Stories I Only Tell My Friends: An Autobiography by Rob Lowe Page B
Authors: Rob Lowe
Tags: Autobiography
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Danza’s young partner surreptitiously puts her hand on my backside. And keeps it there. “See you on the plane,” she whispers.
On the flight home, I have what is to be the first in a long series of lessons about the temptations of actresses. Although Corrie’s waiting back in Malibu, the excitement and glamour of the enfolding romantic drama in the first-class cabin quickly overpower my fifteen-year-old male willpower. What happens on the plane isn’t anywhere near Erica Jong territory, but I’m definitely not going to be sharing any traveling stories with my girlfriend.
* * *
Back in L.A., the battle to save our show continues. I’m sent to Riverside, California, for a personal appearance. Even at fifteen I don’t see how walking through the Riverside fairgrounds will boost our ratings enough to put a dent in 60 Minutes . But I like snow cones as much as the next guy, especially when they are free. So, off I go.
There is a line of mostly young girls waiting to get autographs. This time I am on the other end of the line, and I’m not sure what the protocol is. I make a rookie mistake.
Dear Marie-Sue:
Thanks for watching A New Kind of Family . I hope you like it. Good luck at UCLA in the fall. Go Bruins!
All my love,
Rob Lowe
I will learn that this is not the way it’s done—too much time, too many people to get through. In spite of wanting to connect personally, you have to keep it simple. “Just write Marie-Sue and sign your name,” the network handler tells me afterward.
Later, on the way to the car, I see them. They are swarming, gathering in the shadow of the Tilt-A-Whirl, twenty to thirty girls who look to be between twelve and sixteen years old. They are whispering, pointing, and staring at me. One starts to shake. Another lets out a sort of whimper and runs with her feet in place like she has to go to the bathroom. Another pushes the girls in front of her to the ground and runs toward me. The girl on the ground screams, then they all scream; low at first, then building to a point where it sounds like a sonic knitting needle is puncturing my eardrum. And then … they charge. I don’t know it yet, but I will come to learn that being charged on the African savannah by a rhino is only fractionally more dangerous than being bull-rushed by a gang of fourteen-year-old girls whipped into a lather by hormones, group think, and an overdose of Tiger Beat magazine.
“Hi there,” is about all I manage before they are all over me. One girl grabs me by the arm, another by the hair. One girl is literally untying my shoes while another steals the laces. The network representative does nothing. “I bet this doesn’t happen to Morley Safer,” he says. I can only hope this kind of mauling will help our ratings, but something tells me it won’t.
On the long drive back from Riverside, I have a lot of time to ponder the conflicting emotions welling up in me. On the one hand, how cool is it to be mobbed by a bunch of girls my age? It’s any guy’s dream, right? And it is part and parcel of being a star. Right? All true, more or less. But on the other hand, the whole experience feels a little shitty. And feeling shitty about something that’s meant to be exciting makes me feel worse. The girls’ reactions seemed almost programmed, like they were both the performers and the audience in a teen-angst drama that had nothing to do with me. It certainly wasn’t about what a good actor I was. And if I was such a hottie to them, why didn’t I have the same effect on those who knew me well at school? And so the first wisps of an idea appear on the horizons of my consciousness. And the idea is this: If you really knew me, you wouldn’t like me nearly as much.
CHAPTER 8
The network has shut down our show. It’s not canceled, they say, it’s on a “creative hiatus.” I have no idea what that means, but the practical ramification is that I get to make my first appearance in a real high school.
I still
On the flight home, I have what is to be the first in a long series of lessons about the temptations of actresses. Although Corrie’s waiting back in Malibu, the excitement and glamour of the enfolding romantic drama in the first-class cabin quickly overpower my fifteen-year-old male willpower. What happens on the plane isn’t anywhere near Erica Jong territory, but I’m definitely not going to be sharing any traveling stories with my girlfriend.
* * *
Back in L.A., the battle to save our show continues. I’m sent to Riverside, California, for a personal appearance. Even at fifteen I don’t see how walking through the Riverside fairgrounds will boost our ratings enough to put a dent in 60 Minutes . But I like snow cones as much as the next guy, especially when they are free. So, off I go.
There is a line of mostly young girls waiting to get autographs. This time I am on the other end of the line, and I’m not sure what the protocol is. I make a rookie mistake.
Dear Marie-Sue:
Thanks for watching A New Kind of Family . I hope you like it. Good luck at UCLA in the fall. Go Bruins!
All my love,
Rob Lowe
I will learn that this is not the way it’s done—too much time, too many people to get through. In spite of wanting to connect personally, you have to keep it simple. “Just write Marie-Sue and sign your name,” the network handler tells me afterward.
Later, on the way to the car, I see them. They are swarming, gathering in the shadow of the Tilt-A-Whirl, twenty to thirty girls who look to be between twelve and sixteen years old. They are whispering, pointing, and staring at me. One starts to shake. Another lets out a sort of whimper and runs with her feet in place like she has to go to the bathroom. Another pushes the girls in front of her to the ground and runs toward me. The girl on the ground screams, then they all scream; low at first, then building to a point where it sounds like a sonic knitting needle is puncturing my eardrum. And then … they charge. I don’t know it yet, but I will come to learn that being charged on the African savannah by a rhino is only fractionally more dangerous than being bull-rushed by a gang of fourteen-year-old girls whipped into a lather by hormones, group think, and an overdose of Tiger Beat magazine.
“Hi there,” is about all I manage before they are all over me. One girl grabs me by the arm, another by the hair. One girl is literally untying my shoes while another steals the laces. The network representative does nothing. “I bet this doesn’t happen to Morley Safer,” he says. I can only hope this kind of mauling will help our ratings, but something tells me it won’t.
On the long drive back from Riverside, I have a lot of time to ponder the conflicting emotions welling up in me. On the one hand, how cool is it to be mobbed by a bunch of girls my age? It’s any guy’s dream, right? And it is part and parcel of being a star. Right? All true, more or less. But on the other hand, the whole experience feels a little shitty. And feeling shitty about something that’s meant to be exciting makes me feel worse. The girls’ reactions seemed almost programmed, like they were both the performers and the audience in a teen-angst drama that had nothing to do with me. It certainly wasn’t about what a good actor I was. And if I was such a hottie to them, why didn’t I have the same effect on those who knew me well at school? And so the first wisps of an idea appear on the horizons of my consciousness. And the idea is this: If you really knew me, you wouldn’t like me nearly as much.
CHAPTER 8
The network has shut down our show. It’s not canceled, they say, it’s on a “creative hiatus.” I have no idea what that means, but the practical ramification is that I get to make my first appearance in a real high school.
I still
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