Tuesday, May 29, 2007

My fascinating almost run in with a miniature Fabio

Saturday night I was out drinking with some buddies. On the TV behind the bar the original Planet of the Apes played with the sound off.

One of my friends was proving himself to be quite an enthusiast of the film and, in the drunk sloppy way of the late hour, carried on and on about Charlton Heston and Dr. Zaius.

I tried my best to tune him out but he continued, with the volume of his rolling commentary set firmly at 11. After awhile I looked over at him again, and found he was now talking to a very attractive brunette. Shockingly, the conversation was still about Planet of the Apes and loud.

While my general expectation is that a good looking gal would be put off by a wild-eyed man working himself into a tizzy about an extraordinarily dated science fiction movie, she was actually eating up every word the inebriated Ebert served.

How could this be? And if it was, why did so many years have to pass before I discovered this secret to barroom success?

As I cursed my previous existence, I noticed an even more shocking sight: A full on miniature Fabio. And he was headed our way!

Beside the stunning height differential, there was no mistaking this was an exact replica of the world's foremost romance novel cover model. He had the same darkly rooted long blond hair, the same prominent chin and the same upwardly turned facial expression. He was even dressed in a v-neck white t-shirt and elaborately distressed blue jeans -- just like Fabio would attire himself on such a warm night.

Mini-Fab snuck up from behind and put a possessive arm around the brunette with the improbable taste for poorly rehashed sci-fiction plot lines. While Mini-Fab didn't have the proportions of a midget -- in fact, he had the proportions of a Fabio -- he still came in at a good head shorter than the smallish girl.

My buddy, his eyes bloodshot and bulging from rum and unhinged cinematic praise, didn't even notice the look of longing his new friend shot him, as Mini-Fab semi-roughly dragged the brunette out of the bar.

A few minutes later an outside table opened and we took it. While my friend continued with the Planet of the Apes synopsis, I only wanted to discuss the sketchy situation that had just gone down with the shrunken doppelganger and the brunette.

I was able to gather from him that the girl was from Central Florida (there had apparently been some non-simian discussion) and she was taking a vacation in the big city.

The way I figured it, Mini-Fab couldn't have also been from Central Florida -- they don't make such creatures down there. Therefore I envisioned a scenario where Mini-Fab was a local and had spotted the naive small town girl -- maybe at the bus station -- and immediately took advantage of her Southern manners and the completely understandable sense of wonderment that accompanies seeing such a perfectly-appointed celebrity miniature for the first time. Only now she had come to the realization that hanging out with a miniature Fabio wasn't about Lamborghini rides and photo ops, and sought refuge from him in anything -- even a lunatic spouting off about actors in really bad ape suits.

As I pondered this tragic, inevitable set of circumstances, who do I see coming down the sidewalk and towards our table but the young lady in question and her would-be paramour.

Perhaps confirming my hypothesis, they seemed to be involved in a quarrel, made all the more hilarious by the fact one of the spat's participants looked exactly like 60 percent of the world's most famed Italian lover. She would try to stomp away or throw him a juke, but he would nimbly follow.

Suddenly I knew what I had to do. I had to capture this menacing miniature. If I played my cards right, and waited until their street-show made it to the sidewalk in front of our table, I could probably reach out and grab him in one swoop. Doing so would so would not only free a damsel in distress, but I would net myself a Miniature Fabio, which I could donate to science or rent out for parties.

"When that Miniature Fabio comes by I am going capture him," I told my friends. They looked at me like I was crazy and, referencing his bulky book cover arms, speculated that he could probably kick my ass.

As I stretched my torso and prepared myself for the maneuver, Mini-Fab and the Floridian took a sharp frantic and wholly unrelated turn, before heading in the opposite direction of our table. Forever lost amongst the sirens, the humidity and the places a miniature Fabio goes.

2 comments:

Garrett said...

what bar was this at? I seem to remember another fabio type friend you used to have, although he was more like a don juan with the ladies...
too bad he lives in Seattle, you could use the help.

JT said...

Fabio’s chest has been greatly insulted (and sunken) by the comparison you just made.