What's so fab about Fabio?

Kevin Cowherd

November 01, 1993|By Kevin Cowherd

The first thing that needs to be pointed out is that tall good-looking guys with flowing blond hair and lots of muscles don't intimidate me.

I am no girlie-man myself, which you would recognize instantly if I were to stop and shake your hand and reveal a steely grip that brings upward of 400 pounds per square inch of pressure across your puny palm. You'd have tears in your eyes, believe me.

At the gas station the other day, a woman was eyeing me like I was six pounds of prime chuck, or whatever that good kind of meat is.

Finally, I just lost it and said: "Hey, honey, why don't you take a picture? It lasts longer." And she said: "You got black oil all over your nose, y'know that?"

Big deal, a little Quaker State 10W-40. Like that was the only reason she was staring.

The point is, very little in life fazes me and that includes this Italian supermodel Fabio, who is apparently the newest hunk that everyone is ga-ga over.

(Help me out here. Is it FAY-bee-oh or FAH-bee-oh? I saw the man on "Live with Regis and Kathie Lee," or one of those shows, and they pronounced his name a couple of different ways.

(Regis, by the way, appears to be getting even smaller, to the point where he is now about the size of the Keebler Elves. Also, I was glad to see that Kathie Lee was not pregnant again, forcing us to endure another eight months of dreary, self-centered conversation on the rigors of childbearing.

(Someone tell Ms. Gifford that not too long ago, women would give birth, then go out 20 minutes later and dig a well, plant three acres of wheat and fight off marauding bands of Apaches.)

Anyway, this much is certain: Fabio is hot stuff, at least figuratively speaking.

He stars in his own syndicated TV series ("Acapulco H.E.A.T."). He's releasing three new videos: a video calendar, a fitness video and a video of tips on romance.

Plus he's featured in two new calendars. Plus he has a CD out ("fabio after dark").

Plus he's busy hawking his own line of cologne ("Mediterraneum"), is on the cover of hundreds of romance novels and has recently, ahem, co-authored a new book ("Pirate,") which is some kind of Joanna Lindsey meets Long John-Silver heavy-breather set in the 18th century.

Apparently, Fabio is a good-guy pirate who rescues this beautiful girl from the clutches of these evil bad-guy pirates. So the girl grows up and falls in love with Fabio, natch, and tries to seduce him, only Fabio, he's got his standards, so . . . never mind. You read it for yourself.

Anyway, the bottom line is this: In the real world, Fabio is only 32, incredibly sexy and filthy rich.

This would bother someone who is less secure, but it doesn't bother me, honest, so you can just get that thought out of your mind.

Now, some people (me, for instance) would say Fabio might be spreading himself a little thin.

In today's market, overexposure is a very real danger. People get sick of seeing you. Pretty soon you can't even get a decent table at a restaurant, and when your name is mentioned at parties people roll their eyes and say: "Oh, geez, not that drip Fabio! Is he here?"

Look what happened to President Clinton. Last fall, the guy was all over TV and radio and his mug was all over the weekly news magazines, and everyone was sucking up to the man and basking in his limelight.

Now if he throws a party, the number of people who show up is so small he can hold it in a broom closet.

So if I were Fabio's business manager, I'd tell him to cool it with the videos and calendars and colognes for a while.

For emphasis, I'd whisper three little words: Andrew Dice Clay. The Diceman used to be huge, right? Where's he now, working at a Royal Farms store?

I would also tell Fabio (OK, this is nitpicking) that every picture of him does not have to be taken with his shirt off.

Look, I have a chest like sculpted concrete, too, but you don't see me showing it off all the time.

My stomach is so tight and the muscles so well-defined that I often invite lumberjacks, longshoremen, barroom bouncers, that crowd, to punch me in the gut as hard as they can.

Invariably they end up hurting their hands. Oh, I might cough a little after the punch actually lands, but that would be the only sign of discomfort.

Nevertheless, you will certainly not see me draped languidly across the polished hood of a Rolls-Royce, as Fabio is on the cover of his CD, with shirt off, muscles rippling, hair billowing in the breeze.

I could do that if I wanted to. But I just don't feel like it.

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