I stayed up until 3:30 in the morning reading Rob Lowe’s book, Stories I Only Tell My Friends. The late hour was not due to any exceptional interest in the book (though I am a sucker for good Hollywood gossip) nor any other particular qualities. I just really wanted to finish reading it.
To those who would shame my interest in decades-old drama, be content with the knowledge that I did not get what I came for. As an author, Lowe pulls his punches. There are no villains in Rob Lowe’s life. He seems remarkably well-adjusted despite the childhood trauma of his parents’ divorce, and subsequent stardom and infamy. Lowe spends the first third of the book talking about that childhood, while the rest is divided into the making of “The Outsiders,” and, incredibly, he manages to cram everything since then into the final third. The most arguably eventful period of his life is glossed over, and even the “villains” of his story (the writer who coined the term “Brat Pack” comes to mind) are given free passes for having screwed him over.
This did not feel like a book of stories Lowe only tells his friends. This felt like a book of anecdotes Lowe might share with the neighbors at the block party. It does not feel intimate, but it does feel sincere. He approaches California, fancy new jobs and fancy new neighbors with a midwesterner’s awe. He is not Sam Seaborn. He is not Chris Traeger. As actors go, he seems to have spent the last two decades demurring from the spotlight as far as his personal life goes. And that’s fine, and probably makes for a very happy, satisfying life. However, it doesn’t make for a very interesting book.