You can't say we're satisfied.

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

I knew the location had changed, yet the prophetic daydreams of reconnecting lived firmly in the old walls of Shenanigans, a bar I used to frequent regularly as a tactile under-ager. The danky beer-stained floors were still fresh in memory, providing a deliberate vantage point of thought. It was exactly the familiarity I needed for my internal pre-dawn dress rehearsals. Because upon this final trip of reconnection I wanted to be different. I wanted to be majestic. I wanted to be everything I wasn't growing up.

Alex and I sat down to an unfamiliar booth, both taking time to recalibrate the upscale version of our teenage watering hole. I looked around, searching for something recognizable. In the woodwork, around the bar. In the faces. Gone were the days of id-driven youth, when a well-placed twenty happily entranced 17-year-olds to a night of alcohol-induced fervor.

We ordered up a pitcher of Bass and toasted to last night, or what we could remember of it. Inside was a joyous scene, a bar-stool group singing songs and slapping backs. Their evening was in full swing, but our wedding's bridal party was still at the restaurant, pretentiously resolute to shoo away the oldsters before cocktailing. We took advantage of our time alone. The night was not to be wished away by either of us.

One pitcher turned into two. It was a solid buzz for the both of us. I let loose a spate of details about the older woman in my life, and he ate it up as eagerly as the bar-party devoured their onion blossom. We laughed, told old stories and created a more upbeat version of last night, saying goodbye to the pain and welcoming the pleasure that two old friends can bestow upon each other. But joy is fleeting, especially in my world.

“My God, Rob Lowe, is that you?”

“Oh, Hi Wan-“ I stopped myself, “Wendy.”

“It’s OK Rob, you can call me Wangie. I knew all about the nickname. Besides, I made fun of your name all the time.”

She turned to Alex.

“Alex, you have a great name, you can’t call me Wangie,” she said, scoldingly.

“I would never dream of it, where is Angie by the way, are you two still hanging out?”

“Oh yea, she was parking the car. I had to run in to go pee. She’ll be around in a minute.”

“Well, don’t let us hold you up. When nature calls. It was good seeing you though.” Alex said.

"Oh, you boys aren’t getting off that easy. I’ll be back.”

We flashed the obligatory smile and watched her move toward the door. In walked Angie, and I could see them speak and look our way.

“Please don’t come over,” Alex said mid-wave under his breath.

“She’s coming,” I said.

I moved to the end of the booth to prevent the "sit down." It was timed perfectly, but the plan backfired, as Angie used her ass to scoot me inside. She sat down next to me, unperturbed and crassly grabbed my left hand to look for a ring. Alex was next up and Angie's hand swiftly crossed the table with even more brazen abandon.

“No rings, are you boys still on the market,” she said, snickering loudly.

We sat woefully.

She continued her grand entrance, like a true actress who’s co-star missed their mark. On with the show.

“Come here,” she said, throwing a bear hug hold around my shoulders. Hugs are awkward enough without the added handicap of being seated.

“Ooo, Rob, you’ve filled out in the muscle department. You were too skinny in High School.”

“I hear he has an amazing muscle, Rob, show her.” Alex said, putting his hand across the table in a vain attempt to redirect the hug into a handshake.

“What? No, get up,” she said, handing me the menu she was fiddling with. She walked around the booth and gave Alex a hug. At least his was standing up. Much easier to pull off with dignity.

She sat back down, “No pervy stuff, Alex. I remember the jokes.”

And jokes there were. You could fill a hallway with them, the snickers, the gallant on-the-floor laughter. Ridicule followed these girls like cans on a just-married limo.

Long before there was a Bennifer or Brajolina, there was a Wangie. It was the evocative combination of our town's most ferociously outgoing drama girls, Wendy Slokum and Angie Contessa. They were no more inseparable that most high school friends, Alex and I included. But their overt personalities cause perpetual problems with most. They were in it to win it, and everybody knew. In high school, I avoided them at all cost. And by their standard, appeasment translated into friendship. To them, I was their bud.

By a relative standard, Wendy was the “quiet one” of the two. She was also the hotter. Angie was less attractive and even less quiet. And it true form, natures’ cruelty captured these two. Wendy was a virgin and Angie was not. Many a classmate would have sold their soul to Lucifer to have Angie's moral turtitude transplanted inside Wendy, even for a day. Alex and I may have been included on that list, but our sexual fantasy included a personality transplant.

Wendy returned from her liquid elimination, and loudly clapped her hands into a slate.

“Action,” she screamed, as her wet bathroom hands shot drips all over us.

“Oh, it’s just water. Don’t worry,” she said.

Angie laughed. Alex and I sat, wishing ourselves far, far away. Iraq even.

“Mr. director, did you like my joke? Action,” she screamed louder with the same hand motion.

Angie was oblivious to the law of diminishing returns and belly-laughed even louder.

We sat.

“Actually, I’m not a director,” Alex said, not really wanting to let it slide. Although he should have.

“Ok, producer, whatever,” she replied, “One of them screams ‘Action’.”

“Yea, that wouldn’t be me. I’m a cinematographer. I don’t really scream too much.”

“Well they’re all the same to me, ‘Action’ she screamed again. And again with the hands. And again with the adoration of Angie.

Wendy sighed, serene for a half-beat to enjoy her performance. Quickly, she marched again to her mark.

“Rob, are you still in LA?”

I nodded.

“We love it,” Angela said, laying a cute smile for Wendy's benefit. I had the feeling that whenever someone said "LA," that was her standard comeback.

Wendy gave an approving smile back and moved on.

“Girlfriends, wives, kids?” Wendy asked to no one in particular.

“None for me,” I said.

“Ditto.” Alex replied.

“And you guys?” I asked, hoping to cover the topics to hurry a polite goodbye.

“Nothin,” Angie said, dismissively. “Do you have any friends in California looking for a wife?”

“None,” I replied non-sympathetically. I was becoming less polite.

“Alex, any of your director friends need a few good women?” Wendy asked, giggling.

Alex let the director tag drop this time and rolled with it.

“I’m afraid they are all gay. Like most Director/Producers. Except me, of course. I love pussy.”

“What a waste of a man, not you, the gay thing,” Angie said, unaware of the lead Alex had around her neck.

“Yea,” Wendy said with equal chagrin.

"You know the movie business," I added.

The thought stewed into a silent act break. Blissful, beautiful, fun-loving silence. But Alex and I knew the intermission would soon be over.

"We still act, if you need some actresses for any of your movies. We're at the theatre. Just did The Miser." Wendy said.

"Yea, you should like direct them in one of your movies," I said to Alex.

If looks could kill.

"They're not really my movies. I'm hired on with really nothing to do with that."

"Oh, he's being modest," I added. It was payback for last night, and he knew it.

"Where're you working?" he said, changing the subject.

“We're both still at the bank, but I have a terrible boss,” Angie said, looking sheepish.

“Oh, stop,” Wendy said. It was obvious Wendy was the boss.

We nodded in unison like syncopated swimmers, gasping for air.

But apparently our mild acknowldegement wasn’t good enough. Angie felt the need to explain the joke to a seemingly feeble audience.

“She’s my boss,” Angie said, smiling and pointing at Wendy.

“We get it. It was a great joke. We’re just kind of in the middle of a relatively sober conversation. Rob’s, uh, best friend just, uh died in California, and we were talking about it," Alex stammered. He has always been a horrible liar.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Rob what happened?” Wendy asked.

Cue Rob to be on the spot.

“Uh, well, it was a b. It was a bus. My dog,” I held up my hands for quotes, “My best friend, got hit by a car, a bus. A bus.”

“Oh, Rob, I’m sorry.” Angie said

“It was tough for him. He saw Hot Dog on the menu, just before you guys came, and that-“ Alex said, trying to translate forelorn giggles into bereaved emotion.

“Oh, you don’t have to explain. Do you need some alone time?”

Alex’s eyes lit up.

“Yes, alone time. I thought I was fine, but then, you know the menu. Yea, alone time would be good.”

I was fighting back the giggles too.

“Are you in town for Hayden’s wedding?”

I nodded.

“We may stop by,” Angie said. I was afraid to ask if they were invited or just planned on crashing the wedding. But I thought "stop by" was an interesting choice of words for a wedding. With or without invitations, they would be there. Expecially now that Alex was going.

We exchanged hugs and bid farewell until tomorrow, hoping the moment would never come. These are just the kind of girls that corner you in a mis-spent night. Your only forward movement to get out of the conversation as quickly as possible.

“Nice work,” I said to Alex when they left.

“Best friend, your dog. That was a good touch.”

“I was just going to let it flow, in case you wanted to do some neck and chinnin' with Angie.”

He stopped laughing, and we both went back to our senior prom, the night Angie blew Alex on the ski-condo floor. Angie wasn't even even his date. Seems a drunken Angie crashed our after-party and Alex just happened to be greeted to a 3 am wake up call in the form of an unannounced mouth on a bewildered cock.

It was only after that he realized his date was sleeping next to him, fully clothed. It was a sore subject, and Alex willfully acknowledged that Angie was the most unattractive women he'd ever been with. He hides behind the plausible deniability of the circumstances. It was a conspicuous teenage memory to all but him. To Alex, it was unholy and derivative.

I looked across the table and saw Alex was no longer with me. He was caught up in a resolved stare, aimed at the bar entrance. I watched as my words flowed over him with truancy. I followed his eyes, trying to figure the object of attention, but before I could see, the object was next to me. The spell was broken and a veneered demeanor fell upon him. He knew he was being watched. His feelings became agnostic.

“Hi, Rob,” she said, planting a kiss on my cheek, “Mom told me you'd be here.”

She turned her attention and her affection.

“Hi Alex,” she said with sweet eyes, cool as a cucumber.

"Shannon," he replied, with a dialect of undetectable emotion.

Read the Rest

Educating Rob

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

The stories keep coming in, weeks after the wedding. It’s amazing the things that go forgotten or unnoticed at events like this. Shit happens, people forget or wish they did. But as time goes by, something triggers a memory. Maybe it’s a random taxi on the street or a women in a brown dress. Or, maybe it’s simply the need to pass on a story. The need to remain human.

I thought I'd break narrative for today to catch everyone up to the relative present. In case you hadn’t noticed, the event I have been writing about happened two weeks ago. I also felt the need to pause my thoughts for a bit and give credence to the wedding. There was a good deal of familial action that weekend, interactions with old friends, my parents, my brother, sister and my ex-girlfriend. For many reasons I’d like to settle down and open that story to share.

I feel happy even though its raining today. Heather and I are still hanging out, keeping things fun and casual. Is there a better way to keep things? Daniel is still lurking (Hi, Daniel), Jim is filming and Alex is still Alex. But I prefer not to give too much away on that front. Tracy has a boyfriend she always complains about. Not sure how casual she keeps it, but I try not to ask. It was easier to be honest with her about my indiscretions with a 21-year old when Tracy was performing with her own toy. Not that I owe her an explanation or anything, but if you’ve ever been in a similar situation you know how things go. The more I write, the more I realize how weird our whole relationship seems to be. But after Heather potentially comes and goes, I know Tracy will always be there. That’s why I need to stay friends. Fucking her is monumentally unimportant.

The wedding felt like my long-lost high school reunion. It was smitten with recurring syrup, lost in a time warp of pegged jeans, Candies and Lesportsacs. It was an experience I do soon not wish to recreate, but nonetheless, it was critical to my self-propulsion. After that weekend, it was clear I made the right decision to leave Pennsylvania.

Going back home and back in time opened up a whole new set of family dialogue. It came on the heels of my sister’s announcement that she got a job in Manhattan and was moving in a month. My parents were ecstatic. Education and the fruits of it have always be a compelling and dividing force in my family. I know my parents were a bit disappointed by my decision to go to UCLA. Hell, I could have done worse and chose SC (it was on my short list until I did a campus visit). But the rest of my family had all made roots at small liberal arts colleges or the hallowed halls of the Ivy League, my sister graduating from one in New Jersey last spring.

I had always been a good student, but found life beyond the textbook much more compelling. In fact, I have not read a book since I left college. The last one was Confederacy of Dunces, which was a good book to end on. I think books are great, and for many the answers to life or a way to pass it lies within. But I just wound up on another path. And truthfully, I’m not sure why.

But what has that exclusion done to me? Absenting myself from the written word for so many years. Does that kill more brain cells than a bong hit? How about two? Have I learned anything from the books I’ve read? How about my education? If my entire life was spent in search of a parabolic understanding, what besides my job signifies whether I’ve succeeded or not? Certainly not this blog.

I’ve been searching for that answer for the last two weeks. Ever since the trip, something seemed a bit off. It was like when you leave your house and forget your cell phone or parking card. It’s not life changing, but something seems askew with your balance. Even if you're not using it you feel lost without it. That’s how I felt. That’s how I feel.

So for the next mission I’ve decided to do something that will probably not get me laid, probably not get you too excited and may leave some with the same feeling I have. For Mission Five, I will test my education. I will go back and challenge myself the same way I did at 17. I will take the most arbitrary, yet culturally relevant test that I can, the SAT.

The test has changed, but so have I. When I took it 13 years ago, I got a 700 verbal and 680 math. My parents wanted me to take it again. Can you fucking believe that? A 1380 was not good enough. It angers me to even write about it. But maybe now is the time to grant them their wish. It’s the least I could do for falsely coming out to them, right? That’s still a sore subject by the way.

Anyway, I really don’t know much about the current test, but I hope to be a subject matter expert very soon. Truthfully, I’m not sure if they will even let a 30-year-old with a college degree take it. If that’s the case, I may need to get creative. Believe me, I’m not above identity theft if that’s what it takes. I’m not above anything.

So bear with me for the next week or so as I recount the wedding and the events surrounding it. I think that will be more exciting than having me discuss my SAT prep course. Mission 5 is not about the journey. It’s fully about the destination.

Read the Rest

Same As It Ever Was

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

There are friends in your life that know you. Then, even rarer, are those who know you better than you do. Fortunately, I have both kinds in my life. And Alex, he happens to fall into the second category. The only downside is he knows it.

Bullshit mission aside, Alex knew this was our night. A night to connect to a friendship no longer fueled by daily phone calls or warm Pennsylvania breezes. This night was about reconnecting to each other, about playing catch-up with our lives before the whirlwind wedding. Because, although weddings and the like bring people together, for the most part everyone remains soundly on the surface, filtering 10 years of living into non-speak sounds. Alex was smart enough to know about this language. And he was not about to let anyone or anything get in the way of our night.

Alex would often play to my neurotic side, inventing scenarios that needled at my very core. The “date” with the girls was just that, a scenario. There were no dates or friends to meet that night. It was just two childhood friends, a dive bar and a grand supply of alcohol that was in the cards. And that was a hand I gladly took, even without a shower.

We arrived at some place off Times Square. Man, things sure had changed since MTV came here. There were hardly any hookers or other scary characters. I mean, there were a few, but nothing different than a Saturday night in Hollywood. We walked into Jimmy’s Corner, a divey little bar and sat our asses down.

“What do you think?” Alex asked.

“Wow, it looks like a PA bar. How did you find this place?”

“Wait, this is the best part,” he said, turning to the waitress, ”two Stella’s, please.”

“Wow, your dad used to keep those in his basement fridge.”

“Yea, it guess Stella’s in my blood.”

“Maybe we should raid some when we go home, or do you think we’re too old to steal beer from your parents?”

“Fuck that, Rob. Free beer is free beer. You never outgrow stealing alcohol. What are you, a Mormon?”

The waitress put down the two drafts.

"Ok, did you see the best part,” he said, waving to an old man in the corner, “it’s free. Everything here is on the house for me.”

The man was obviously in his late seventies, and wore every year on his leather-bound face.

“Big Al,” the old guy said, extending his hand to Alex.

“Jimmy G, how the hell are you?” he said.

“Livin', how are you? You’ve been away.”

“Yea, the fucking job, you know. By the way, this is my old friend Rob Lowe. We grew up together.”

It was obvious he threw out the full name to redirect away from “Big Al.” But that wasn’t happening. My brain is sticky with shit like that.

The old man smiled and put out his hand, leathery and fertile. I grabbed his large mit, doing everything in my power not to stare at the massive hands. I realized just underscoring an acknowledgement like that can be. He held onto my hand, and looked at me with 70plus-year-old eyes.

“Rob Lowe, now where do I know that name from?”

Alex smiled before bring his condescending diatribe.

“Rob Lowe is a famous actor Jimmy. He was on West Wing, made a bunch of movies, and even filmed himself having sex.”

“Ho, ho,” Jimmy laughed, “never a good idea.”

“You know those Hollywood types,” Alex said, pointing his thumb my way, “they’re fucked up out there.”

“Ho, ho, they sure are.”

Alex turned to me.

“Rob, I know you do not know anything about boxing. Anything. But, let me tell you that this man is a legend. A fucking legend,” he said loudly. “Seriously, I don’t mean to stroke him off, but look at these pictures. They tell an amazing story of an extraordinary life.”

“Ho, ho, he’s too kind, really. I’m just a man, just like you’re one. Just living my life and doing what I love. That’s all.”

"Yea, teaching fighters to beat the living shit out of each other. I love that shit too."

"Ho, ho. Now stop with that talk."

“Cut the humble shit Jimmy. Your Jimmy Fucking Glenn. My friend needs to know that he’s face-to-face with a living legend of sport.”

A waitress came up, tapped Jimmy on the shoulder and pointed to the back room.

“Boys, I’ve got to go. But, Ron, it was great meeting you. If you guys need anything, they know to take care of you, right Gina?” he said to the waitress.

“Right Jimmy,” she said, smiling at us.

“How do you know that guy?” I asked.

“Just from coming over the years. I’ve used his place for some location work. It’s small, gritty and comes off great on film. We usually go in the back room.”

We both chugged and got another.

“Ron, let me ask you a question,” Alex said, hoisting his glass for punctuation. "What’s it like to fuck a hooker? I mean, because I never have. I fucked sluts before, but they’re just loose,” he said, amused by his own joke.

I really wasn’t sure how to answer that question. I knew Alex read my blog, so there was no point denying it, like I plan to do if my parents ever call me on it. Instead, I just took a breath and brought my mind back to the birthday, to the money, to the Bellagio.

“It was weird, because part of the whole fantasy thing was me picking them up at the pool. I was trying to stay so much in character, that I didn’t really think of them as hookers. But, I can tell you what it’s like to be with two women at once if you'd like.”

He smiled, going back in time to his threesome in college. The one he called me up right afterward.

"We both know that won't be necessary."

I liked the smug side of Alex. It only really came out with me around.

I smiled at the memory.

“The hooker, I mean, the girl still calls me.” I added, “the one that I wrote about. But, it was a one-time deal. I’m not here to judge, but I’m not here to save either. Imagine me bringing home a hooker to my parents.”

“Your mom would die,” he answered blankly.

“Yea, but anyway, I kind of thought of it as paying for a life experience that happened to include a little girl-on-girl action.”

“Well rationalized. I’ll sell it to your mom that way tomorrow.”

“You do that, Big Al.”

He looked at me, and took a drink.

“I always wanted to see what it was like, to pay for sex. Not just for how it was for me, but to see how the person I was paying responded. Kind of a sociological experiment,” he said.

“Yea, Alex, most people pay for blowjobs because they enjoy the sociological side. What the fuck does that even mean?”

He smiled, and took another drink.

“Fuck it, anyway I could never do it. My parents did a fucking moral number on me growing up.”

"They sure did," I said, grabbing my drink.

We sat silent for a few moments, each taking in our surroundings with different perspectives.

“Tracy, how’s she?” he said, releasing me from the scattered photos on the wall.

“Good, she’s busy with work and is on this sick fitness kick. She’s always at the gym.”

“But she's pretty fit, right? The last time I saw her she was. Did she have your love child or something and she’s trying to shed the extra LBs.”

“Fuck no, don’t even joke about that. She’s got a ridiculous body, but I guess it’s for stress or some shit. I don’t ask dude. Not anymore”

“But she’s your babymama.”

“Do I need to say the name again?”

“That stays between us,” he said, "Jimmy's the only one that calls me that."

"Not anymore."

I became lost in the photos once again.

“So tomorrow, we’ll leave around noon or so. I wanted to stop by my house first. I can drop you off and we can catch up for dinner.”

“That's fine,” I said, transfixed on a boxer's photo. The guy looked like a tall James Brown in the picture.

“I’ve got my car in Hoboken, in a garage out there. We can go get it in the morning and then take off.”

“In fucking Hoboken? Why is your car there?”

“Rob, you want to know how much it is to get a garage in the city. More than your mortgage I bet.”

“Shit really? Then why do you have one?”

“What, and abandoned Penny? Wash your mouth out with soap.”

“Penny, fuck, you still have the Chevelle. That thing is still running?”

“Put $10 grand into it, runs like a fucking giant.”

“Jesus, 10k into a muscle car. No wonder you're parking in Jersey.”

“A 35-year old collectors car, all original. Get off my back, Lowe. What are you driving these days?"

I knew he was leading me.

"Volvo, but you knew that already."

"Yea, just like I thought. At least you and my mom will have something to talk about. She's got the Sporty SUV," he said, making his point.

“Great Idea, Big Al.”

“Not funny, Rob. But seriously, I’m trying to cut costs since the old divorce, so I gave up our garage in the city.”

And it was spoken. The word we had been dancing around. Even with friends as close as we were it was hard to hear it spoken.

“How’s that going?” I asked in the most vague, and equally leading manner possible.

“Uh, I mean," he said, collecting his thoughts. "Rob don’t get married unless you’re sure. I mean, divorce wipes everything away. The happiness, the laughter. All that you’re left with is a bitter taste.”

He said the word again, divorce. Maybe it was cathartic for him.

“But I’m sure there were some good memories, right?”

“I’m still searching for them. They all have a cloud around them and I’m fighting through the fog. Imagine if something happened that made you re-look at all the events preceding that flashpoint. What if you were adopted or some shit and just found out. It throws a new perspective on things. It makes the happy times seem staged, even derogatory. God, I’m bitter.”

“No, you’re not. Well, yes you are, but don’t beat yourself up about it. It’s a natural part of the process.”

“I’m not sure Rob. I’ve forgiven her, but that wasn’t the end. As hard as I worked at that, thinking forgiveness would clear everything up, it never did. Fuck. When I did forgive her, I realized that was just the beginning. I checked my ego at the door and everything to make amends. But it wasn't enough.”

“You have an ego?” I asked, trying to lighten him up.

He paused for a moment, then played along. I knew him better than he knew himself, too.

“Yea, I’ve got one, give me your hand and I’ll let you touch it for a buck.”

“Actually, that would be great,” I said, calling his bluff and grabbing for my wallet. He didn’t want to play anymore. I knew when to fold them.

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and for me, the hardest part of the split is the everyday reminders or lack of them. They’re fucking everywhere.”

I nodded.

“Like this place, thank God I never brought her here, but If I did I wouldn’t want to come back. I should have moved out and gave her the fucking apartment. Let her have the fucking memories. But she went to live with ‘him.’ And she took the fucking dog. Bitch

“She took Quinn the Queef. Phew, I thought she died or something.”

He looked at me with angry 8th grade eyes.

“Ok, not funny again. But you hated that dog,” I said, defending the nickname.

“I didn’t hate the dog, Rob. I just wasn’t a yap dog kind of guy. I mean growing up with Brandy and Timber, they were big macho dogs. But I grew to love the little gerbil.”

“Gerbil. Interesting word choice,” I said. I was back in 8th grade. Unfunny then and unfunny now.

“It sucks, because every morning when I would get up, fucking Quinn would scratch on the door to let her in. I’d be on the shitter and she would be biting at my ankles, and in the shower, she would bark at the glass. It was a sadistic ritual to go to the fucking bathroom, but you know what?”

“Uh, you’re being rhetorical, right. Hey, so am I?”

He ignored me, and made it known with his eyes.

“I can’t take a shower without thinking of that fucking little mutt. Every morning I get up and stand in the shower, hoping she’ll come by to molest my ankle with her little pink crayon. Ok, not really like that," he said, lost in his moment, "Rob, why would I want back the part of my life I thought I hated?”

I nodded, sympathetically. I really had nothing so say.

“I cried in that shower more than I’ve cried anywhere in my life. It’s fucking not fair.”

We both sat there, in quiet acknowledgement of something that had obviously been bothering him for a while. The floodgates were open. It was like when he was dumped back in sophmore year. Only this time it was more real.

“This is not my house. This is not my beautiful wife,” I mumbled with lyrical understanding.

He paused and smiled.

“Time is a pony ride.”

I brought us out of the abstract, inside joke and brought us back to the bar.

“I never understood that part of the song. But, I think you may need a change of scenery dude, especially if you're crying over queefy. Seriously, I’ve got an extra room in my place. I only use it to jerk off in and occasionally sodomize the cleaning lady. It’s yours if you want it. I can use the hallway for ass play.”

“Funny, because that’s exactly what I was thinking. Maybe not about you having a pull, or victimizing your cleaning lady, but getting my sorry ass out of here. That's what I was thinking. Too many memories.”

“Bad ones.”

“Yea, and good ones too. I just need new ones.”

“I’m kind of seeing a 21-year old with hot roommates. I’m sure they could give you some memories.”

He smiled.

“Maybe you’re too old for a city that doesn’t fucking sleep. You need your bedrest or you get real cranky. Besides, I've built a life of running away from my problems, and look at how well I turned out.”

“I am tired. Let’s talk about this in the morning. I feel like drinking now.”

So we raised our glass to hope, promise, the proximity of friendship. And finally to David Byrne.

“Time is a pony ride,” I said, not even knowing what I was saying.

Or maybe I did.

Read the Rest

I Love New York

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

I offered up my place for Heather and her roommates. The fire was close by and their parent’s weren’t. I would have done it for any friend, and at that point, we were just that.

What the hell, I was carefree, about to get on a plane for a wedding and close the book on Mission #4. It was by far the most emotionally taxing mission, but I reveled in the ups and downs. I just need to pull it back for the next one. It needs to be far less life-serious.

I took Jetblue from Burbank to JFK. And believe me, no one had to remind me of what happened two weeks ago. I am not a huge fan of flying, as I once had an emergency landing out of Dulles. But I am pragmatic as well. There are so many flights that leave each day, and rarely are problems encountered. My problem put me way ahead of the odds.

My friend Alex met me at the airport. He lived in Manhattan and has been there since finishing up at Columbia. He is by far my brightest friend, both in knowledge and emotional intelligence. This guy has a universal understanding second to none.

We both grew up together, made forts under the circular tables at our parents' country club dinners and even learned to drive together. He was one of the few offspring of my parent’s friends who wasn’t a complete brat or waste case. Even at the young age when anything you see belongs to you, he was always a benevolent soul, understanding the principles of sharing and grace. I own my soft side to Alex. He taught me well by example.

Growing up, Alex and Rob were inseparable. We would swim at each other’s houses, watch movies and have sleepovers almost every day in the summer. If we didn’t see each other, we spoke on the phone. We both shared so much growing up. Not just our interests, but also our dysfunctional families. They were both laced with the bourgeois sweetness and familial pitter patter that ensnared so many East coast families. In the west, status can be obtained without education. I know many rich, dumb guys, especially in entertainment.

But in my hometown, strength and success were gauged in only one way, education. It was a hierarchy measured in day schools and Ivy League entrance exams. It was tough to escape, especially when I refused to attend the prep school my grandfather graduated from at 15. Now he sat squarely on their board, awaiting the entrance of his first grandson. An entrance that would never come. That was a hard one for the young Rob Lowe to overcome. But Alex was in a similar boat. And with a unified front, we convinced our parents to let us go to the public school our first year. After that, my parents never brought it up again. Either they were happy with the school or they thought the damage had already been done. In some ways, it had.

In the few instances Alex and I diverged in similarity, we made up for with empathy. Alex has always been a great soundboard for my adolescent problems. Even then, he was an old soul hidden behind an Izod and braces. My sister had the biggest crush on him. Even at his wedding, I could see her non-reciprocal spark being smoldered. When I watched her watch him, I saw a sort of sadness. Not a pining one, but a loss nonetheless. I wasn't really sure if that was because she was saying goodbye to her past or her future. Either way, I understood her pain. I knew one day I would experience something similar. Maybe sooner than I expected.

But after graduation, things changed. He went to Columbia for film school and I went to UCLA to get away from my family. We were as far apart geographically as two countrymen could get. Whenever I got homesick for Pennsylvania, it was mainly due to the absence of Alex. But as much as space is the ultimate separator, time is the ultimate healer. After the first year, my life was filled with new friends and a new life, one that Alex only filled on a long-distance call or summer road trip. Proximity could not be fought.

Alex had been married and divorced. Seems he made the same mistake as I did, getting caught up with an actress (no offense to actresses, UB). But, unfortunately his mistake included exchanging vows. Mine only involved exchanging body liquids and Christmas presents. I was there for him through his divorce, finally finding the maturity to balance a long-distance friendship.

I got off the plane, bleary eyed and weak from 3,000 miles. Luckily, after a million flights I finally remembered to keep my toothbrush and toothpaste close by. I was able to make amends with my three jack and cokes and my fertile cotton mouth with ease.

I stood outside JFK, taking in the New York dusk. So many fucking sounds in this town, so much movement. I stood outside blank and waited for my phone to ring. I needed a refresh before my night out on the New York town. I knew Alex had planned something good. He always did. I sat down on a bench and stared at what could possibly stand as the best ass I have ever laid eyes on. But a buzz in my pocket broke my concentration. I will never know if it truly was.

I looked at my phone, Alex.

“Hey, I’m outside, where are you?” I said, watching the ass walk off into the sunset.

“Look straight ahead, away from that chick's ass.” he said.

I smiled and looked around, as clueless as ever.

“All I can sea are rows of black cars. Looks like the fucking Emmys or a funeral. Actually, it could be both,” I said rambling. The joke came off half-baked.

“Shut up and walk straight ahead, and aim for the attractive guy waving.”

I looked and walked. Alex was in the back of a black town car, groundhogging out the half-window.

“What the fuck, dude?” I said, smiling and walking.

“I got us a car,” he said. By this time I was hearing him better in person than on the phone, even with the sounds around me.

He got out of the car and ripped me a manhug.

“How are you buddy,” he said, tilting his head sideways and smiling, ”What’s up with the upstairs?," he said, referring to my hair, "Are you like, Sgt.Pepper or something?”

“That’s a good one, really.” I searched for a comeback, but there was none. Not with this guy. The only thing I had on him was his divorce, and that's hard to weave into a comeback.

He motioned his hand to the open door in a slow, grandiose motion.

“Got us a car for the night,” he said.

“Dude, why did you do that? I could have taken the bus or train, or whatever the fuck you guys take here.”

“I wouldn’t think of it. Besides, we can go to a few places tonight and not have to worry about anything. I’ve got it as long as we want it.”

“That sounds like a bit of a challenge.”

“Well, you know I’m a bit of a lightweight. Remember the Hillclimb?”

“You puked on that one girls lap, Tricia something,” I said, trying to match the name with the vivid recollection of that night.

“Anderson,” Alex said, embarrassed both by the event and that he remembered her name.

“God, she was pissed, I think you could have hit that too.”

“I did, dipshit. She came to the city my sophomore year and looked me up. The need for a tour guide obviously trumped her memory of getting violated by my heave. Get in,” he said motioning.

I got in the car and settled back. It was a regular towncar, not some giant limo. Thank God. Limos creep me out. They’re total remnants of the 80s.

“So are you seeing anyone?” he asked.

“Fuck, first question dude? No 'How are you, how was your flight?'"

"How are you, Rob? And your flight, how was that, pleasant?" he said, happily sarcastic.

"God, you're a bad actor. Anyway, to answer your question, No, not really, I just sort of met this girl, actually she’s at my place now, but, we’re just getting to know each other.”

“Wait, you are living with this girl and are just starting to get to know each other? Driver,” he said, “do you perhaps have Smooth Operator or an equally sassy Sade number you could put on for my friend here?”

The driver laughed. He’d been paying attention.

“It’s not what you think. We’re not living together. I invited this girl and her roommates to stay at my place because of the fires.”

“Oh, yea, shit the fires. They weren’t close to you were they?”

“No, not close to me, but close to her. So I said they could stay there.”

“You’re a good man, Rob Lowe.”

“I sense some inferences in your tone. Perhaps you are suggesting I have an ulterior motive?” I asked slyly.

“Not at all,” he said, even more sarcastically.

“All right, let’s get back on task. What are we doing? I need some food before I get cranky.”

“You’ll get some. We’re going to dinner with some friends and then hit a few bars. Tomorrow, we’ll drive home to PA and maybe crash the bar part of the rehearsal dinner.”

“Ah, we can go to Shenanigans. I’ll be in the mood for a $5 pitcher.”

“Yea, you won’t find many of them here.”

“No shit.”

“Ok, can I go home and clean up a bit?”

“Clean up, c’mon, you look the part. Rough and slightly wounded Beatle guy. Girls will want to save you.”

“Sounds like you do.”

“Are you offering? Anyway, you can take a quick shower if we have time, but we need to pick the girls up by 8.”

“Whoa, girls? You said, friends. I distinctly heard you say friends.”

He smiled.

“Don’t set me up with a blind date, I just want to chill. I’m half drunk, I have musky flight balls. You’re killing me, Alex.”

“Don't be sweating me Rob, we’ll get you a shower, or at least drop by a Duane Reed to get you some powder. A fresh powder-up downstairs can really take the tang off.”

“All right, whatever. This is your trip. I’m just along for the ride. Are the girls hot at least?”

“Mine is. Yours, I’ve never seen. But she seemed eager to meet Rob Lowe.”

He held on my name, and smiled.

“You didn’t.”

“Yea, she’s expecting Rob Lowe. I never really clarified things, and people here think what they want. They know I'm in the industry and maybe think I'm friends with Rob Lowe. Well, I guess I am technically. I'm rambling, anyway, I figured you had more experience with explaining the name thing to people."

“So let me get this timetable straight. We’re going to the drugstore, I’m powdering up 'downstairs,' and that magic powder will magically transfom me into your Wingman. From there, I will spend an evening explaining the misunderstanding to a disappointed girl while singing your merits and bringing up old high school stories to make you look good in front of some girl you like? And tomorrow, $5 pitchers?”

“That about covers it.”

“I love New York,” I said, sarcastically.

“I love you too buddy. Let's kill this town.”

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Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

I was at a wedding in PA and just got back. I stayed around a few days to hang with old friends a bit. God, PA is beautiful in the fall. Weekends like these go by in a blur, and so many expectations, fucking unbelievable.

Here are a few highlights:

1. One former friend kept trying to sell me Amway and get me "rich."

2. A girl I casually dated was convinced I was gay, and she was "OK with it."

3. Derek got drunk at the wedding and got a BJ from a girl we used to call "Tuba." Take it from there.

4. I saw my old girlfriend. That's a story in itself. She wasn't Heather, but looked better than I expected.

5. Everyone looked like someone shoved a pump in their ass and blew themselves up. I kept looking for friends hidden in the bodies of 30-year-old-not-ready-to-admit-they're-fat guys.

6. A girl a year below me in High School wanted to be an actress (pretty hard in the small town I came from). She kept asking me about famous people I knew, and when Derek mentioned Jim, she kept asking me if he could help her.

Those were the highlights and the end of mission 4. I will begin to chronicle this madness today or tomorrow.

Peace
RL

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