June 18 is my great pal Robby’s b-day. I blogged about his b-day two years ago; long-time readers may remember that one, but I’m too blogger-deficient to figure out how to do a link to that post. However, if you look in my archives under June 17, 2006, you’ll see that tribute to my fabulous friend---either I got his b-day wrong that year, or I posted a day early and didn’t edit carefully.
A lot of people deserve accolades on their birthday, especially this guy. So here’s what I think is great about Robby: He’s the type of guy EVERYONE loves. I mean everyone. Most people want to put a contract out on my head, but with Robby, they want to invite him over for dinner or have him baby-sit their kids. Well, the latter is taking advantage of him a bit, but you get the idea, they trust him; that or they are too cheap to hire a 14-year old.
How could you not help but love Robby? He’s scary smart (except in math, poor thing. We’ve totally bonded over that one), wickedly funny (if you need an acerbic quip, Robby is your guy), can cook like the second coming of Bruce Springsteen (technically, I’m not sure Bruce can cook, but the second-coming of Bruce has to be a good thing no matter what), and best of all, Robby makes fun of Republicans with a scathing sense of accuracy and humor. His specialty is George W. Bush, and recently-exposed, previously in-the-closet gay republicans. By the way, there was no pun intended with the use of the word “exposed.”
I wish I could be with Robby today, but instead, I’m stuck in Vegas. As I type this, I am looking out of my hotel window. I have a view of the Las Vegas Athletic Club’s parking lot across the street. Balding men and chunky girls get out of their cars and walk slowly inside as if they are walking to the scaffolds instead of a treadmill. On the other side of gym is the 215, with it’s limited options of going North into the new developments with their tiled terra-cotta roofs and just-like-next-door architect, or heading South past the lonely-looking strip malls and the build-it-and-they-will-come hopefulness of 24/7 off-strip casinos and countless retail clothing stores that stink of acrylic and deep discounts.
Watching this makes me miss Robby all the more, and I start thinking of West Hollywood, that lush town full of wonderful lushes, cute shops, and good restaurants. If I were in LA today, chances are I’d have lunch with Robby at Basix, the place we seem to go when we can’t think of where else to go, and besides, the food is so good and consistent why bother taking a chance on some new place that may disappoint? My favorite thing about West Hollywood is that Robby is four blocks away, and more often than not when we see each other, you’d think one of us would just walk over to the other one’s apartment, but NO, green-friendly people that we like to think we are, we get in the car and drive over. It’s one of those funny quirks about our friendship. Like when we start talking in July about what we will have for Thanksgiving dinner, or, when we hear a kid misbehaving in public, we turn to each other with slanted eyes and think the same evil thoughts. Before moving to LA, I hadn’t lived in the same town with Robby for over twenty years, but it felt like we were neighbors, even when the miles between us were long and many. We’d talk nearly every day, sometimes a few times a day, and I never felt like I missed a beat in his life. I knew who was pissing him off, what he made for dinner on Tuesday, what projects he was working on. It’s the same now, of course, except more often than not I get to sample Tuesday’s dinner or I get to see the play he is in and whoever is pissing him off is usually pissing me off, too.
It’s friends like Robby that make all the crap you have to deal with on a daily basis say, “huh, life isn’t that bad.” It’s looking forward to getting together with the Robby Williams of the world that gives you that burst of afternoon energy and makes you feel excited about what is coming up next, and afterwards, gives you warm memories to stockpile for all the cold-shoulder days we all get from time-to-time from perfect strangers or, say, my boss (yes, my boss in particular).
The only problem is, the world needs more Robby Williams.
So happy birthday, Robby, from a not-so-loveable old coot to a really loveable old coot. Cent’ anni!
