Kitty Litter
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
"Slumbook" Entry 1
Slumbook Entry: Who Is Your Crush (or, To All The Men I’ve Loved Before)
Haven’t done a “slumbook” entry in some time, so here’s a funny one: “Who is your crush?”
If you think I’m going to talk about real men here, no way! That wouldn’t be fun, and I might get sued by the exes I’ve got on friendly terms already. (And that’s a nice topic for another entry: why some people cannot even utter their exes’ names without a twitch, and why some people can keep them on good terms. Hmmm.)
Instead, let’s talk about celebrities who have caught my fancy one way or another over the years. Someone once described the celebrity crush as being like a teenaged girl’s training bra for relationships: you grow into it, and it gets you ready for the real thing. In that case, boy was I ever unprepared for the real world.
I hope you have your asthma inhaler because this is embarrassing for me, and hilarious for those friends who know about it.
When I was growing up, there were plenty of men to choose from on TV, and my choices included Erik Estrada of “CHiPS,” the men on the soaps “Dynasty” and “Falcon Crest,” particularly Lorenzo Lamas; David Hasselhoff of “Knight Rider”; and Pierce Brosnan of “Remington Steele.” I swooned over Luke in “Star Wars” too. The eyes had it; if deep-set eyes were paired with a husky voice, I was gone. Colonial mentality rules; at the age of nine, I’d determined that I wanted to marry a foreign guy. (Who’d’ve thought I’d wind up with a man who looked foreign, all right…albeit Korean?)
I was the kind of girl who went for what she wanted, regardless of the consequences. In 1985, I decided I wanted Robby Rosa, member of Menudo and lead singer. He personified the type which would become the kind of male guaranteed to send my ovaries into an uproar: tall, lean (and somewhat rugged), deep-set eyes and thick eyebrows, and the kind of voice that made me want to marry him at “hello.” So I pestered my mother, who had showbiz connections, into pulling a few strings, and I got to meet him several times, thanks to her ingenuity. I have pictures cuddling up to him, and even one of him kissing me, this time thanks to his friend Ricky Martin. In short, I lived the teenaged girl’s fantasy of meeting the idol and getting up close and personal.
But such easy success turned my head and set my standards a bit high. I decided I wanted a guy who was a celebrity, not understanding that it was just a case of me wanting eye candy on my arm and not a real person.
I went through a brief flirtation with local celebrities (not literally) after Menudo’s star sank. I watched shows like “Triple Treat” because of the singer Keno, and “Palibhasa Lalake” (ugh) because of Richard Gomez, and silly movies like “Huwag Mong Buhayin ang Bangkay” for Jestoni Alarcon, and “Pik Pak Boom” for the celebrity cast. And if you think it didn’t cause me physical pain to write that, you are dead wrong.
But in my senior year in high school, I set my sights on Benjie Paras, a calculated move, as he was still a basketball rookie and had all his hair. I could get into his school, the state university, and I could figure out how to meet him. Or so I thought.
I worked briefly for a basketball fan magazine in order to meet him, and sent him my sexiest photo in my mermaid-like sagala outfit. Unfortunately all I got was a bunch of panting phone calls from his driver, who apparently was in the habit of opening his mail.
Certainly I got to know Benjie on a “hi, hello, um I forgot your name but hi anyway” basis, but no further. The last I ever saw of him in UP was on the way to my Math I finals. I ran into him on the stairs and he shushed me when I asked why he was taking the Math I finals when he was already on his sixth year of school.
Time to turn my sights back on foreigners, I decided. No particular member of the Brat Pack of the 80s interested me, but as a group I liked them.
Who is my type today? The basics have remained constant, although my standards have become more flexible. For one, after seeing the “Harry Potter” movies, I told Polar Bearball that he would have to move over and let someone else father my children, as I wanted a son who looked like Daniel Radcliffe (“Harry”).
Who else do I fixate on? David Caruso on CSI: Miami. Sean Connery. Nicholas Brendon and Anthony Stewart Head of “Buffy: The Vampire Slayer.” Will Smith. Simon on “American Idol.” And in response to the obvious question, yes, I am sick. All foreigners? Dunno why; the locals aren’t too much to my liking these days, and I’m sure they don’t care.
But they all pale in comparison to the celebrity crush I have on Oded Fehr. When I saw “The Mummy” with Polar Bearball, I flipped over him. He played the dark, mysterious Ardeth Bay, descendant of the Medjai. Those eyes! Those lips! The hair! That, that…voice! Those romance-slash-bodice-ripper-novel looks!
(Weird aside: I dreamt of him last week. I was supposed to be at some movie set with Goldie Gold, my best friend, and I told him, “You look different with your clothes on.” Not that I’ve ever seen him naked. But if anyone feels like putting him in my Christmas gift pile, Gawd bless you and thank you!)
I have an unfortunate tendency to follow the careers of those I was a fan of, and the results are mostly disappointing. Many of them have wound up selling questionable products on infomercials.
But I saw that Oded Fehr’s career has picked up; he’s playing lead on the UC: Undercover show on Star World. At first, I was unhappy that he’d cut his hair short. But later, I found myself eagerly awaiting the show. I watch it regularly, although if you make the mistake of asking me what the plotline is, you won’t get anything beyond “God I love his leather jacket! I wonder what cologne he wears?” If the guy ran a phone sex line, I’d bankrupt myself calling him up; I bet hearing “Please state your name,” would sound like “You have lovely skin; I’d like to taste it,” coming from him. Oooh.
Excuse me. I think I better stop talking about the guy before I start turning this into a porn entry.
Someone once told me that at “my age” I shouldn’t have crushes anymore. And why not? Every reputable sex expert will tell you that there’s nothing wrong with that. I encourage Polar Bearball’s crushes on celebrities because I know there’s no chance that he’ll actually try to cart off the entire Viva Hot Babe squad; for one, he hates having to make conversation with bimbos. Ogling celebrities allows me to indulge in fantasy, and to appreciate male beauty. My Polar Bearball is man enough for me, sure, but there’s a certain thrill to looking at what you know you can’t have, except in dreams. So long as I know where to draw the line, no problem there.
Now it’s time for me to get back to the show I don’t actually watch, but often see. Tee hee.
Labels: celebrity crushes, funny stories
