Cover Me

My latest issue of Vanity Fair has been on my kitchen counter for over a week now.

I haven't cracked it open.  Not because I don't want to, but because I simply can't.  I simply can't crack it open because every time I try, the mesmerizing gaze of Rob Lowe makes me stop dead in my tracks and simply stare right back.  His eyes follow me, like my own photo Mona Lisa, around my place and back again to when I'm trying, once again, to turn the cover page and read the blasted magazine.

Rob Lowe was my teenage dream.  Adoration to the max.  Remember Youngblood ?  Rob playing hockey ?  Double dose dreamy.  There were the Brat Pack movies, and the sex tape scandal and that weird nanny trial thing and the TV shows (oh, how I loved you Sam Seaborn) and of course the infamous Snow White Oscar Dance and all the while Rob maintains his crazy non - aging self like he's in some pact with the devil. Rob, adeptly combining a pretty boy face and manly guyness, is our Brad Pitt prototype.  Only he's aging way better (Well maybe better isn't the word - he's not aging AT ALL) and is really, really good at comedy because it seems like he likes to make fun of his pretty boy persona (Californication anyone?).

Oh, Rob ... Please look away so I can read the magazine.  There are likely more pictures of you inside.