In some hotel room, I hand my Dad a present: an unlabeled videotape.
I tell him: Its a bootleg of Rob Lowe’s sex tape from 1980-something with those two girls, one of whom was underage.
We play it just to see if its real. With bootlegs you never know.
A staticky Rob Lowe and two girls appear on the screen, checking themselves out in a large mirror.
At that second, Rob Lowe walks into the room in real life.
Sees us watching his tryst play out on a grainy television,
I take a deep breath as I try to downplay an undownplayable situation.
But he’s not angry at all, just sad.
He starts reflecting out loud, about the tape, about that time in his life, doubts that eat away at him.
Is he really a changed person? he wonders.
His gaze begins drifting toward the whiskey bottle on the table.
Great. Not only have I inexplicably fallen into the most awkward star encounter ever,
but I may have shattered Rob Lowe’s sobriety.
I leap into this cornball spiel about how he’s a different person now,
how I can look at my own life just a few years ago and cringe at this or that,
what’s important is that we learn and evolve, on and on, right out of a Full House episode.