Saturday, July 24, 2010

Soda Man

dennis

There comes a time when a boy will brave all hurdles to satisfy his thirst—or his visual thirst, at least. I thought that tonight would be that time for me. I had it all planned days ago when I learned that Dennis Trillo would be in the city for a particular event as part of the Sandugo Festival. I was in for a surprise. Really, who was I kidding? It seemed the cosmic universe would not allow me to see him in person.

I spent the whole afternoon texting my friends, asking if they would kindly accompany me to the event. Two replied with promise, but I knew better than to expect for reasons that would eventually play a vital part in my choice. Someone to go with me was out of the question. But I had a contingency plan at hand: I was going to the event by myself.

One glimpse would be enough. I just wanted to see him in the flesh, regardless of the proximity. I wondered if he looked anything like he did in pictures. I was going to bring my camera, who knows I might be able to sneak backstage for some photo-op. I would scream his name aloud till my lungs gave out. The thought—the whole plan, really—seemed primitive and out of character. But it was Dennis Trillo for crying out loud; being primitive was excusable.

I had my mind made up. Until a friend texted me saying I probably could get stabbed at the boulevard where the event would be held. I was adamant at first, thinking it seemed far-fetched. But as I was picking out a shirt that I would pair with my favourite jeans, a thought occurred to me: what if I actually get stabbed?

The venue would be packed for sure. Suddenly I couldn’t imagine myself making through crowds of people scattered practically on every inch of the place. I couldn’t possibly bring myself to being surrounded by delinquents on the prowl for someone to rob, or—if things took out of their control—kill. I didn’t want to be on the news the next morning; I didn't want to be on the list of the casualties that unfortunately is becoming part of the festival each year. But really, don't all festivals have their casualties? And besides, I was certain a lot people smelled during those kinds of events. Past experiences may have taught me how to hold my breath for long periods of time, but I wasn’t going to try it this time.

I went out on our lawn and saw two searchlights that screamed Dennis’ name. I was terribly disappointed. But I knew better than to risk getting hurt for seeing my ultimate local celebrity boy crush. But I wasn’t going to wallow in disappointment; I went on-line and searched for pictures of Dennis. Sure, I already had a folder full of his pictures, but the act of typing his name on the search bar actually served as therapy.

At around 9 in the evening, two hours after the event supposedly started—and most probably the time, after all the inconsequential opening acts have performed, when Dennis would have come out into the stage—my friends texted me, asking if I did go by myself. The only response I gave was of disregard, not that I blamed anyone for the night's disappointment. Not completely, that is.

Yes, I may not have gone to the event to see him in person but I did get my fair share of Dennis tonight; I have already gratified my visual thirst. And that's all there is about Dennis, really. He's just a visual treat that I fancy. Because, after all, I'm just like any boy—and every person, really—who enjoys a damn good visual indulgence.