FABIO

By CJ Hollenbach

One would think the world could handle two men with long blonde hair and ridiculous man cleavage, but one would be wrong! For years I have been plagued with comparisons to the faux butter pitchman and romance cover icon.

My odyssey started several years ago when a friend suggested I enter the first ever Mr. Romance Cover Model Pageant in San Diego. I entered and lost, but I was bitten by the romance industry bug. I also managed to suck up some pretty major national exposure.

I remember helping out a distraught husband at the convention who refused to wait in line for Fabio to sign the romance novel he had "written." I was just standing there alone after the fans left. "Are you him?" the man asked, pointing to a huge publicity poster.

"Sorry, no..." I answered.

"My wife is going to kill me!"

The poor guy needed an autograph on his wife's novel. I told him "I'm as close as you're going to get!" and quickly signed the book F A B I O. He thanked me for saving his marriage.

At the after-party following the pageant, I did meet Fabio. We had already posed for several ads together, so after three rum and cokes I hit him up for a photo op. "We shake hands," were his first words to me. His hand was the size of a baseball mitt. He was cordial, but I told friends later I didn't think we'd be playing golf together anytime soon."

My next Fabio moment occurred in Los Angeles, where I had gone seeking my fame and fortune. I was walking down the street in Hollywood with my hair blowing, shirtless wearing an open vest. I heard a couple behind me arguing.

"Oh my God, that's Fabio!" the woman whispered. Her boyfriend disagreed. Finally she said "I know it's him! I just thought he was bigger than that!" I just kept walking faster.

Not long after that on a Sunday morning I saw Fabio getting his black BMW washed on Santa Monica Boulevard. I was determined to see if he would remember me, so I stayed on the sidewalk until he pulled out. As he left with a hot blonde, I saw her elbowing him and pointing at me as they drove by. He craned his neck to see me, and I laughed and waved, hoping that meant he remembered me. I did sometimes get better treatment out there because of who people thought I was. I often wondered if I robbed a bank, whether he would go to jail.

I learned a long time ago if people think you're a famous person, just go with it. Everybody wants to tell their friends they met a celebrity. I was staying at a hotel and lost a contact lens down the drain. The maintenance came up to retrieve it. "You're that guy from all those books my wife reads," he said. I didn't tell him otherwise and didn't want him to think Fabio was a cheapskate, so I tipped him heavily. (Fabio, you owe me $20!)

Another time at a hotel, a husband raced down the up escalator to ask if his wife could have a picture with me. Once again, I was pretty sure it was a case of mistaken identity, but went with it anyway.

"Honey, he said it's okay!" he yelled to his wife. We posed together, no harm, no foul. Even my own mother once said as she was looking through my modeling portfolio "What's that guy's picture doing in here?" "Uh, that would be ME!" I said.

I went back to Ohio before what I thought would be a permanent move to Hollywood. But my father was diagnosed with terminal cancer within days of my arriving back home. A newspaper ad said Fabio would be selling his cologne at a mall on the same day my father was to be released from a month-long hospital stay. "Are you going to see your buddy?" my father asked, thinking we were good pals. Then, my friends insisted I go to see if he would remember me. So I did.

Little did I know it would be the most bittersweet day of my life. I showed up at the mall, looking the part in a white pirate shirt and tight jeans. My hair hadn't seen a hairdresser in weeks, though. Hospital visits can screw up a schedule. Before you know it, I was the focus of a flurry of media attention. A reporter flew over to me almost immediately to ask "Sir, you with all this hair and in line with 800 women, there must be a story here." I had a "Separated At Birth" article from the newspaper I wanted Fabio to autograph that featured photos of him and me.

The reporter's pen couldn't seem to write fast enough as the crowd surrounded me. "I saw him the Joan Rivers Show!" somebody yelled. Another screamed "I saw him on American Gladiators!" The reporter scribbled furiously.

Before I knew it, I was ushered up to Fabio’s table like royalty. "Your face,” he said, “it looks very familiar to me." A woman behind me said "Yeah, no kiddin'!" I did get the distinct impression he was not happy to see this interloper stealing his thunder, which wasn't my intent. The store asked me to go onstage with him for publicity photos. The man just didn't look happy, but the crowd went wild. My friends couldn't believe and frankly, neither could I.

I left the mall euphoric from all the attention to pick up my father from the hospital. The high quickly left when I saw him in the wheelchair, 30 pounds lighter in just one month. I remember before we left having to pick up his medication and schedule some appointments.

I turned into a full-fledged adult that day. It was funny to see out of the corner of my eye the nurses’ heads popping out of the rooms checking out the guy in the pirate shirt with all the hair. The next day the Cleveland newspaper ran a glowing review about the "local cover model," but it absolutely savaged Fabio.

On subsequent stays at the hospital, my father said, the nurses asked him if his son was the guy from the newspaper. I like to think maybe he got a little better treatment because of it too.

Since then I have been tagged with the moniker "Ohio's Answer to Fabio." We just aren't quite sure of the question. I even entered a celebrity look-alike contest and won hands down. I just showed up and didn't even have to enter. The radio promoter said, "We know you; you're IN!" A limo ride to a movie theater red carpet opening and a free photo shoot were my prizes.

I’ve made my own name in the romance cover business now. The artists are now calling me to pose for their novel covers. My latest, Her Master And Commander, is a bestseller. The art director told me, "Everybody at the studio thinks you’re better-looking than Fabio."

"Then why am I not working more?" I cracked back.

Living in Ohio doesn’t help. Recently a woman at a bar asked me, "I don't mean to be an asshole, but are you that 'I can't believe it's not butter' guy?" Even with all my hair hidden under a bandanna I got that question. Cover model pals John Desalvo and Steve Sandalis, both former long-haired brunettes, have told me they got the "Fabio" taunts in public as well, so it comes with the territory, even if you’re not a blond.

I’m not complaining about being compared to Fabio. He paved the way for all of us and we are all eternally grateful. How many other male models can you name? And it's better than hearing "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Don Knotts?"