My Humps

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

God, I am so fucking unavailable even to myself lately. I'm a complete slacker and a complete stranger. Life has gotten so busy that when I do catch a break, I just don't feel like going online for any other reason than to watch two young vixens tongue each other in womanly places I never even knew existed. Horny Rob is a dangerous cat. Meow!

I did get an e-mail from my friend Glib today and he wondered when I was going to post. I felt a bit bad since he called me last week and I forgot to call him back. Emotionally unavailable Rob Lowe strikes once again. Sorry Vermont. But I did raise a few bottles of 9.6% Sierra Barley-wine- style beer in your honor this weekend. I felt slugged afterward.

Tonight, I'm going to the Black-Eyed Peas at Universal Citywalk. Not really my cup of tea, but I don't find them abhorrant. I suppose I may find some cute girls there which I can look at longingly. And I hope Fergie pisses her pants like at San Diego Street Scene last year. That's what life has come to for me. So sad.

Tracy begged me to go with her tonight, and I felt obliged. Not sure if someone else crapped out on her or what. The seats are so close, I can almost smell the free-flowing urine now. Oh, and there is a chance Trac is bringing one of her (unnamed) young hottie clients. I may have to run some Rob game on the young temptress too. I'm already reworking to lyrics to my humps to try on her but can't decide if they should be "my lovely manly humps," or "my lovely guyly humps." If anyone has any suggestions let me know. Also, should I mention that my humps are hairless? Some girls might like that. Oh, and they really are.

I'm pretty happy about UCLA basketball. I've been watching the games all weekend. I had a bet with Jim that UCLA would get to the final four. No one believed it would happen with such a young team. The loser had to sit in the theater and watch every screening of Failure to Launch for a Saturday.

He's somewhere in middle america and I think it ran from 12-8. He said the first two times he was amazed at how bad it was and could legitimize his viewing as a social experiment. But after that, he was on suicide watch. The other part is for the next month he must quote the movie whenever I ask. It is a brilliant bet, and I'm happy to be on the high side. I have a feeling I will pay in Vegas in a few weeks. Really.

And Glib, I will call. Just not tonight. Tonight, I will attempt my romantic comeback.

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Happy Birthday 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.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

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I'm a bad blogger

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

I'm a terrible blogger. I have been spiraling downhill even since I wrote the title. From bad to terrible. What's next? Abhorrant?

It's been a week since I've written anything. I haven't even been reading anyone's blog. I dodge in here and there, but not like I normally do. Things are a bit busy at work, the weather has me uninspired, and I haven't been able to steer my perpetual boner in a productive direction.

My friends are fucking with me too. But things are looking up. I got my car back which was in the shop and I played a solid game with no injuries on Monday night basketball.

There's a bachelor party on April 7th. Jim made the arrangements. We're booked at Circus Circus. Now, if you've ever been to Vegas, you know that place is a hole. Seriously, it is sad. It is the anti-Bellagio, filled with kiddie grime and snotrags. I plan to spend very little waking time there.

So here's the thing. This is why I hate my friends. Jesse called Jim and was fucking with him about the reservations. Jim made them at the cheapest place he could find to spite Jesse. I laughed at first until I realized two things. First, I'm fucked as well. Second, Jim will hook up with a girl and stay at her place and I'll be fucked. Anyway, I'm fucked, but I plan on fucking Jim back. I guess I could make my own reservation now that I think of it, but then I would be accepting defeat. It was done as a challenge and I should treat it as such. Besides, I've stayed in bigger shitholes.

The Game is almost completed. Just a few more pages. The nugget I learned so far is that when you gently attack a female's self-esteem, she will seek validation from you. Obviously, it depends on the girl, but it makes sense. There was a second interesting tidbit but I was thinking about Girl Scout Cookies when I read it and that fucked with my recall. Ah, lovely samoas with your decadant caramel. You enchant my tongue.

That's it from me. No sex, crappy hotels, bad friends and dreaming about cookies. Hope your month is going a bit better. I seriously need some female companionship to snap me out of things. But I am unmotivated to even attempt that too. Now, should a beautiful woman just wind up in my apartment (preferably with a 6-pack) that would be cool. But the thought of actively seeking a woman for sexual purposes doesn't have me doing backflips.

By the way, has anyone seen those Honda Element commercials with the cut-out animals? For some reason they popped in my head. They fucking kill me, everytime I see them. Oh, and Sons and Daughters too. Love it. I saw part of the second one and thought it was really fresh and funny. Still haven't gotten around to watching the Sopranos.

Have a great holiday. Hopefully, I can write about something more interesting when I rid myself of the excess man gravy I've been storing.

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Keep it Casual

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

Something happened this morning that validated me to the very core. It made me feel like the man my father always wanted me to be. I was strong and decisive. I was full. Like a real man, the one Joe Jackson sang about. And it happened with just an 8 a.m. phone call.

“Rob, you’ve gotta TiVo Oprah today,” said the voice on the line.

Now, having a friend tell you to TiVo Oprah may not seem like much of an approval of machodom. But I attached myself more to the subtext. Here was a guy that didn’t assume I already had a season pass. He came from the mindset that I never watched Oprah (which I don’t) and that was cool.

The impetus of the call centered around a special guest, a guy who was living in the gay community for 30 days. Sound familiar? My friend was a bit pissed by this, but I didn’t care. Plus I later learned he was a religious conservative who took a confrontational approach to his mission. I was just trying to fit into 30 inch-waist jean cutoffs. My 30 days were much less cerebral. And probably way more fun.

Back to the phone call. Have you ever gotten one that fucking early on a workday? It displaces your whole frame of reference for the entire day. It came from my friend Jesse from San Fran, and in addition to telling me about Oprah, we discussed an upcoming bachelor party we're all attending in Vegas.

Now Jesse has an escape clause that disables him from getting shit for knowing Oprah’s guest line up. His brother is the handsome and talented Nate who frequents the show as her designer. Now, his image greats me everytime I enter Linens n Things, complete with 20% off mailer in hand.

That, I can give him shit for. And believe me, I do.

The bachelor party is in early April. I’m such a terrible planner so I'm making Jim take care of the rooms and I just forget about it. But Jesse needs to know every detail upfront, and I could not offer any at 8 am.

“Call Jim, then” he said, berating me about the hotel.

“He’s working,” I answered.

“Then call his assistant,” he said, oblivious that if Jim was working, his PA was working too.

“You call him, Jeff’s already pissed at me for something, I’m not sure what.” I said and gave him the phone number.

Moving on.

Today I had brought back something out of hibernation. I call it Casual Tie Day (CTD) and hope America can embrace the idea.

Every Thursday, in preparation for casual Friday, I challenge corporate America to shake up their fashion by pairing a tie and shirt with a pair of jeans or a sweatshirt. Its casualwear with the addition of a tie. Pretty easy to get your head around, right?

I’ve been pretty nebulous about where I work because I don’t want to be judged based on your opinion of my vocation. Plus, I don't want my co-workers finding out about my sexual indiscretions. But I will tell you this: I rarely wear a tie to work, except on CTD.

Today, it is only me wearing the tie, enjoying CTD. Over the summer, I had collected a force of 20 to do it, including a few girls. But right now, it is my solo mission. I am flying high in a gap sweatshirt with rep tie blowing in the wind.

Happy Casual Tie Day.

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New York state of mind.

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

I can’t believe I’m quoting a Billy Joel song. Seriously, I couldn’t be more ashamed of myself. But I gotta give it to the pudgy Piano man, the guy knows my mood. I’m an L.A. guy in a NY state of mind. I need to snap out of it.

I convinced myself that maybe it wasn’t New York I was missing. That is, until my subconscious kicked in last night. Maybe it was me that I missed. That feeling of freedom and subtle loneliness that became a magnificent elixer two weeks ago. The ability to shamelessly blend in among the pack and be as existent or existential as was my choosing. In L.A., I have too many branches for that to happen. I’m in a mental trap with the top down.

Add to that my lack of a sexual release (bye Heather) and Rob is not a guy you want to be around. “Are you ok?” people keep asking me. Those words have become associative over the years. As much of an annoyance they are to hear, I do realize that when they are spoken, the hurricaine inside my head is apparent outside as well.

Anyway, so last night I go to my Monday night basketball league. It’s raining, and driving to Sherman Oaks is a pain in the ass. I’m still nursing my cracked rib, but as I have been getting back into my workout and have stopped babying my side, it seems to be getting better. Yes, completely illogical, but I say these things to remind myself that I am a guy.

I got home, checked a bit of TV and sailed to dreamland. Now, you need to realize I survive on an energy bar for dinner on Monday nights. I don’t like having a full stomach and running for two hours. And nobody likes to eat at 11pm unless you're drunk and in college. I was/am neither.

The Luna bars give me some vivid dreams, I guess that’s why I keep starving myself with them. It’s kind of like a dulce de leche narcotic. And Monday night, that drug came in the form of something truly magical. Because last night, for the first and only time in my life, I ran game on Winona Ryder, the magical love of my life.

So here’s the scene: I am at a dirty New York bar in the afternoon. Around me are a few friends, but they're basically background noise in Modern Amusement sweaters. There was only one focal point, and it was Winona. I was in my “I don’t give a fuck” NY mindset, so I did something I would never do in LA, even with Jim as my wing. I approached her.

Now saddling up to Winona was a much bigger step in my dream than doing it to Jessica Biehl in real life. Jessica never held the same spot in my heart as Winona. WR was my Shaun Cassidy. My Nick Lachey. My dream girl.

My approach was great. My game was outstanding. There was only one problem. My fashion. Seems, reality and my dreamworld were starting to blend, much like in Sharkboy and Lava girl. Anyway, in the dream I had just gotten back from basketball and although I was not a pile of sweat as usual, I was wearing my “uniform” of converse high-tops, a black knee brace, gray compression shorts, gray athletic shorts, a gray t-shirt and headband. I am not pimpin’ by even midwest standards, but those articles do perform a function.

But at the bar I am missing one key piece of clothing, compression shorts. They go to my knees and are about 6 inches longer than my other shorts. Without them, I look like a 1970’s kid in runner-up shorts. It’s pretty ridiculous. Luckily, Winona seems to find my Euro-wear “refreshing” by her feedback. We talk the whole time we are there. And of course, I am funny, fascinating and captivate her like JD used to. Ah, dreams.

When she was leaving, I decided to go for it again, and find out what her plans were for the evening. I would have regretted it for life if I hadn’t. She had some actor-type plans that "her people" set up and she sped away in a cab. I believed her.

But the look in her eyes seemed to be one of regret. That’s the great part of dreams, you can project whatever you want. And although I didn’t fit her profile for actor/model/musician, she was still interested. Just not interested enough to date me.

And I woke up, feeling sad that I was rejected by Winona in my dream. But happy I got the chance to fail in the first place. I was proud of myself for trying.Y ea, that sounds like too neat of a wrapper, much like an after school special bullshit ending, but seriously it was the jumpstart I needed. And lucky for me, reality is sometimes better than dreams. Which leads me to the story I’ve been avoiding for a few weeks, mostly out of sheer laziness--Jessica.

But now I am alive and refreshed, and New York is neatly compartmentalized into my dreams. And I can sleep it whenever I want.

Good night.

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