Fabio!

Fans of romance novels are a little embarrassed of Mr. “I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter.” He’s a joke we’re all so very tired of by now.

I guess the only thing I can compare it to is how lots of fans of Batman are embarrassed of Adam West, for associating something they want taken seriously with camp. Or how fans of punk rock are humiliated by Avril Lavigne co-opting the trappings of punk rebellion to wean girls off the Olsen Twins.

I haven’t met Fabio personally, but my uncle was a novel cover artist, and he did. It was always great to see him, first because he lived in Greenwich and it meant a trip into the city, and also because I always took away an armful of Choose Your Own Adventure books. He met Fabio a few times before the Fabster was famous, and said that he was a very nice, sweet guy, but a little on the dumb side.

I will admit, I always laughed at Fabio, but he gives me a lot to work with. One of my all-time favorite moments in recent history is when Fabio was asked who he wanted for President. His response? “Hillary, because I want a woman president, as I owe everything to women.” Another moment I heard about was how a woman once asked him for his autograph, and Fabio wrote, “Thanks for last night! – Fabio.”

Then there was Fabio’s slapfight with His Majesty the Queen George Clooney, which should have led to the greatest battle since Godzilla vs. Mothra.

Everyone I’ve ever met that’s into Fabio has been a little weird, like people that wear dragons on their t-shirts. At the library, one of my Christian co-workers had a musky, creepy kitty-litter/old person smell and had (I’m not making this up) a Fabio mousepad.

Still, there’s no denying Fabio is a good looking man with incredible muscles and a daring foreign accent. I will confess something here on the internet I’d never confess in real life: at age fourteen I went through a period where I was into Fabio. I actually had his CD, Fabio After Dark.

What can I say? I was fat (or at least I had enough neurosis and bad body image to think I was) and I had cokebottle glasses, and at lunch people threw things at me. I was basically the target audience for Fabio’s hauntingly erotic version of romance, where that muscular man of mystery softly crooned in his Italian accent things like:

“I can be vary shy when I first meet a woman. But I’ll always dream of learning her secrets. First I look into her eyes ... Thar is a quality in a woman’s eyes that show more than her physical being. It reveal her tanderness, and passion. Her inner beauty. I loff to take her anyplace I can devote all my attention to her. It can be a corner of our li’l ressrunt, it can be in front of my fireplace, [whispering] curled up, together.”

Then again, maybe there is something to Fabio:

RE: Fabio Bashing (sent to People magazine, November 2, 1993)

Quoted in LA Times, November 1993

I do not go to bed at night dreaming about the manager who wanted me to take dictation, the vice president who patted my fanny, the company CEO who called me granny when I began to turn gray, the lab manager who wanted to run his hands up my legs because he liked my nylons and "wanted some for his wife", the personnel director who wanted me to wear a tee shirt and the co-workers who planned to use spray bottles if I did, the department head who started rumors that cost me a job when I refused to sleep with him, or the vice president who had me leave one job because his friend liked the position I had created and wanted it for himself. These men do not inspire dreams, just disgust. Instead, I dream of Fabio.

Here’s the thing, though: Fabio is a real-life person, who farts in bed like everybody else. What the hell do you possibly SAY to something like that? How does a real person possibly live up to being a romantic fantasy?