place. I tasted the ground as a cost of entry.

I ditched the bike when it would silently roll no more. It was placed behind a tree, out of site of the main or dirt road. I had stripped off another layer. It was time to get my sea legs.

The sound of the lone automobiles gave way to the sounds of nature. The crunching, chirping and rustling formed a fabric of sounds that I eagerly wore alongside the dinner jacket. The dirt road gave way to a field of weeds. The absent road help shed another layer of society. I was becoming displaced, so I decided to simply turn right, counting each step in the darkness.

About 30 paces off the road, I found a spot. There were millions of places just like this, close to the creek, away from the road and relatively flat, but this was the one I chose. An oak provided a half-moon canopy. I unrolled my bag and sat down, slowly moving to flat. My mind was now coming to rest. I could go wherever I choose. I took off my watch and went to college, freshman year. I laid down with Wendy.

She was a sophomore in a hot-girl sorority. I was a freshman who shared a name with an 80’s heartthrob. When she asked me to go to a “date party” I was more than happy to oblige. At that point in my life, I was seeking access, and that was something she could provide. Her ass was a bit large, but it was hard to see with the outfits she used to wear. It is even harder to see right now, in the complete darkness, a world of years away. And actually, I didn’t really need to see it again.

I had to find something to wear. I didn’t bring a suit jacket or anything like that to school, and my roommate was a bit on the short side. So I got on my scooter and went to Goodwill, picking up a nice $4 tweed jacket to match my khakis. I am no stranger to buying my clothes secondhand. I actually prefer it for most things, but this jacket had a musty scent, and I needed to wear it that night. So, I got my roommate’s cologne, sprayed the jacket wet and hung it by the window of our dorm. I borrowed a tie and four hours later was off to the races.

The party itself was probably much better in real time than being relived through selective memory. I remember shaving. I remember her sisters who were hot, and their tits. I remember some lame sorority cheer. I remember getting drunk and stealing something, but can’t remember what it was.

And I remember the dance. The slow dance that sealed the fate of the night. The eyes and the mouth that let me know that although I was beneath her in years and social status, tonight was my night. I could have her if I chose. And she knew I would.

We walked back to her sorority house on Hilgard and she snuck me in. I was filled with anxiety, the same feeling I had at present, deviating from the road. The anxiety brought me back to this moment to help me let it go.

We sat on her bed kissing, the moonlight bouncing across us. She got up and in the relative darkness felt at ease to remove her clothing to expose what by day she worked so hard to conceal. She dropped her skirt in the anonymity of the darkness, bent over and laid bare her insecurity. I cursed the moonlight for enabling the vision. I cursed my eyes for adjusting to the light. I cursed myself for caring. And although I was an 18-year-old, near-virginal Pennsylvania boy filled with youthful vigor, even this face-beautiful California girl made it difficult for me to carry on in my present state. I excused myself and snuck to the bathroom.

Safely inside, I collapsed the walls and reached into my pocket. In it, I pulled out a small marble pipe and packed it full of pot. I intoxicated myself with the air and ate the skunky smoke. I realized that if I was caught doing this, I would get more than just kicked out. I would get expelled. The adrenaline and THC fueled my being. My mind had escaped my body in a plume of smoke. I was ready to consume this girl, and I felt terrible about it.

So I made my way back to her room and without a word, we arched and fell, filled and drained, got lost and remained. We kissed without a sound, without humanity. I never saw her again in the same light, although we passed each day. That night we were meant to dream together. The rest of our lives, we were meant to dream that night alone.

I heard a rustling in the bushes that brought me back, straightened me up. And as quickly as the sound came, it was gone with equal speed. I closed my eyes and gave her a final thought.

Tonight was meant to be dreamt alone.

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Dirty Sleep

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.

I’ve been hibernating from the world. Entering a habitual landscape devoid of errands, cell phones and men’s magazines. Where time is only meant to remind rather than propel. It is a place called Topanga Canyon, and it has been my home for the last three sunsets.

Days and nights floated by effortlessly as I found my Walden in Topanga, a mountainous expanse of dirt, rocks and trees filled with not much more than a few funky storefronts and a 60’s mindset. It is a place I have come to love over the years. It is an escape from the plastic L.A. hardscape.

Driving through the canyon in the past, I would always see milk-crated bikes parked in bushes or other reminders of illegal inhabitants. These were society’s lost citizens, hidden away in makeshift tents, burrowed into caves or veiled atop a rocky crag. They were the fringe people, breathing off the dust of nature. They lived their lives merely to live them. It made me apathetic in one breath and jealous in the next. I hoped this was not the only path to absolute freedom. I hoped that living incompletely was not the only way to be complete.

With every past trip through the canyon, I always would wonder what would happen if I deviated the stretch. Where I would end up if I pulled over and walked the beer-bottle-lined paths? But I always put the thoughts to sleep and kept on driving, too hurried to stop the car and discover. Too focused on the reality ahead of me rather than the adventure at the sides.

To sleep among the trees, I had to devise a plan. I needed to enter the canyon by darkness, and it couldn’t be by car. I got a battery for my motorcycle and changed the oil and plugs. Even though it was from 1970, it started right up. I had been away from this bike for a while that at one point had been my only form of L.A. transportation. It was a nice reunion to my past that opened up with the third kick start.I loaded the saddle bags with beans, cheese, French bread and apples. I also took a sleeping bag, flashlight and a toothbrush in a back pack. I was on the road.

There is a certain freedom to the wind. When you are on two wheels and your feet are inches from the ground, there’s a rush of significance. The line between life and death grows thinner and thinner with each oncoming vehicle, each curve, each m.p.h. gained. It is summer in December.

The mouth of the canyon opened up, to let me drink in the abject beauty of her solitude. To get lost in her study. To reincarnate my soul. I had to be quiet as I went around the chains that blocked my road's journey. But I wasn't afraid of the police or strangers, I was more afraid of what three days without human contact would do to me. My life is fueled by companionship. Without it, I am merely a man alone with my confusing thoughts.

Topanga was dark and cool on my skin. I took off my helmet and drove until I hit a warm patch. I killed the light and took in the night, the stars--wrapped in the complete darkness of unheard soliloquy. I turned down the dirt road and wondered if I would be missed if I never came out. Wondered how I ever got to this foreign yet familiar place, weeks before my 30th birthday. Did I really need this dirty sleep to awaken me?

I was about to find out.

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Waiting for Olfactory Girl

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.

What is it about a scent that allows your mind to escape? To entrance back to a misplaced history. To rediscover a place that at once felt seamless and everlasting. What is it about a scent that helps you lose the present and place the past? What is it about a scent?

I followed her perfume. It was about all I knew of her. It came up this weekend while I was traipsing around the Wynn with the other big-hotel gawkers. But the scent provided me the escape I needed from the gold misery and reflecting pools. And when my other senses jumped on board to see if it was really her, it was too late. The scent, the woman, the moment was gone.

A woman’s fragrance is an ancient and sophisticated bloom. It is the one thing that always catches me by surprise. It is invisible and dramatic. But what I smelled this weekend did not take me back years, it took me back months. Back to a time where I was still growing, still learning about my own sexuality. Framed within a superfluous mission, I was able to experience a part of life I did not know--the intoxicating beauty of an older woman.

Amanda was her name, and she opened up a door to the desert rain. With her I let the drops fall on my face and the desert blooms consume my naked body. He scent hypnotized me back then. I felt the hot wind on my face and saw the colors of the Mojave sky. Her scent took me away from her 17th floor Wilshire apartment. It took me to a place in time more beautiful than I’ve ever seen. In her arms, I was anywhere.

I waited outside her building. If I couldn’t get by her doorman, I would never get up to the 17th floor. If he called her, she would not buzz me up. That I was certain. It needed to seem fateful, and above all romantic. I could not enter the same way as the cable guy. I had to enter as a hero.

The key to getting past security is the ability to fit in. To exude a confidence and feeling of belongingness. I was a bit worried about the crazy beard and hair. Even a guy at basketball who is middle eastern told me to stay away from London with that beard. It was self-deprecating and in poor taste to say the least, but there was some truth to his statement. We’re all profiled, based on our skin, clothes, facial hair or the car we drive. This is one of those times I was glad I drove a Porsche. Maybe the thing with Derek not taking my car was fate. Maybe I needed it to to get to this moment and beyond.

I pulled into the circular driveway, just behind another car and I walked in. I started to talk to the person in front of me, and gave a nod to the doorman. He smiled and let me enter. Hopefully, the hard part was over.

I stood at her door, scared shitless. I remembered nothing about this woman except her scent. But that was all I needed to find her. I stood at her door, knocking in my head. Replaying the events that took place inside that door mere months ago. Hearing the music, seeing the sunset. Taking in the sky and the night. My life unfolded like a map that lead me here. I knocked.

Beauty opened the door, but I did not enter. For the beauty came from someone unknown, someone much younger than Amanda. It was her daughter. It all came back to me. The violin, the daughter at UCLA, the familiarity.

“Can I help you?” she said, looking confused. I realized without a Porsche to balance things out, Rob Lowe seemed a bit menacing. But I had no recourse but to say what was on my mind. My mind was slow, and all I could do was answer the question.

“I’m here to see Amanda, could you tell her Rob is here?”

“Rob, who?” she said, evaluating me in her head. I just smiled. If I said “Rob Lowe,” she would have thought I was fucking with her. I’ve been there, believe me.

“Just Rob, could you just tell her Rob is here. That’s all.”

She gave me a final once over and shut the door behind her. I stood there waiting, holding another scent. The scent of warm lilies clutched in my hand, filling the hall with romance. But I’m not sure even that could save this situation. I wanted to be outside her door in the rain, holding a boombox until she heard me. But instead, I had her co-ed daughter rounding her up. I had lost control.

“Rob?” she said, looking equally as confused as her daughter. Amanda came out from her apartment and shut the door behind her. I had caught her off guard. I was the creepy one night stand guy who went from the boy next door to ugly Brad Pitt.

“Are you ok?” she said, sounding more like a mother than a lover.

“I’m fine.”

“Did you forget something here?” She said looking for meaning for my intrusion. Qualifying it with the pragmatic rather than the creepy or romantic. At that point I wanted to reach out and take her. To hold her arms and pull her close. To smell her hair and tell her “I forgot this,” and kiss her with the brilliance of desert rain. But the moment was not right. There was no boombox or opportunity. So instead, I did the second best thing.

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” I said, appealing to her nurturing spirit as much as the burning nectar inside her. Behind my scruffy persona, my eyes told the story. I was trying to be as charming as possible. To summon everything I knew to get me there. I needed her tonight, not merely for her walls, but for her spirit.

She smiled, and rubbed her hand across the side of my face.

“You’re all scruffy,” she said playfully.

We looked at each other for a day’s moment. She smiled again.

“My daughter is here, but she is going back to campus. How about we meet for a real drink, instead?”

This time I was on the receiving end of the charm. I smiled, a glow that only someone like her could bring upon a soul that had been as weary as mine for the last few days.

“Meet me at Casa Escobar in an hour,” she said.

I smiled, nodded and started to walk away. She watched me leave. I felt her eyes.

“Rob, aren’t you forgetting something?”

I walked over and planted the kiss I wanted. It was mad and beautiful. Stark and wandering. But it was not just to make the moment. It was to make the moment lasting and vibrant. It was an open-mouthed bookmark to the past, so years from now, the sweet smell of lilies in the warm summer air would be another touch point for my return to this hallway, this life. This beautiful woman.

“That was romantic Rob, but I was talking about the flowers,” she said wryly.

I laughed and handed them to her. We were back to our not-so-distant moment, both knowing what was to come, at least for tonight. This time, we could go deeper with the strength of reciprocity. We were not one-night stands anymore. We were California wine and California stars.

God, I wanted it to rain.

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Fear and Loathing

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.

I am in a bit of a funk today. The absolute combination of physical suffering and cerebral disconnect. I feel like a child learning to walk, trying to summon the mental and physical capacity to take a step, to instinctually move ahead, beyond a point of reference.

I’ve slept in my car the last two nights, which means I can only do it once more based on my own guidelines. My back is sore, and it never gets like that. I was hoping to have a bigger car for this, but fate would just not cooperate. Derek fell through for the car buy/pickup in Vegas this weekend. What makes it even worse was that I already relegated that machine to my past. Seeing it, driving it just makes me feel like this month is not progressing.

Maybe I need to take a step back to take two forward. I’ve always subscribed to that thinking, so why not? Tonight, I think I need to visit someone from my past. Someone who has felt me, but doesn’t really know me. That is the interpersonal level that I need right now. To be loved by a relative stranger.

Sleeping in my car has not given me any insight, just physical pain. It is just like waiting at a stoplight, except I’m doing it for 6 hour stretches in the crisp night air. Sure, it’s amusing to see a guy camped out in a Porsche rather than an 80’s K-car stacked with reams of paper and clothes, but I can’t enjoy it. Because I am living the life rather than abstracting to the folly of it.

I owe a lot of this present feeling to Vegas. There was too much hyper-realism everywhere I looked. My family friend Jeff from PA was getting married to someone equally as distant. Our conversation was as misguided as a conversation could be. How can you catch up on the last five years of your life in a few breaths? I didn’t even know where to begin. I tried to keep the dialogue as present as possible, so I wouldn’t have to discuss my real estate decisions, “ladies” in my life or if I saw “so-and-so” from high school. My small talk in this area was intentionally aloof and belligerent. I only spoke of what I saw at that moment.

I am not in love. But when I am, I do not intend to predicate my wedding date with fake stripper tits in my face. It is a senseless and confusing spectacle. Is this what I have to look forward to? Rarifying the past and diluting the future. Ostentatiously slapping the mistake of marriage in the face of a friend weeks before he commences the union? God, Las Vegas had made me weary. Even tits seemed off the menu for me. Once again, I was getting too cerebral for my own good. The pain of my last visit greeted me at the state line and has stuck on me like a bad sunburn.

In Vegas, it seemed like everyone was on a path but me. Even M.C. got along better with these guys than I did. He and Derek became fast friends. My brother bought M.C. three lap dances and drank with him till 4:30 Saturday night. But they were in another Vegas than the one I was wading in. They were splashing in the spirited banality of dancing fountains, pirates, and God-awful fake volcanos. I was in the progressive nudity of my own fear and self-loathing. Fuckin’ Rob Lowe.

Sometimes I wish there was an event to reference back to my relative depression. A flashpoint that I can go back and fix, like a leaky faucet or a misplaced keystroke. But life is never that easy. Moods are triggered by a phone call from your mom, a traffic ticket and a misplaced electric bill--an unreturned phone call, a computer glitch and spilled cocktail. These collective moments make up life, both the good and the bad.

Tonight, I will not sleep in my car. I will sleep where rest does not live. I will take a page from the past and read from it by candlelight in the hopes that tommorrow, all that will remain from the moment will be a bookmark. Tonight, I will retreat and in the morning, I will attack.I will awaken a new man, filled with spirit worthy of your readership. Tomorrow, Rob Lowe will dance.

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Dreaming in Vegas

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.

I am shedding, slowly but surely. The man here today replaces the man from yesterday. Tomorrow, will be the same. And as much as each day pragmatically brings me closer to death, lately, it’s been bringing me closer to life. The life I’ve always wanted for myself. The life of freedom.

It’s easy to get philosophical with Alexi Murdoch on Sunset Blvd. However, moments of clarity don't last long in this town, and mine was lost by a buzzing in my groin. I answered it.

“Rob Lowe, you never answer your phone. I leave three phone messages,” said a tall, flop-topped Euro on the other line.

“I hate phones.”

“Are you mad at me because I got the girl. Is that why you don’t call back?”

“Evan, I would have called you back if I got the message. You owe me $1500. I call guys back that owe me that kind of coin.”

“Relax, Relax Rob Lowe. I’m only kidding. I never call.”

There was a sound of flushing on the other end.

“Evan, are you shitting?”

“No, no. I took one before and forgot to flush, so I walk in and flush. Want to be tidy houseguest.”

“Evan, where the fuck are you?”

“Brentwood or something. I am new here, remember?”

“Do I need to pick you up?”

“No, no. I will stay here for a few days. But wanted to give you rent money.”

“Ok, good. Are you staying with that girl from the bar?”

“No, different girl. Bigger tits. Smell very good. I meet her in after-hours club after fuck other.”

“You’re setting the bar high for M.C.”

“American bitches. The best. I could love many. M.C. only get German bitches”

"Ok, then."

“Women like the M&M candy, Rob. You open brown pack, eat one. Mmm, taste good. But just because you have good taste, won’t satisfy hunger. You get taste, but hunger, taste, but hunger.”

I was a bit scared, because I almost got what he was talking about. I laughed politely to volley the conversation back.

“Rob Lowe, you don’t believe, but tell me anyone who can eat just one M&M and not whole brown pack.”

“Ok,I believe you, now when can you get me the cash? I’m out of town tomorrow.”

“Put M.C. on the phone.”

“He’s not here, but I will be at my place in a minute. I’m picking up some shit there for a bachelor party in Vegas.”

“I am not deadbeat, Rob Lowe.”

“I’m not really saying that you are. Did I say that?”

"Ok, then. I am not deadbeat."

“So, this girl, she offered to let you stay at her place?” I said to steer the conversation.

“No, I just never leave. She leave for work. I stay. She come back, I here. I just fuck her again.”

“Well, good for you.”

“She smell very good. Like warm apples.”

“Ok, Ok. Hold on while I park.”

“Not problem.”

The phone went silent for a minute, the boredom of each other stronger than the discomfort of silence. I walked into my place and saw M.C. there. I pointed to the phone and said "Evan," under my breath.

“Here he is,” I said as I handed the phone to M.C. He was wearing my shirt.

“Hello, hello MC here.”

I grabbed my mail and plopped down on the couch. It was a nice mix of heart-pumping electronica with German conversation bumping in as the foreground mix. Listening, I became lost in the new complexity of my life and my place. I walked into my bedroom to pick up some "club clothes" for this weekend in Vegas. M.C. walked into "our" room and handed the phone back.

“We go to bank,” he said confidently.

We got in my car and headed to the currency exchange in Santa Monica. M.C. ran in, exchanged his cash and the transaction was final. I was officially renting my place. I drove M.C. back to say goodbye.

“You want to come in for moment?”

“Naa, I really should be going.”

“Come, one drink to celebrate America.”

“Fuck, how can I turn down an invitation like that.”

It was strange being invited into my own place, but also comforting. Without Evan around, it was clear that M.C. didn’t want to do this town alone. And as emotionally distant as M.C.and Evan seemed to be with each other, the company of ambivalant friendship is sometimes better than the company of oneself.

So we drank, talked and played with TiVo. Like M&Ms, no one can drink just one beer. So Thursday night turned out to be just like Wednesday, without any figurative progression. M.C. had the bed and I took the couch. Sameness once again rocked me to sleep.

The morning light taunted my arousal. The sunbeam told me to get out of this place. But I already knew what needed to be done. I needed to escape.

I walked in my bedroom to see a stranger's form in a place that was so uniquely my own. I had slept there far too long. Rob Lowe was finally awakening, and someone was there to take his spot.

I flipped up the covers and I was surprised by what I saw--M.C. in jammies. It was truly a sight to behold. I stood there and took in the ridiculousness of my life through the fresh-scrubbed perspective that only the morning and it's accompanying fashion can usher in.

I grabbed M.C. by the arm and roused him awake. He looked at me, confused. I was the doctor when he entered the world. I was the only thing he knew at that moment.

I broke the spell with a challenge.

“M.C., grab your shit. I’m taking you to Vegas for a bachelor party.”

M.C. smiled his biggest grin to date.

“The Vegas. I just dream of those lights.”

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Lost in Translation

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.

Last night I encountered something so sinister, so vile that I needed to re-evaluate what I was about to do. I could not run, I could not hide, I could not park. LAX had once again captured me in its ugly snare.

I left for the airport around 7:00. Evan’s plane was flying in from Germany, and armed with a digital picture and a sharpied grocery bag with his name on it, I took off for the dreaded circle. I hate airports in general, but usually I can justify the means, because the end is usually worth it. But when I must endure the yellow zones, busses and nuns without any real upside, that’s when it really gets to me. I was so excited before and LAX totally deflated my sail. I guess I’ll just park.

I grabbed a cart that someone had left behind and walked into baggage claim. I kept looking at the digital picture, as if I would forget what he looked like. Everything this month was hinging on him coming, so I was doing whatever it took to make sure this went down. I looked at the picture again.

I walked over to the monitor and saw there was an two-hour delay on his flight. Fuck, there was no way I was going to wait around. So I went to get in my car and grab a bite on Century, since I didn’t get a chance to eat dinner. I read the L.A. Weekly and chilled.

I got in my car and left again. I figured this time, I could just drive around the loop and wait for him to come. I got my paper bag “Evan” sign and held it out the convertible top. I’ve always wanted to be at the airport holding a sign for someone. So cool.

I waited by the curb, looking in baggage claim. It was too hard to see in. Finally, I saw a recognizable face pop out from the crowd. That happens all the time in L.A. though. You’re not sure if you went to school with that person or they happen to be a supporting player on CSI. It is all very confusing.

I looked at the picture, and back at him, much like a private eye would do, then I screamed his name twice, “Evan,” then “Even,” I wasn’t sure how he pronounced it, since we had communicated only through e-mail. He looked around, saw the sign and smiled. He held up his wait finger and went back inside.

Soon a tall, blonde Euro man with a backpack bigger than my sister made his way towards my car. He was talking to someone that in a strange way looked like the bastard child of Ali G and the bad ass guy from the end of Lock, Stock and two Smoking Barrels.

“Rob Lowe,” he said, smiling, “You have Porsche…the little one. Very cute.” I wasn’t sure if he was belittling me or belittling me. Whatever.

“Ivan,” great to meet you, intentially mis-pronouncing his name in response.

“This is Scorpio," he said pointing to the Sweat suit guy.

“Hey,” he said giving me the hand bump.

“Hey.” I was a bit confused. I thought Evan was coming by himself today, and his friends were coming later.

“Dude, I’m sorry, I thought it was just you coming, I can only fit one guy.”

“No problem,” said Evan, “M.C., you stay. Rob do you have key?”

“Yea,” I said grabbing it from my ashtray.

I handed the key to Evan and he threw it to Scorpio, along with an e-mail printout I had sent with my address. “Get cab,” he said and got in the car.

We took off, without saying a word. He held his giant backpack on his lap, knowing there was no way that was fitting in my trunk.

“Sorry about not being able to pick up your friend,” I said, finally breaking the silence.

“He is not my friend,” he said distantly. He was looking around at the palm trees and lights. When you’re in L.A. for the first time, even Sepulveda Blvd. seems strangely exotic. He was taken in, and we hadn’t even left El Segundo.

“Did you meet him on the plane?”

“Huh?” he said, snapping out of it. “No, no, he is my sister’s boyfriend and insisted on coming. He wants to be famous DJ. Calls himself M.C. Scorpio. I only call him that because it makes him sound so stupid.”

“Ah, anyone else coming tonight? Got a stowaway in the big backpack?” I said lightly.

“Rob Lowe, you have sense of humor, that’s good, me too.”

We drove a bit more.

“Are you hungry? I can stop for food if you want?”

“No food. I just want to fuck.”

I gave him a startled/angry look, and he looked back.

“Ahh,” he said smiling, “Not fuck you, Rob Lowe, Fuck L.A. Woman.”

That was a relief.

“There’s a pub called King’s head in Santa Monica. It’s by the hostel there, and there’s always some hot girls from Europe there.”

“Rob Lowe, If I want German girls, I stay in Germany. I want American girls. Blonde, with the tits.” He said cupping around his chest.

“All right, how about the Circle Bar. They have hot, American bartenders there. It’s a pretty good place.”

“Movie Stars?”

“I, mean, I guess. I met Topher Grace there once, but you probably want chick stars.”

“Tofer who?” he said.

“Forget it.”

We were on our way back and I asked if he wanted to go to my place to wait for M.C., change and drop off his bag.

“That will not get me laid,” He said matter-of-factly.

So I drove straight to the bar. Evan was in a t-shirt, khaki shorts and Teva sandals. There was no way this guy was getting laid in his present gear.

We parked the car, and got out.

“I can lock that inside,” I said referring to the backpack, “but it won’t fit in the trunk.”

“I can carry,” he said and proceeded to snap, pull and latch about 15 different things.

He smiled. “We go,” he said.

Inside the bar, we walked around to the back. I bought him a beer and we talked for a bit. The backpack caused all kinds of stares, especially since Evan is about 6’6” and the backpack towered over nearly everyone. It was a yellow spectacle.

Evan walked to the bathroom, and was gone for about 10 minutes. I followed to see if he was ok. Next thing I know, he throwing down major game on a brunette that was no doubt out of his league in his present state. Perhaps without the backpack, shorts and road dirt, he could have had her. But he persevered, and I think the girl eventually found his look earnest and refreshing. This guy had anti-game, and it worked.

Evan got drunker and drunker and about an hour later, he pulled me aside.

“I go home with her, but she has no good-looking friends here. See that girl there,” he said pointing. “She’s an ugly dog. I don’t even mention you and her going home.”

“Uh, ok, thanks for thinking of me,” I said, “but I’m going to hang here until close. Can you get the key from M.C.?”

“No problem, I get it tomorrow. I see you then to pay.”

“All right, have fun.”

So I sat at the bar until 1:30 and got in my car. I didn’t really plan this out, but what the fuck. I went back to my place to pick up some shit and M.C. was sitting on the couch, drunk, playing with my TiVo.

“I love this” he said, pausing, then rewinding.

So I sat my ass on the couch and watched M.C. playing with the remote. I had a few more beers and eventually just passed out on my own couch. So the first night was as anti-climactic as an anti-climax can be. I managed to move from my bed to the couch. At least it was a start.

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I will Survive

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.

His name is Evan. I’ll call him “E” so I can pretend to be like the guys on Entourage. Truthfully, I challenge anyone to say they love Jeremy Piven more than I do. That dude steals the show. “Tonight, I’m going to punish my wife.” Brilliant.

I’m all over the place today. Totally giddy with excitement. That’s because I get to meet my Europal named Evan. He’s flying in to LAX tonight, I’m picking him up at the airport, driving him to my place and handing off the key. I can’t believe I’m really doing this. This is really strange, and I probably should not even say this, but what I’m feeling inside can only be equated to the feeling you get when you’re about to score with a girl. That nervous, tingly feeling when you know it’s in the bag.

The last time I felt like this in a non-sexual environment was driving across country to school. I was armed with a AAA Triptic that helped me find campgrounds along the way. I had no idea where I was going to land each night, but I was happy to just move forward. Christ, I haven’t even let the door hit me on the ass yet, and already I feel like I’m back twelve years, free to challenge myself however I see fit. Free to sleep where the wind takes me. This is going to be a good ride.

Yet, as much as I am excited about the next month, I am also a bit sad about leaving my place. I got that same tinge of regret when I left my parents on the porch to come 3,000 miles away to study. I knew I would never come back as the same person. I knew I had to say goodbye.

I’m not sure how much I will be able to post. I will bring my laptop to the mall, hit up the library and the Corner Bakery (great bagels, free wi-fi). I guess I need to get a card for my laptop. I’ll put that on my list. Pick up Evan, get a wifi card. Got it.

I have established a few ground rules for myself. First, I cannot stay for more than three nights at any particular place: friend’s houses, my car, the park. I also need to shower at least every other day during the work week. I can just hit up the gym or shower at the middle school after my basketball league. That should be no problem. I also cannot let anyone know what I’m doing. I have a few ideas to ease my transition, and this weekend I’ll be in Vegas, so I will be mooching some floor space there as well. Love the Vegas.

But for now, I need to say goodbye to my apartment. Well, actually it’s a condo, but I think that sounds so lame to say. So 90’s lame. I’ll just call it my place. Anyway, my place is pretty sweet. It is one of the smartest investments I have ever made. I got it right out of college and fixed it up myself. It’s pretty big, too, so Evan and his Eurobuds will be pretty stoked by the environs. I even cleaned it yesterday, and bought those guys some beer.

My giddiness is starting to get replaced by sentimentality. I hope these guys don’t fuck my place up. Because it’s more than just my habitat, its walls are filled with memories. My grandpa had left me some money when he died. I used some of that as a down payment. The rest I had saved since I was a kid. All the jobs I had and the people that helped me get this place are as much a part of here as I am.

My dad was pretty good about establishing a work ethic. My first job was playing an elf. There was a Santa guy down the street that would go to people’s houses on Christmas and drop off presents that were left on the porch for us to bring in. Kids would sit on his lap and I would hold the goods. I always resented him because his suit was so much better than mine. My beard was like a cotton ball. His was like natural hair. It wasn’t fair.

We went other places as well, even got to ride in a helicopter (except I don’t remember it). I only knew it because I saw a picture with me next to it. My name was Willy the Elf, and I adorned the green suit every Christmas season until my body outgrew my spirit. Then I was cast aside, like all the other overgrown elves before me.

After that, I taught swimming, mowed lawns, was a ski lift operator, lifeguard, waiter and retail guy. This was all before my 18th birthday. Half the money from there was put in a fund for my first house. My dad figured that he could swing college for me, but didn’t want me to waste all the cash. I hated him at the time, but every night when I look around, I thank him.

But as much as I love this spot, I need some distance from it too. It is truly another thing in my life that is above my means. I truthfully couldn’t afford to live in my building if I had to buy today. I just bought at the right time. When people see it for the first time they either think I am a trust fund kid, a drug dealer or am in some way related to Rob Lowe, the actor. No shit. I usually tell them I’m his brother. But my mom and dad could only agree on two boy’s names, Rob and Chad, and they decided to name us both Rob. Hmm, and I wonder why people sucker punch me.

So tonight’s the night when Rob Lowe steps out of his safety net to experience the real world. The world that is not defined by lines of sexuality, but rather by lines of survival. Wish me luck.

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The Spirit of '76

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.

As much as I enjoy the freedom that comes from listening to no one but me, there are times when I appreciate the white noise of company. Certain snippets in life are enriched through shared experience─things like bars, ballgames, sex. Oh, and camping. Definitely, camping.

On Friday, I got out the tent and headed out to Malibu Creek State Park for some independence weekend camping. It has been a tradition with my college friends since graduation. We make sure no matter where we are with our lives, we are at that spot on July Fourth. It started off with just a few friends, but over the years has grown to include friend’s spouses and children. And as much as I try to see the doting father in my freshman roommate, all I see is the guy who puked on my head spring semester.

One of the few other single people in attendance was Tracy. Although two “sleepover” weekends in a row was a bit trying on our patience for each other, we nonetheless decided to do it anyway. Hell, I crashed for free at the Palms with her last weekend, the least I could do is share my Target tent.

It is a bit tougher for Tracy and me to hang with our college friend group than our entertainment friend group. That’s because our college friend group doesn’t understand our relationship, and I guess neither does our entertainment group. To sum it up, college thinks, “We love Rob, when are you two taking this to the next level?” Entertainment thinks “We like Rob, but you could do so much better” It’s a strange phenomenon that adds to our sometimes esoteric dynamic.

Because of the closeness of our relationship, signs of caring are sometimes mistaken for signs of budding love to the casual observer. As cavalier as I try to be framing Tracy as always being, “A drunk dial away,” my feelings for her are much more profound.

I’ve had much better success with girls that are friends rather than girlfriends. When I had moved beyond friends, it always ended badly. Our biology got in the way of our better judgment, and the next day we lost everything. I would go to bed with a friend and wake up with a stranger. But my friendship with Tracy has persevered through a fundamental yet derelict part of our lives. She is a luminous connection to my past and a safe portal to my future. Screwing her would no doubt close more doors than it would open.

It’s not easy to make that choice, especially when you are drunk and staring at a romantic campfire. Tracy is smart, cool and one of the hottest girls I know. Truthfully, she is way too attractive for me. And I think that’s part of her motivation. She no doubt loves me as a friend, but a large part of her must wonder why every guy wants to bang her but Rob. I would wonder the same if I were her.

“The fucking bartender gave me a bottle of Jack just to get the fuck out. So, it was 2:30 and I was walking down the middle of street with a fucking bottle in one hand and a fucking glass in the other.”

The voice came out of nowhere like an intoxicated foghorn and was followed by laughter.

Looking around we found some RV’ers two sites away letting off a bit too much steam. As the words began drifting over to the site, I noticed some of the parents getting a bit uptight that their children were within earshot of having part of their childhood taken away in that brief vocal instant. The wives gave a look, whispered to their husbands and stared angrily into the darkness.

Finally, someone spoke up.

“Those guys need to keep it down. There’re kids all around,” said my friend Isabella. “Jack, go say something.”

I jumped up from my seat. “Let me handle it,” I figured I was the best man for the job. I didn’t have kids, so I wouldn’t get as emotional as the dads would. Plus, a few other candidates in our campsite would simply go over and try to fuck the guy up. I was a good alternative to emotion or violence. My strength was distance.

I walked over to the campsite. The man at the helm was wearing a NASCAR tank top that screamed (909). He was visibly more intoxicated than the rest of his crew.

“Happy fourth,” I said as I approached their circle. I looked soft. They stared at me like I just walked in on them having sex. Maybe even to say to their dog was dead.

“Hey guys, we’ve got some kids over there and were hoping you could just keep the swearing down a bit. You can get as loud as you want, that’s cool. We just, you know, with the kids.”

Everyone nodded and seemed to understand, except NASCAR. He walked over, with something to prove.

“What are you going to do about it, big man?” He said.

I was hoping his friends would grab him, but they just let him talk.

“Uh, exactly what I am doing, walking over here and politely asking you to stop.”

There was a mile-long pause.

“How about if I politely kick your ass back to faggot camp.”

“Well, not sure if you can use ‘politely’ in the same—"

It came like a dagger out of the dark. At first I was not sure if I was shot, stabbed or punched. The pain was beyond rational. I lost all oxygen and hit the ground. Seconds later, my brain told my body not to die, that it was just a punch. A very fucking hard one, but a punch, nonetheless.

My friends were watching, and they all came over to my rescue. But his own group grabbed him and pulled him away. He started fighting with them.

So, with help, I made my way back to camp and into my tent. Tracy followed and together we shut off the violence and profanity of the outside world. She made me laugh, fed me shots and got me back in the spirit of things. The Spirit of '76.

She curled up next to me, more striking than ever. At that moment it was abundantly clear, Tracy was more than a beautiful woman. She was a beautiful friend. And she was exactly what I needed.

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