Robby Apples
GF Gives Roomie A Mood Boost
Robby Echo popped out in Seattle back in '86. At eighteen he finally ditched his v-card in a marathon session with the first girl who said yes, stretching it to two hours by holding back until she dragged him off because Dad was pulling into the driveway. In junior high he and two buddies got the hottest girl at school to flash her tits at a football game just to trade a look at their pubes. He’s fucked a woman in the ass at his mom’s high-school reunion and banged another one in his car while the ferry crossed Puget Sound. Out of bounds snowboarding he once got so lost he thought he’d die; in third grade he dropped a deuce right in the urinal; and in high school the cops yanked him from an abandoned-building skate spot. Psychedelics killed most of his fears—he now sees dying as the next big ride, though running out of apples still scares him. Karla Kush got him in the game; she was already shooting for a year when her agent at OC Modeling took him on. Stranded on an island he’d want a machete, a spear, and fire-starting filament so he could skip the whole capitalist rat race that keeps squeezing every last drop out of people. Favorite book’s Siddhartha—calls it beautiful for showing how much time we waste chasing Samsara’s highs—plus How to Be Idle and anything by Vonnegut for the same reason. The Holy Mountain’s his flick because it makes you do the work instead of spoon-feeding cheap-custard plots. When he’s not shooting he’s doing yoga, watching docs, or making art, and his folks know the score even if they don’t chat about it; love trumps the details.
Robby Echo popped out in Seattle back in '86. At eighteen he finally ditched his v-card in a marathon session with the first girl who said yes, stretching it to two hours by holding back until she dragged him off because Dad was pulling into the driveway. In junior high he and two buddies got the hottest girl at school to flash her tits at a football game just to trade a look at their pubes. He’s fucked a woman in the ass at his mom’s high-school reunion and banged another one in his car while the ferry crossed Puget Sound. Out of bounds snowboarding he once got so lost he thought he’d die; in third grade he dropped a deuce right in the urinal; and in high school the cops yanked him from an abandoned-building skate spot. Psychedelics killed most of his fears—he now sees dying as the next big ride, though running out of apples still scares him. Karla Kush got him in the game; she was already shooting for a year when her agent at OC Modeling took him on. Stranded on an island he’d want a machete, a spear, and fire-starting filament so he could skip the whole capitalist rat race that keeps squeezing every last drop out of people. Favorite book’s Siddhartha—calls it beautiful for showing how much time we waste chasing Samsara’s highs—plus How to Be Idle and anything by Vonnegut for the same reason. The Holy Mountain’s his flick because it makes you do the work instead of spoon-feeding cheap-custard plots. When he’s not shooting he’s doing yoga, watching docs, or making art, and his folks know the score even if they don’t chat about it; love trumps the details.