Rob Lowe can you go?

Hey old friend. Life is good.

2006-11-06T11:22:00.000-08:00

Golden Slumbers

2006-08-22T16:13:00.001-07:00

Rob Lowe on MySpace

2006-07-11T13:33:00.000-07:00

Where's Rob

2006-06-26T15:58:00.000-07:00

A New End

2006-06-01T09:48:00.000-07:00

Hey Party People

2006-05-12T14:41:00.000-07:00

Better Recognize

2006-05-01T14:32:00.000-07:00

Straight Up and Down

2006-04-20T10:27:00.000-07:00

Death in Vegas

2006-04-11T12:21:00.000-07:00

My Humps

2006-03-27T13:36:00.000-08:00

Happy Birthday Rob

2006-03-17T14:52:00.000-08:00

I'm a bad blogger

2006-03-15T14:51:00.000-08:00

Keep it Casual

2006-03-09T14:47:00.000-08:00

New York state of mind.

2006-03-07T15:23:00.000-08:00

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.

The company of strangers

2006-02-28T14:33:00.000-08:00

Hatin'

2006-02-17T21:08:00.000-08:00

We have a winner.

2006-02-13T14:48:00.000-08:00

Ticket to Jessica

2006-02-10T12:14:00.000-08:00

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 was a failure with the realtor chick. My idea of "flipping" her never came to fruition. Flying blind in unfamiliar territory can make even the best constructed plan nosedive. Thankfully, I'm now in a headspace where the whole thing can be put in a package and neatly rationalized away. It's the defense mechanism of self-esteem.

For days afterwards I deconstructed the game, every step, every half-joke, every non-existent hair flip. I hit my mark, said my lines, yet the audience was not listening. Anything I did flirty was met with disdain, anything I did cute (and I did do some cute things according to Daniel) was met with an obtuse sense of imbalance. I wish I could say she was married, attached or a lesbian. But that would not be the truth. We were not meant to communicate. We were probably never meant to meet. We were meant to be perfect strangers for life. But bad luck can only last so long. A nice gut punch of humility goes a long way in my book. I'm moving on, a better person.

Thursday of last week was a good night for Rob Lowe and his protégé Cali. And I want to tell you all about it in painfully delightful detail. Because no one wants to go into the loser’s locker room to learn about failure. So instead, I waited until I became a winner. And what better way to claim victory than through a late-night squire of Esquire’s sexiest woman alive, Jessica Biehl.

I arrived around 7pm to a party at Lucky Strike Lanes. I hesitate to even call it a bowling alley, even though there were balls, lanes and euro-styled shoes. No, this was Disneyland bowling to a hip-hop soundtrack, complete with MAWs, gourmet food and a dress code, of which I broke at least three rules upon entering. Luckily, the bouncer had a soft spot for Rob Lowe and waved me in, doors t-shirt, ripped jeans, K-Fed skull cap and all.

The party was hosted by MTV and there were about 50 people in a private room next to the main alley. I saw my friend BBQ and made my way over for a manhug. He let me know that Jessica Biehl was in the alley next to us, on the Jersey side of the curtain.

Cali went straight for the buffet and I grabbed a beer with the junkie. It took us about 10 minutes to realize that Jessica Biehl was the girl from 7th Heaven, not Jessica Alba, nor was she Jennifer Beals. The conversation seemed superfluous, but I exacted every word into my conscience. There was definitely a neg there, one I would use if I decided to redeem myself from the dime-a-dozen real estate woman. That night, I had one set in mind, and it would be with one of the hottest, bad girl actresses I could think of. And I would do it without a net, without a celebrity wingman, without hesitation.

The Game has offered me great insight, but it is used most effectively when it is simply a foundation. The top game-runners in the book had different strategies. Some used hypnosis or suggestion, others used engaging opening lines and still others used magic. I truthfully couldn’t imagine myself adopting any of the lines or gimmicks these guys used. But I could see myself using the strategies. Finding the idea behind the words and come up with openers that work best for me. I consider it like this: For many, the book is a food drop. They eat the rations that they do not produce. But for me, I used the insight as a seed, a renewable food source that I could grow where and where I wanted. It could germinate and flourish under my stewardship. If I could abstract and adopt, I could overcome. Ok, enough of the metaphors.

I took a lap to see what information I could glean from Jessica’s set. There were about 8 girls and one guy that looked kind of strange and chunky. He was definitely not worthy to be in the presence of such a stunning creature. Maybe he won a contest to hang out with her, I thought mid-stride. Hollywood turns me evil.

All around her were cute girls, but nothing even close to Jessica. I took that to mean that she is not that superficial. Many celeb chicks have a minimum beauty requirement to run in their set. Hotter than the average chick, but not hotter than the celeb is a accepted rule-of-thumb.

I also noticed that she was using the name “lesbo” on the bowling computer and they all were relatively drunk. One girl especially caught my eye, not because of her beauty, but because of her relationship to the mark. She seemed the closest.

I went back to the room and downed another bowling pin Bud light. The waitress made some sublime comment about it being a penis, and I enabled the theory as I kept getting my bottle taken by this dude who was drinking a bud version of the same beer and looking at me. Finally, I grabbed a Heineken, which definitely lowered the kitsch factor.

I put the pieces together in my head. Normally, in a set with guys and girls, it is important to immediately locate and win over the AMOG (Alpha Male of Group) while steering clear of the mark almost completely. But this doughboy was not an alpha male even by Christopher Lowell standards. This guy was barely male. So instead, I adapted and would focus on the alpha female of the friend group. I called her streak because she had a dyed streak going through her hair.

I had two negs in mind, one for Streak and one for Jessica. I took a breath and entranced the set. Right now, Jessica was not my focus. It was Streak. And through her, I could endear myself to Jessica. The plan worked on paper. I would run without a wing, although BBQ and Cali were there to watch me smolder. I felt invigorated. At that point, I didn’t care what happened. I think that was the thing that kept me there. There was no smell of desperation on my breath. The confidence of three beers was all that could be inhaled.

I approached her from across the table, making sure to gain eye contact along the way. The rear approach works best after the pickup. Her radar needed to pick up my blip, and it did.

I smiled and put my beer on her table.

“I’m Rob Lowe,” I said, turning things around. My name was no longer my liability. It was my ability. It was my icebreaker. It was my ticket to Jessica.

“I’m Stacy,” she said, as unsure of what was to come as I was.

Vote for your Favorite Ex-Virgin

2006-02-07T13:28:00.000-08:00

Big Mega Game Bowl Virginity Contest

2006-02-02T11:17:00.000-08:00

Recovering

2006-01-31T13:13:00.000-08:00

I love D.C.

2006-01-25T09:43:00.000-08:00

Drunk on Cheese

2006-01-23T11:31:00.000-08:00

Happy 30th Fucknuts

2006-01-20T12:25:00.000-08:00

Love Wrench

2006-01-19T12:02:00.000-08:00

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 rarely use my cell phone to just shoot the shit. Most of my conversations consist of brief interludes about very specific meeting-type information. But cellphones can do more than just set up rendevous or find a friend at a concert. Sometimes they can get you out of a bad situation or into a good one.

Daniel is up for any adventure. He is one of those guys who will do just about anything to get out of the house. I’m sure everyone has a friend like that. But the best thing about Daniel is his enthusiasm for life. It is refreshing, especially since so many of my other friends are complete cynics.

I picked him up in West Hollywood and drove through Laurel Canyon to the Valley. It was definitely out of my way, but the adventure wouldn’t be the same without the scent of Guerlain swirling in my car for days after. My plan to close this realtor came with the cerebral help of an effeminate wingman, and there was no one else who could procure such a title.

I briefed Daniel on the new mission and how it related to this realtor. He was in, maybe even more than I was. To me, it was a challenge. Something that precluded my teaching of Cali. A shit test. To him, it was entertainment. Because whether this adventure would be a home run or a train wreck, he knew the experience would be a memorable one.

“Ok, Rob, well if you’re going to try and pick up this woman, you need to clean up. We can go back to my place and shave that horrible mustache. You look like a leatherman," he said, almost immediately.

“D, you’re missing the fucking point here. I don’t want to look conventional or handsome. That’s the true test of game.”

“Oh my God Rob, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. But, whatever, you obviously have an agenda.”

And I did. One that was formulated on Wilshire Blvd., between Westwood and Fairfax. It’s wasn’t the most extravagant plan, but it was one I hoped would work. Daniel was entranced by his role. It was integral, to say the least, even as the mission evolved.

We cut through Laurel Canyon, traversing the hillside shacks and mansions. LC is definitely Hollywood’s version of Topanga, a funky mix of disparate real estate and interesting characters. I always pay close attention to the sign for Wonderland Avenue, and allow my consciousness to race back years, to Frank Zappa and Danny Sugarman, and absorb the amount of debauchery that took place along that stretch of glam road. More recently, Wonderland came to light with the Val Kilmer movie, and his recount of the John Holmes story (don’t need to tell the ladies who he is, right?)

Sugarman, on the other hand is lesser-known and now-deceased former inhabitant. He co-wrote “No one here gets out alive,” the story of Jim Morrison and the Doors. He also wrote "Wonderland Avenue," another book about his personal addictions, as well as drug habits of those around him, including Mackenzie Phillips.

But, I was brought back to the turn, to the night, to the mission by Daniel.

“She’s going to think you’re gay. I mean with me and everything. And the Volvo,” he finished, snickering.

“I know," I answered, not wanting history to release me.

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“She’ll probably think you’re gay," I said, as I snapped back to present, "You’re wearing a Ben Sherman beanie. Does that bother you?”

He laughed. In a “My God Rob Lowe, you are so lucky you’re not gay, because I would destroy your body with my love wrench,” kind of way. I was flattered. Hopefully I had saved some charm for the realtor chick.

“It’s all covered,” I told him, “Just follow the plan.”

And the plan was foolproof, as choreographed with “The Game” as the testimonial underpin. The first thing I needed to do was Neg her, which is basically a backhanded compliment, or a forehanded slam, depending on your feeling about tennis metaphors. This helps establish a dominance, and a slight disinterest in the subject. It communicates that I will not fall under her spell the way others have.

Next, I would be nebulous about my sexuality. This would help rationalize the “Neg” in her head. But again, this was another misdirect. This woman would be used to getting everything she wanted based on her looks and probable charm. She would not know how to react to someone was not immediately enamored by her beauty. The part of her brain that was not trying to compute that internally would be looking externally for answers, gleaning information from Daniel and me. Taking us in. Deconstructing.

Daniel, on the other hand had to keep his macho together for a bit. I told him to downplay his flame, at least until the neg set in. Then, he could introduce his flamboyance slowly. As the sun of discovery began to rise, she would rationalize me as a catty gay man, easily explaining away my apparent disinterest in getting into her presumably fantastic undergarments.

From there, I would allow her to regain her heading, once-again enabling her beauty-based comfort zone to guide her through the showing. But as her heat began to rise, I would do the same and thoroughly lay on the charm, allowing her to elevate me from woman hater to man she wanted to save. The takeaway of this stage would be, “Why are all the good ones either married or gay?.” The emotional connection would be there from the start, albeit a negative one. It would be simple to spin it into a positive.

But that would be just the beginning. Still ahead would be fake cell phone calls and the most important part of the plan, the close.

I thought it through once, and rehearsed a few lines inside my head while Daniel wheeled through the limited collection of Erasure on my Ipod. He was getting in character as well.

I was ready for this woman. I was ready to test my game. I was ready to take the flack from Alex for stealing his realtor girl. I was ready for it all.

I drove slowly along the twisty valley road until I reached a darkened circular driveway. A petite blonde woman in her late-30’s smiled in our direction from the porch. I didn’t smile back. At least, not yet.

Let the game begin.