You'd think between the three of us at least one of us would have remembered to bring toothpaste.

Joey knocks on the door as I run around getting ready. I decide not to take the extra three seconds to grab the toothpaste, figuring Joey has some. As it turns out, he doesn't. And neither of us is surprised to find that Ryan is toothpaste-less also, since he is the type of American boy who longs to be authentically British -- in every way, which includes poor dental hygiene.

Needless to say, that is just the first sign that our weekend trip to San Diego is going to bomb. I don't have much money, it's raining, our mouths feel like swamps and we are still too young to buy alcohol.

What were we thinking?

So, happily, we venture home on Sunday afternoon. The clouds loom. About half an hour up the 5 Freeway, Joey realizes he is almost out of gas. The little gas light is on. We continue.

There is not a gas station anywhere. We are by a military training place, and it's a barren wasteland all around, except for that nuclear power plant -- the one that everyone thinks is so funny because it looks like breasts. I don't think it's very funny. Oh well.

Joey is brave. "I'm just going to get off at the next exit and drive around until I find a gas station," he says. And that's what he does.

It's a quiet little beach town. Finally, we see a gas station. I hope Joey doesn't ask me to pitch in because I'm broke. Ryan and I wait in the car.

Joey comes back from gassing and we drive 50 feet to a few parking spaces and sit and smoke, stretch our legs and such. Then I see it. It's huge. It has motorcycles strapped to the back. It's a black Hummer, and I have never seen one before.

Then I see the hair.

That long luscious mane of sandy blond sex. It blows gently in the wind.

My eyes venture down to the white shirt, unbuttoned down to mid-sixpack. The hairless muscles flex with every click of the gas nozzle.

"Joey," I ask, "Is that...umm...that's that guy? The one on the romance novels? You know."

"You mean Fabio?"

Oh yes, that's the one. Joey doesn't believe me until I start laughing.

Then Joey laughs so hard he chokes. Ryan doesn't care much because British people are snobby, or so he thinks.

I realize that I can't pass up the opportunity. I grab my camera and Joey and run toward Fabio.

"Are you Fabio?" I ask. He turns around and deeply replies, "Well, yes I am."

I don't even talk to him, I forget that he's a person and not just a joke, so I simply ask him if I can get my picture taken with him. He agrees.

He's got me smooshed up almost into his armpit in a semi-headlock that I guess is supposed to be sexy. His arm is wrapped so tight I can hear his heart beat through layers of pectorals. Joey snaps a few pictures, I thank Fabio and begin to leave.

"Wait, I want a picture too," shouts Joey.

Fabio's face falls; he doesn't like the idea of being so close to another man, but he agrees. Joey is significantly less stuck to the man than I was. Fabio sort of holds him at arms distance as I snap the pictures. Then we sort of just run away.

Back on the freeway, I feel a little bad that we treated Fabio like a circus sideshow, but that feeling doesn't last long.

I see a black hummer coming up on our right. I get out my video camera and roll down the window and shout, "FABIOOOO!" I don't think he sees me.

But now I can tell all my friends that I met Fabio, and I had bad breath.