The weather should have been my tip-off but Murphy’s Law (“If anything can possibly go wrong, it will”) was far from my thoughts.
We were headed into the maws of Celebrity Central. But not without challenges.
Having no direct line to God or at least the gods at the Star Channel, just as I had feared, we had to stand in line.
For an hour.
In drizzling rain.
With other celebrity gawkers.
Me with my bad leg did not appreciate standing in line for an hour feeling like a well-cared for lawn. Na-uh.
The only place I could appreciate being at on a wind-driven rainy day was in bed but I valiantly tried to keep my claws and tongue sheathed as I could sense that my friend was trying desperately to rid me of my ennui. I didn’t want to be a buzz-kill (Pamatay Sigla) so I went along trying to make light of an awful situation.
Relief came when the conga-line was finally directed to begin snaking it’s way towards the studio entrance. In the downpour.
So this is how a studio looks like, I thought unimpressed. Everything looked cut-down to human size. The PAs were handing out duckpin sized balloons on sticks that I guessed we’d be encouraged to wave – on cue – before, during and after a celebrity’s “performance”. Will power prevented me from telling the PA outright that I was thankfully declining his invitation to be a trained monkey – I ducked behind my friend and let her carry the balloons meant for us two.
Seating. Way up. On rickety plywooded bleachers. Nearer my God to Thee, I wanted to sing in my head as we headed to the top steps of the bleachers. It got worse.
Obviously, more people in the studio would indicate the popularity of the show so while the actual seats were occupied in 2 seconds flat, the steps up the rickety plywooded bleachers were likewise offered to the more rabid fans with their banners proclaiming their love for their idol. This meant, of course, that as an occupant of the highest seats I had three choices if an urge (e.g., hunger, barfing or pissing) seized me, I could: (a) jump down (not feasible because of my bad knee); (b) step on their heads or push them down creating a domino effect (I know it’s evil but, c’mon, it is tempting) or (c) wade through exasperatedly while controlling my tongue from stabbing their excitement (Oh well). I chose “c”, an hour into the show, when my bladder threatened to implode and inflict me with incontinence.
I waded down but was intimidated by the sheer numbers I had to wade through again on my way up. Which lead me to option (d) Stay on the floor. Which I did.
For the next hour and a half.
I thought it was the lesser of two evils. Better than the screams of Mariel Rodriguez’ fans. Or the sight of their darkened butt cracks peeking through their too low-rise jeans. I wish I was spared that sight but the manifestations of evil demand attention – wherever it manifests itself.
I appreciated the performaces of Gary V. and Charlie Green, the kid from Britain’s Got Talent.
The rest ran from cheesy to vile.
Captain Boom – Jon Mullaly a.k.a. Jon Avila in a superhero outfit. Poor Jon – well if the money’s good. He was there in a promotional tie-up with an upcoming “fantaserye” – “Varga” (Vernie, the chanteuse taking up the cape?). Jon still looks cute, though, even with the fake abs on his costume. (Note: I’ve seen Jon work-out at the gym where I used to work out at. Although I am reasonably sure that he’s in good shape, I’m not 100% sure that he possesses the pecs and abs drawn on his costume. Maybe it’s the costume that antes up the cheesiness of his character – look at the second pic – he looks like he has “birthin'” hips.)
Today’s version of the 70’s Apat na Sikat – Christian Bautista, Erik Santos, Sarah Geronimo and Rachelle Ann Go. Admittedly, they have talent but to sing their lungs out, literally, from week to week has to be downright wrong – can’t their managers negotiate a clause in their contracts to allow them to give their larynxes a rest once in a while? Or better wardrobes?
Ai-Ai in space-drag. Ample support provided by a bevy of thunder thighs. ‘Nuff said.
They were celebrating Sarah’s birthday that day plus promoting her (then) upcoming movie with John Lloyd (anyone care to comment on how that movie fared at the tills?) True to form, the creative director of the show decided on a Cotillion-inspired entree prior to Sarah’s actual number. Unfortunately, Sarah almost suffered a Tara Reid-wardrobe malfunction when her heel caught the hem of her lace and yanked the top when she tripped. Thankfully, the top held and her maiden-head saved. For now.
Piolo and Sam singing “New York, New York” with Richard Poon. That really went well with the audience…(people, I’m being ironic here if you haven’t caught the drift) The only redeeming factor was the cuteness of Piolo and Sam (I’m not saying anymore lest I get bitch-slapped with a libel suit).
The Gold number. Inspired by the upcoming Olympics and the arrival of 2 former members of the 80s New Wave group Spandau Ballet – a showcase of the other (read: non-talented) hosts was presented cavorting to Gold (pampalubag-loob or consolation to their fans since these people could neither sing, dance or act with integrity). I’m not putting up pictures for obvious reasons. First up, a young love team – the guy was in tennis gear and serving up hits; the girl had the more embarassing duty – she was pantomiming swimming. If I had just tuned in, I might have mistaken her efforts for an interpretation of Rock Lobster by the B-52s. It was cringe inducing. Others portrayed basketball players, volleyball players, fencers (?), boxers, judokans (incidentally, for me, the saving grace of the whole tableau as he was the cutest and could actually do round-houses). I was waiting for their representation of the canoeing/kayaking, equestrian, sailing, rowing and triathlon events – none came. I guess the equipment must have been a bitch to carry.
Despite my litany of complaints, though – I did manage some moments of enjoyment. As when the the power was suddenly cut-off in the middle of the Gold pantomime. That was funny. And I’m not being ironic. It was just that the guys were so fricking into their roles (which, at least, didn’t require that they over-stretch themselves in the acting department) that you could actually feel their disappointment when their miming abilities were cut short by the power outage. As if doing good on this one number would be enough to justify their presence in limelight despite their obvious deficiencies in the talent area.
Speaking of ironies, the irony of a power outage in the network owned by the company supplying power to the Metro was not lost on the crowd. One host even attempted to make light of the situation. Nobody dared utter “systems loss“, though. Too controversial, I guess.
I distinctly remember my last moment of enjoyment – seeing the studio fade into a rainy haze as we high-tailed it out of there.
In contrast to our group’s deliberate steps into the maw of an afternoon variety show, our steps from it were abrupt as it was brought on by my companions’ hunger pangs. Leaving as we did could not have been more satisfying for me since I had breakfast and they had not.