Starstruck

More than 24 hours have passed, yet I am still trying to get rid of the laughing fit that propelled itself some 30 minutes after the wedding hosting gig that I did at the Westin Philippine Plaza. I am not sure if the giggles were due to a sudden plateau in my pre-hosting hysteria, or the more than six glasses of Chilean red wine, or the singers' constant funny enunciation of lyrics. Or perhaps that 3-minute photo session with Imelda Romualdez-Marcos.

Yes. That's probably it. It was totally uncharacteristic of me to come up to a, uhm, celebrity, and perhaps ask for an autograph, let alone a photograph with me.

I remember back in the province when I was still a young boy, say 10 or 11, when a group of then-"promising" young stars came to grace the town fiesta's event(s). Their names escape me at this moment, but I distinctly remember having watched them in the boob tube in a daily afternoon variety show called That's Entertainment. The young man was a handsome lad with curly hair, nice pearly whites, really kick-ass Topsiders (it was such a fad back then), and a very sweet-smelling cologne (yes, I could appreciate nice scents at that age already!). The young lady, supposedly the young lad's "love team", was a svelte almost-coltish mestiza with blue contact lenses, [almost] naturally-blonde hair, and a face only an angel or princess could possibly have. A window in their otherwise busy schedule parading around town gave them a momentary rest period...only to be broken off by an impromptu photo session with their screaming and adulating fans who were already queued down the stairs of the municipal hall on a moment's notice. That time they were there, I happened to be with a church groupmate slash friend named Cleo who desperately wanted to see the male matinee idol. Despite her knowledge of my lack of curiosity for That's Entertainment in Bataan, she incessantly begged me to go with her, replete with matching fake tears and theatrical fainting spells. I obliged after eight minutes.

Finally making it to the top of the stairs and already next in line for the photo ops, I told Cleo I was going to be at the second floor veranda watching the still ongoing serenata of a from-out-of-town marching band. She was way too excited to even hear me mutter the words, and so I just left...only to come back because squeezing myself out was as impossible as, well, having Ben Redulla have a photo session with an actor/actress. The minute the door opened and Cleo and I were ushered in to meet the stars, I started to vehemently excuse myself from the photo ops. This whole chunk of episode, by the way, is such a memory black out for me...but what I can remember from the bits and pieces of recollection was that the personal assistants were insisting profusely that I stopped being a snob and just jump in the picture, as the stars were waiting...and me being mortified with the vision of friends teasing me on end for being starstruck with small-time stars...and me being literally dragged into the photo session nook and, finally, having my picture taken with them with my face contorted as if being made to eat raw salamander. I promise you, this was one memento I was not intending to keep.

Mega-fast forward to adulthood. Coming from a trip from Vegas in 2004, where I saw Celine Dion, Cher Bono, Emeril Lagasse, Leonardo Di Caprio and Nicolas Cage up close and did nothing fan-ish, I almost collided at the Honolulu Airport with Jasmine Trias, then still hot for her stint at the American Idol. I came in a Continental Airlines flight, while she was arriving from an Aloha Air from somewhere in the West Coast, I think. There was an instantaneous pandemonium as the fans and airport staffs and friends and bystanders shouted out her name and waved placards saying how proud they are of her and her being Hawai'ian. In the midst of all this, I was busy lugging my carry-on, and fumbling for my boarding ticket back to the Pacific. After being in a more than 15-hour trip with no shower or decent Pinoy-style taking a dump, getting starstruck was the least of my concerns. I gave the walking Jasmine a perfunctory glance, and I asked for my final boarding ticket from the attendant. I think I may have gotten irritated at the check-in clerk for not paying attention to us customers in the check-in counter and instead just be gloating at the celebrity. What a cluck.

There are more. Just a couple of hours earlier, coming from a dinner of La Paz Bachoy and Fish Kinilaw at the food court of SM Makati with Jeffrey, I noticed a holdup in the stream of people walking towards the exit. Upon reaching the exit and after checking out what in God's name was causing all the commotion, I found out that a young actor with an incredibly beautiful face and immaculately white complexion was being ambushed for hell of a lot of photo ops with fans--local and foreign. Same as with Jasmine, I just gave a perfunctory glance, and I trotted off to the cab terminal. No fuss.

Am I too indifferent? And even if I were, what's wrong with not being googly-eyed over people that are no different from us in terms of taking a dump or a piss, and need for sleep, air and water? End of argument.

Enter Imelda Marcos.

Hosting my probably-THE-wedding-to-top wedding last night, I was, more than being starstruck, nerve-wracked. I shouldn't, considering that my script--which has been proofed and sanitized by the bridal party--was neatly printed in chronological order on 27 neat white unruled index cards, which were safely stashed in the right front pocket of my recently-purchased black four-button suit. What was causing the fidgets was the fact that on top of the 650+ local and foreign guests who would be attending, a number of very important government, society, and business personalities were attending. There was PGMA, the Vice-Prez, De Venecia, Ebdane, Aboitiz, Tan, Hirohiko, Chavit, Atienza, Gordon, Defensor, a Supreme Court Justice, an entire Japanese and Singaporean delegation, and a legion of other biggies. And, oh. there's Madam Imelda Marcos.

Wedding reception went well. I could see from the smiles in the newlyweds as well as the wedding coordinator, plus that thank-God-for-her-kind-words lady who said that I was particularly good at making the event such "a smooth, proper, simple, and manageable" one. With that, and the seven or so glasses of red wine, I walked off my exhaustion from standing all night at the rostrum and doing the fake confident smile. I was halfway between the grand ballroom and the holding area for the coordinators and performers when Madam Imelda paused--and posed--with her entourage to have a photo taken by the emerald sculpture at the hotel hallway junction. Without thinking, I propped my Nokia 6230i into the wedding coordinator's hand, turned it to Night Mode, and had a photo shoot with Madam. Upon seeing that the first shot was blurry, I came up to the First Lady and sheepishly said, "Madam, our first photo did not turn out right. Could you indulge me with another one?", to which she sweetly said yes, replete with a half-hug on my waist. When the wedding coordinator was giving me back my phone, Madam amiably asked her for me, "Oh, did you get it right this time?" I was endeared.

Yes, for the first time, I was officially starstruck. After all, as that famous shoe store in Manhattan has put in their poster/place card, "we all have a little of Imelda in us".

No further comment, your Honor. I am still laughing my hearts out...and re-convincing myself that they are history's villains.