Today my pal Robby turns 23. Again.
It’s more an anniversary than a birthday. We both stopped counting years ago. This must be the 20th anniversary of Robby’s 23rd birthday. As for me, I’m only on the second anniversary of mine. Robby counts better than I do.
To call Robby a good friend is too weak. He is a part of my life, just like my left hand is a part of my life, or my split ends are, or good cabernet and expensive moisturizer. Prada is not as much a part of my life as I would like it to be, but I have Robby to cheer me up.
Robby is the last of the renaissance men. He can do it all: he is a great photographer, the kind who captures the essence of a moment, whether it makes you want to laugh or tugs a little at you somewhere deep inside.
Years ago, he was a very good poet, but he has either stopped doing that or hasn’t shared of his work in years (maybe he got tired of me asking how he could do that without rhyming). I remember he got a poem published in college, and everyone told him how good it was. He later told me how surprised he was at the poem's success because all he had been doing when he wrote it was sitting around the house eating Cheetos.
Robby can dance, and his talents have landed him on my childhood heart-throb’s talk show: Donny Osmond. Robby even sings, and once he wrote a song to the tune of “Don’t Cry for me Argentina.” He called it “Don’t Cry for me Marlon Brando.” He sang it for me one night, too many years ago, in LA at a cabaret that I'm not sure exists anymore. It was one of those perfect nights that in retrospect makes you feel that magic does exist.
Among his many talents, he is one of the funniest people I know, and nothing makes me laugh like his imitation of an old Southern woman, or of Blanche Dubois, whom we both consider a viable role model. After all, she had such great lines.
He can cook dishes that will give your mouth an orgasm. He’s an actor in LA who doesn’t have to wait tables. He not only acts, but he produces, and when he tells you he produces, it’s not just a line at a cocktail party. He produces theater, real theater, not puppets in the backyard like I used to do and called myself a producer. Critics love his work. That in and of itself is an achievement.
On top of all that, he has the talent to do the most important thing anyone in life can ever do: throw a great party and make you feel like the honored guest.
Robby has done a lot in his 23 years. But talent doesn’t make you a good friend. It doesn’t make you feel that someone is a part of your life, like your hand or your jar of Erno Lazlo. To do that, a person has to be there for you. He has to put up with all your phases, hang in there with you when you go from thinking that you will be the next William Faulkner, to maybe the next Nora Ephron, to the next writer who wrote that one book that climbed up to about #50 on the NYT list and then it fell off and we haven’t heard from her since.
For a person to be a part of your life for 20odd anniversaries of your 23rd birthday, he has to call you when you haven’t called him in a while. He has to not give up on the friendship, even though you haven’t lived in the same town for over 20odd years. He also has to be the person you call when you are in desperate need of either a really good laugh or a really good conversation. He’s the therapist who doesn’t charge, he’s the go-to person when you have an odd question, like, “Who sang ‘Boogie Nights’?” And he’s the person you miss when you realize, “I haven’t spoken to him in three days.”
So Happy Birthday, Robby, my fabulous friend. You don’t look a day over 23.
