Love Life

by Rob Lowe

  “Madonna’s waiting for you. Follow me.”

  We headed to the VIP area. I saw Madonna holding court behind the velvet rope, with a great-looking dude sitting next to her, chatting her up. She looked up, saw me, smiled and waved me over. She motioned to have Mr. Good-Looking removed. Midrap he was yanked away, making room for me. I was impressed with her brazen matter-of-factness, as well as her command of logistics.

  We talked for a while but the music was pounding. The DJ was playing “Holiday” and “Material Girl” at levels that could’ve split the atom. From our perch above the dance floor we could see it packed, wall to wall, with people hot and sweating and going berserk to the music of their new icon.

  Madonna and I were discussing where we would sneak off to at the end of the evening when she suddenly jumped up and said, “Let’s dance!”

  “Out there?” I asked. After my chaotic entrance to the club I couldn’t fathom what would happen to us on the dance floor, while they played her music.

  “Yes, ‘out there’!” she said teasingly, and the question was clear: Was I man enough to do it? But it seemed way over the top.

  “I’ll wait here,” I said.

  “Suit yourself,” she replied as she waded beyond the velvet rope into the fray.

  “You’re crazy!” I said, half meaning it.

  “No. I’m not,” she said, stopping and looking directly into my eyes. “I’m just not going to let success fuck up my fun.” She turned and disappeared into her fans.

  The next time I saw her was twenty years later at a premiere in London: we both had our kids with us and they were about the same age. We were both happily married. We laughed about how long it had been. There was no need to even acknowledge how much had happened to both of us since those days of “Like a Virgin” and St. Elmo’s Fire. She was still an icon, a trendsetter, and I admired that she had lived many chapters, writ large, and was better for it. Many had come and gone, blatantly co-opting her style, but she was still there, as interesting as ever.

  Sometimes what I love most about life is its unpredictability and how, over time, the truth is revealed. “Like a Virgin” was not a “one-off” from a one-hit-wonder bimbo. Our Palladium sure thing was not meant to be (and it’s a much more interesting story for it) and I never would’ve thought that I would look back on that night for the reason that I do.

  “I won’t let success fuck up my fun” seems profound to me now. It makes me reflect on what the definition of “fun” is. I know it has been different things to me in different phases of my life. Back in Dayton, Ohio, it was children’s theater and throwing snowballs at the city bus. In midseventies Malibu, it was going on auditions and attempting to get girls. In the eighties Brat Pack days it was making movies and getting girls. In the nineties it was attempting to find my authentic self and finding the right woman to love me and give me amazing babies. The new century brought a resurgent career and the adventure of raising a family. Today I’m finding that fun is to be found in embracing that I am once again in transition. Both boys are almost out of the house, and I have finished a long run on Parks and Recreation. I have no idea what the future holds professionally. I will develop my own TV show; I have some interesting ideas, but you never know what will work.

  But I do know this. I have a great life partner in Sheryl, and whatever happens as I move forward, it will be fun. And as Madonna said, “I won’t let success fuck up my fun,” because I put less and less value on success. It’s the process that counts. It’s the people I get to connect with, most of whom will never be famous or want to be. It’s the intention that gives the action value, not the results. Most actors (and many people) start out to please others. The trick is to truly value satisfying yourself. Working from that place, being in fellowships without an agenda, brings a satisfied excitement; that, today, is fun.

  A while back, Diana Nyad, a sixty-four-year-old woman, after two decades of trying, swam from Cuba to America. At her same age, my mother lost her battle with breast cancer. Life is unpredictable and has very different plans for all of us. There will be heroism and tragedy; each new day has the promise of both. Learning to live in (and accept) that dichotomy provides the adrenaline to always move ahead and be grateful for what we have. It can power us all to great things if we recognize it. It can be the source of our greatest possibility, to know and to feel with every level of our own consciousness that we are alive. That this, right here, right now, is our life. It is not our parents’ or our children’s, not our husbands’ or our wives’. It is not made more or less valuable by our job or how much we have in the bank. Our life is ours. It is the only one we will ever have. And we should love it.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Sheryl: I love you. Thank you for loving me for so long, for accepting me and raising me up, flaws and all.

  Matthew and Johnowen, the gifts of my life, for being the beautiful, smart, loving and hilarious young men you are. You make me so proud and I love you both beyond all measure.

  Dad: Thank you for your love, lessons and inspiration.

  My brothers Chad, Micah and Justin: Thank you for having my back, making me laugh and for giving me such amazing nieces and nephews.

  To: Lucas, Jacob, Emmett, Luna, Mabel, Fiona and Jackson. It will be a blessing to watch you carry the torch. You make me a very proud uncle.

  To Brian and Jodi: Your love and support are never taken for granted. Thank you.

  To Kim and to Marcia: Thank you for being in my life, and for loving your two amazing men. They are lucky to have you.

  Tom Barrack: Thanks for your love, friendship, wisdom and all of the adventures, past and future!

  Maria Shriver: You and the family mean the world to Sheryl and me. Thanks for being there for us.

  Betty Wyman: For so many years of guidance. I’m not here without you.

  Olaf and Eva Hermes: You have been so important to my family and have changed our lives. We love you.

  Caroline Smith: Thank you for my future.

  Carol Andrade: For your love and devotion, and for taking such good care of us for so many years.

  Jen Harris: For your loyalty, work ethic and kindness. For multi-tasking my life and typing up my chicken-scratch writing for this book.

  Carmen Bautista: For loving my boys, your support of Sheryl and always laughing at my jokes.

  Miguel Perez: My warrior on the road. I’m literally not going anywhere without you.

  To Lupe, Socorro and JP: Thanks for keeping me fed, happy and caffeinated.

  Marc Gurvitz, Richard Weitz, Adam Venit, Alan Nierob, Jon Liebman, Jonathan West, Michele Schweitzer, Esther Chang, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, Brian DePersia, Mari Cardoos Layne, Craig Szabo, Cathy DeLuca, Mark Morrow, Maribeth Annaguey, Chris Jacobs and Larry Stein: I couldn’t ask for more; you lead me with passion, smarts and loyalty. Thank you.

  Jan Miller: For the advice, friendship and beautiful hospitality.

  To Lisa Crowell: My “photo sleuth.” You saved me!

  Jonathan Karp: You were one of the first to see what I could do, and it meant more than you know. It’s been an honor to attempt to live up to your vision.

  Everyone at Simon & Schuster: I deeply appreciate your confidence and hard work on behalf of this book: Richard Rhorer, Nicholas Greene, Anne Tate Pearce, Cary Goldstein, Elina Vaysbeyn, Jackie Seow, Lance Fitzgerald, Joy O’Meara, Lisa Erwin and Irene Kheradi.

  To all my friends and colleagues both current and throughout the years: Some of you are mentioned in these pages and some are not, but you all have inspired me.

  To my fans and friends throughout the world: I never forget that without your support, it all stops. I never take your interest for granted. Thank you.

  To my friends in recovery: Thank you for helping the promises come true.

  To everyone with passion, hope and a dream.

  Don’t miss the New York Times bestseller

  STORIES I ONLY TELL MY FRIENDS

  by Rob Lowe

  “A fresh po
p-culture history of Hollywood in the ’70s and ’80s from the point of view of the man who lived it…[Lowe] is as funny as he is thoughtful. This is the best type of celeb memoir, because its author is as interested in the world as the world is interested in him.”--People Magazine

  Turn the page to read the first two chapters now!

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  Copyright © 2011 by Robert Lowe

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  Library of Congress Cataloging- in- Publication Data

  Lowe, Rob.

  Stories I only tell my friends : an autobiography / Rob Lowe. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-8050-9329-2 (hardcover)

  1. Lowe, Rob. 2. Actors—United States—Biography. I. Title.

  PN2287.L664A3 2011

  791.4302'8092—dc22

  [B] 2011001622

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  First Edition 2011

  Designed by Meryl Sussman Levavi

  Unless otherwise noted, all photographs are courtesy of author’s personal collection.

  Photograph on page 309 of Rob Lowe by Jim Wright / Icon International.

  For my family:

  Sheryl, Matthew, and Johnowen.

  In memory of my mother, Barbara.

  CHAPTER 1

  I had always had an affinity for him, an admiration for his easy grace, his natural charisma, despite the fact that for the better part of a decade my then girlfriend kept a picture of him running shirtless through Central Park on her refrigerator door. Maybe my lack of jealousy toward this particular pin-up was tamped down by empathy for his loss of his father and an appreciation for how complicated it is to be the subject of curiosity and objectification from a very young age. That said, when my girlfriend and others would constantly swoon over him, when I would see him continually splashed across the newspapers, resplendent like an American prince, I wasn’t above the occasional male thought of: Screw that guy.

  As a person navigating the waters of public scrutiny, you are often unable to hold on to personal heroes or villains. Inevitably you will meet your hero, and he may turn out to be less than impressive, while your villain turns out to be the coolest cat you’ve ever met. You never can tell, so you eventually learn to live without a rooting interest in the parade of stars, musicians, sports champions, and politicians. And you lose the ability to participate in the real American pastime: beating up on people you don’t like and glorifying people you do.

  I had not yet learned that truism when he and I first met. I was at a point where I was deeply unhappy with my personal life, increasingly frustrated about where my career seemed to be going—although from the outside it would probably appear to anyone observing that I was among the most blessed twenty-four-year-olds on the planet. In an effort to find substance, meaning, and excitement, I had become deeply involved in the world of politics.

  It was at one of these political events, the kind where movie stars mix with political stars, each trading in the other’s reflective glory, both looking to have the other fill something missing inside them, that we were introduced. “Rob Lowe, I’d like you to meet John Kennedy Jr.,” someone said. “Hey, man, good to meet you,” I said. He smiled. We shook hands and I was relieved that my by then ex-girlfriend wasn’t there to notice that he was slightly taller than I was, or to comment on who had better-looking hair. We made some small talk, and I remember thinking, How does he do it? How does he carry the scrutiny? How does he attempt a normal life? Is it even possible? Is it even worth trying?

  He was charming and gracious and didn’t seem to be unnerved by the multitudes of eyeballs stealing glances as we spoke. Eventually, as we were both single guys in our twenties, the talk turned to girls. “Maybe we should get outta here, go find where the action is,” he said. I looked at him. “Dude. You’re fucking JFK Jr.! All right?! You don’t need to go anywhere!” He looked at me and laughed, and as he did I saw a glimpse of his father and was reminded of his family’s legacy of sacrifice and tragedy, and was glad that he was carrying the mantle so well and with so much promise for the future.

  Eventually we went our separate ways, never teaming up to hunt down any fun that night (although I later wrestled open a wet bar at 2:00 a.m. with a vice presidential short-list candidate). Over the years I watched him navigate the currents of fame, dating, and career ups and downs, curious to see how his life would play out. Sometimes he and I would both appear on those shameful lists of “Hunks.” (Could there be a more degrading or, frankly, gross word than “hunk”? Hunk of what? Hunk of wood? Hunk of cheese? Yikes!) There may have even been a girl or two whom we both coveted, but that was the extent of my contact with him.

  In the late ’90s my wife, Sheryl, and I were on a romantic ski vacation in Sun Valley, Idaho. We still felt like newlyweds, in spite of having two beautiful baby boys from whom we’d escaped for a rare evening out. Sun Valley is one of my favorite spots. It’s old school (as the site of North America’s first chair lift) and glamorous (the home of Hemingway and early Hollywood royalty), and boasts one of the greatest ski mountains in the country. I had been going there since the mid-’80s and always liked the mix of people you might encounter at any given time. One evening at a big holiday party, I felt a tap on the shoulder. It was John Jr. “How’ve you been, man?” he asked with a smile. I introduced him to Sheryl. He congratulated us on our marriage. After a while Sheryl went off on her own, leaving the two of us alone in the corner watching the party move on around us. Even in this more rarefied crowd, you could feel the occasional glare of curious observation. A ski instructor passed by, a movie star; a local ski bunny brushed by John and flipped her hair. “How did you do it?” he asked, so low against the buzz of the party that I couldn’t quite hear.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “How did you do it?” he repeated. “I mean how did you settle down? You of all people.”

  I looked at him and he was smiling, almost laughing, as if covering something else, some other emotion, something I couldn’t quite discern. At first I thought he might be gently poking fun at me; up until my marriage, my life had been publicly marked by a fair number of romances, some covered with great interest in the papers. But I saw that his question was real, and that he seemed to be grappling with a sort of puzzle he could not solve. I realized he was looking across the room to a willowy blonde. She had fantastic blue eyes, and the kind of beauty and magnetism that was usually reserved for film stars. She was standing next to my wife, Sheryl, also a blue-eyed blonde with a beauty and presence that made her seem as if a spotlight and wind machine were constantly trained on her.

  I put two and two together. “Looks like you have a great girl. That’s half the battle right there. She’s obviously amazing and if she’s your best friend, marry her. You can do it. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t, that you’re not ready, or not capable. Come on in, man, the water’s warm. I’m here to tell you it is; if she’s your friend in addition to all of the other stuff, pull the trigger, don’t let her get away. You never know what life will bring.”

  I think he was a little taken aback at the passion of my response. I’m not at all sure what he had expected me to say. But he asked, so what the hell. John nodded and we went on to other topics. The next day, we met to ski on the mountain he snowboarded, ripping down the face, fast and free. But the weather was turning and a white-out was upon us. In the snow and the speed and the wind, we were separated. I looked up over a ridge and he was gone, lost in the clouds.

  John did marry his blonde, his Carolyn. I was glad for him and thought about sending him a note, but somehow I didn’t (of all my character flaws—and there are a n
umber of them— procrastination is one of the most distinctive). Instead I wished him luck, children, and longevity of love with one of my nonalcoholic beers as I watched the coverage on Entertainment Tonight. As a political junkie and unashamed admirer of our country, I was a huge fan of his brainchild, George magazine. When someone finally stopped asking celebrities appearing on its cover to pose in those George Washington wigs I thought: Okay, they’re rollin’ now!

  The end of the century approached. The ’90s were a time of building for me. Building a life that was sober, drained of harmful, wasteful excess and manufacturing in its place a family of my own. This was my priority through the decade and that work continues to pay off today with the love of my sons, Matthew and Johnowen, and the constant gift of the love of my wife, Sheryl. Whereas the ’80s had been about building a career, the ’90s ended with my having built a life.

  At the end of the decade, my career was very much in flux, just as it had been at the end of the previous one. I had had some successes in the ’90s, always made money, but the truth was I was like a man pushing a boulder up a hill. A huge, heavy, difficult boulder made up of some career mistakes, projects that didn’t meet expectations, and twenty years of being a known quantity. And not only not being the new sensation, but worse, being someone people in Hollywood took for granted, someone with no surprises left in him. For example, the ability to appear on the cover of magazines is critical for any major actor. It’s just a fact of the business end of show business. And I hadn’t been on the cover of a magazine in almost ten years. To have the kind of career one aspires to, comprising good, major work over the course of a lifetime, it was critical that I find two things: the breakout, watershed project to remind people what I could accomplish as an actor, and that first magazine cover and profile to publicize it. It was June of 1999 and John Kennedy Jr. was about to help me get both.