Somebody burst this, please

The bubble skirt is one of the most disgusting inventions of mankind, ranking high up there on the list together with those tiny "Cleopatra" nose-springs that desperate pug-nosed women can insert into their nostrils to pull them upwards from the inside, Hello Kitty, and Britney Spears. The bubble skirt is not only ugly, it also greatly detracts from the dignity of the wearer by making her look as if she were wearing adult diapers underneath.


Just look at Maja Salvador. Now even Sandara Park looks more dignified than her, and that says a lot. Of course I do not credit the bubble skirt entirely for the gross ugliness that this photograph seems to be showcasing. To some extent, it is also the clownish, undignified dance move, which sort of makes me wonder if stylishly-dressed people would dance this way. Hmm. Probably not. So this takes me back to crediting the vile bubble skirt with everything vile in this photograph. It makes people act like clowns and incontinent adults, which is just the worst combination ever.

[Photo from The Buzz! magazine.]

Split

Jennylyn Mercado should get her priorities straight, especially now that the new year is coming. Before running after boys who are already either attached or have already broken up with her or find her abhorrent, she should get her split ends treated first. Maybe the split ends are what's making her abhorrent to boys.


I wonder why some women value length of hair over quality of hair. Just because it's long doesn't mean it's pretty, and one is not automatically pretty because one's hair is long. See Jennylyn Mercado above. It only gives other girls more leverage when wanting to pull her hair off her head because she keeps trying to steal their boyfriends.

Justice

I've always thought someone as rich and beautiful and insane and crooked as Imelda Marcos would become even more beautiful with age by sheer force of her pact with the devil, an aura made even more fascinating by her fabulous sense of style and the vast number of her shoes and the international fame she has gotten for her sins, and the fact that she will sing only that one same song for all the occassions of her life.

Here she is in 1954:


And then in the sixties:


And even in the late seventies:



Yet lo and behold, Imelda in 2006:



Note the puffy, sagging face that a million facelifts cannot fix, and the general deterioration of her sense of fashion. She now looks like a retired public school teacher selling shoes.

Mystery solved

Whoever said that Filipinas do not know how to dress appropriately for any occasion? Case in point: Asia Agcaoili.


Note the tight, flowery tube top decorated with a fake flower which is in turn decorated with about two dozen silk ribbons that presumably hang to somewhere within the vicinity of her pelvis. Note, too, the two kinds of shoulder straps concentrated on just her right shoulder, the two different necklaces layered on her neck, the colored bangs that are covering her left eye, and the white hat with a red sash that perches awkwardly on her head, as if she wanted to plop something on her head because her outfit wasn't dressy enough yet she didn't want to smush her hairdo so much.

Now, where would one wear an outfit like this, hairy-looking foreigner by her side notwithstanding?

To a bordello?


Ah, to a dj's booth, where she does her hip little dj thing with her right eye doing the work of two eyes because her left eye is covered with the bangs, doing a little spinning while her double strap on her right shoulder keeps falling over that shoulder, and her left shoulder is busy keeping the dj's headphones in place, because said headphones cannot be worn properly as her head is already occupied by aforementioned white hat with red sash.

So this is what female djs wear to work. No wonder there are so little of them. It's such a difficult, difficult job and I bet they get stiff necks all the time, and pneumonia.

[Photo from Yes! magazine.]

To thine own self be true

And here we have another case of an actor waking up one morning not sure of his own identity.


In the case of Deither Ocampo, he believes he is George Estregan, him of the sideburns, the eerily thin mustachio, the layers of string necklaces peeking from an embroidered shirt open to show the sweaty chest, shiny pants, and sharp-toed shoes.

He has gone the way of Regine Velasquez thinking she is Mariah Carey, Geneva Cruz thinking she is Toni Braxton, Borgy Manotoc thinking he is Rudolph Valentino, Eric Santos thinking he is Ruffa Mae Quinto, and Maui Taylor thinking she is part British royalty. And that's just too bad for Diether. I've always thought that if an actor like him would have an attack of mild schizophrenia, he'd be thinking he's, well, George Clooney. And this look of his is just not it.

[Photo from The Buzz magazine.]

Just a suggestion

Regine Velasquez has had the same look for over four years now. Short shiny bobbed hair, long dresses with no sleeves and with necklines that drop to the waist to show her cleavage.







The color and print of the dresses may change, but the structure is the same. And no matter what the occasion, it's always, always this look. Sometimes I get the feeling she just keeps dyeing them or changing the appliques or adding glitter to the same exact set of, well, 10 dresses. Take all her photos for the past four years, render them in silhouette, and you have a long string of cutout people like the art project we all had to do at some point or another in grade school.

Perhaps for her New year's resolution she can include "start wearing sleeves and a different bodice and neckline, and stop dating married men and/or those who are already involved."

[Photos from pinoy.rickey.org]

Separated at birth

The same ass-crack. The same angle. The same come-hither-if-you-dare-but-if-you-do-dare-you'll-get-the-sex-video-of-a-lifetime look.



It's either they had run out of uncomfortable poses and had decided to air out their labias for the afternoon, or they had found the meaning of life sitting this way.

And then I will not say anything more because it's Christmas and I am pretending to have a soul.

The sleepwear look

So Cindy Kurleto woke up one morning and decided to just throw a robe over her camisole top from the night before and go stand in front of a lot of people with a microphone, and smile and pretend that she has already brushed her teeth. Never mind her hair, which she probably wore that way while asleep, and her makeup, which looks as if it were a remnant of the day before, and that she had even forgotten her Silverworks bling-bling, which would have taken the attention off her rumpled tired-from-yesterday look. At least her lips look properly glossed-over, courtesy of her greasy tocino-sinangag-and-itlog breakfast.

At least I am assuming that this photo was taken in the morning. And I do fervently hope it was taken in the morning. Otherwise, I would have no explanation to offer for why she had been running around in sleepwear and stale makeup the entire day looking puffy and dishevelled.

But come to think of it, I can always come up with something, although I prefer to let it go for now and just give her the benefit of the doubt because it's Christmas.

[Photo from Yes! magazine.]

Ignorance is bliss

I tried looking the outfit up in other magazines and online, but it really, truly is an actual orange fake leather harness with gold-plated buckles over a gauzy light-colored long dress which would have looked fine on its own for some sort of summery brunch with one's grandmother and not for the evening concert where she was appearing when she wore the harness over it.

So she really should have worn something else entirely. Poor girl. And she looks so happy, too.



{Photos from Yes! magazine.]

Organic

It looks like some sort of giant shiny bronze fluted lichen grew on her chest overnight, and will soon spawn more growths that will creep upwards towards her face and eat that smug smile off her face that had sprung there after she slept with Andrew Wolfe.

[Photo from The Buzz magazine.]

Saved by the feet

She is wearing this shapeless yellow sundress that is seemingly from the fifties over an animal-print blouse with poufy sleeves that is seemingly from the seventies and wearing a long string of large pearls around her neck that is seemingly from the eighties, perhaps hoping to look retro in an eclectic and lost kind of way (no wonder she does look lost).

The black leggings aren't helping, either.


Encircled, though, is her outfit's only good feature: her footwear. And when this photo was taken, the realization of all this must already be dawning on her.

[Photo from The Buzz magazine.]

Famous last words

Angelica Panganiban on national television: Bili na po kayo ng kopya ng Maxim. Talagang mahihimatay kayo sa ka-seksihan ko dito. (Please buy a copy of Maxim. I'm sure you will faint when you see how I sexy I look there.)

No wonder she was so eager to show people her ka-seksihan. Because in the magazine she looks sexy and fabulous, like in these 2007 San Miguel Beer calendars that came out recently:




But the truth is that she really looks like this:




I should have known. No girl with as fat a face can have a body like the one in Maxim and those calendars. Really, those calendars should have been autographed NOT by Angelica Panganiban but by the Photoshop artist. (Man, is he/she awesome! Man, is he/she going to get rich!)

But "in fairness" to the poor mutated and manipulated subject, her breasts are quite large.

I don't get it

And now we segue to that person that was mentioned at the ending of the previous post. He is supposed to be a gigolo, as many actresses have sworn to have been his girlfriend at one time or another and have complained of his unfaithfulness to them with other actresses who in turn have admitted to having been his girlfriends, and all the time he has been married -- and still is -- to one woman for about three centuries.

I would not have even mentioned him here if he looked like Either Pierce Brosnan or Blair Underwood or Marlon Brando before Marlon Brando turned old and pudgy and moved to Hawaii. But have a look:



Not only does he have a round moon face, a fat nose, thin old-granny-like lips, eyes that are almost disappearing behind the thick and fleshy folds of his upper and lower eyelids, and is wearing the collar of his sports shirt as if it were one of those starched trubinized bright white long sleeved shirts that everyone seemed to be wearing in the mid-eighties, he also has bangs. And said bangs look teased and hairsprayed. Give him some glittery bright blue eyeshadow and some rouge and lipstick and he could be the fat and desperate and off-key and aging version of one of the singers of Duran Duran. How was he able to be a gigolo with this look? Did those actresses merely had bad taste in men? Or did they have too much faith in themselves that they could teach him the proper way to wear his clothes and style his hair and also cure him of his chronic infidelity?

I suppose this photograph was taken for some sort of promotional purpose, as I cannot imagine why beauty queen Lara Quigaman, a beautiful British-educated woman with presumably good taste, would ever have herself photographed with Bong Revilla out of her own volition. If anything, she was probably thinking: "... ... ..."

I know. I can't understand it, either.

The plot thickens

Now who can ever forget this outfit, and the famous line that went with it: "Huwag nila itong maliitin dahil hindi madali ang mag-Eskinol sa puwit gabi-gabi." ("They shouldn't belittle this because it's not easy to apply astringent on one's ass every night.")

This photo, taken at an awards night, and way before Rosanna Roces' life took a nosedive, makes me quite nostalgic of the time when she did not yet have a confusing feud with Vicky Belo, have not been Mon Tulfo's girlfriend, did not have a sex video, have not gained two hundred pounds, have not announced on The Buzz that she had been gotten pregnant by the director of photography of the movie Feng Shui and that she had miscarried and all this while she was still married to another man, and did not have a grandchild from a daughter who had been gotten pregnant at sixteen by the equally-underaged son of a senator who is also an actor and who is , strangely enough, a "happily married womanizer."

And we thought, gawking at Rosanna Roces' ass while she was presenting an acting award a few years ago, that it could not get any worse.

The covering

There's absolutely nothing mystical about Mystica. Sure, her entire corporal identity has already been horribly altered -- hair colored, nails pasted over, skin bleached, pupils color-contact-lensed, armpits and pudenda waxed, and so on and so forth -- and we might wonder what she looked like before her transmogrification, but we can only assume that she looked even worse, and we don't want to waste time wondering about that, as we are already given enough fodder for thought with her constant demystification of herself.

She does, however, come across as being quite impoverished, as she seems to never have enough funds for any outerwear after having spent for the upkeep of said transmogrification and demystification. She always seems to be dressed in modified underwear, and they're not even Victoria's Secret. Take, for instance, this blue lace body suit with the opaque metallic silver covering the legs from the mid-thigh downwards. It looks rather of the cheap and itchy kind, and she would feel cold inside a mall or a cab. And she has a strange sense of modesty, too. I mean, if one has a choice of which body part to cover, i would imagine that one's last choice would be one's knees.

A remarkable generic flatness

Great. Yet another generic-looking young actress wannabe with generic-looking any-occasion makeup (with which she can go malling and attend a children's party and guest at The Buzz with no need to darken the eyeshahow), generic-looking stiff, straightened, colored, layered hairstyle (which she shares with about 30 million other Filipinas), a generic-looking pose (the same awkward, unbecoming pose that every contestant of Little Miss Philippines used, combined with a fake smile) and even the generic pink satin dress which, from the looks of it, is just one large swath of cloth folded in a bias and swathed over her front and pinned to her waist by a generic dressmaker with a generic sense of style, to create a generic-looking outfit that every generic low-imagination bridesmaid and generic low-budget debutante had been wearing since 1997.

Redemption

Oh, Ms. Vilma Santos. It's just such a relief that she was able to redeem herself by being a surprisingly capable and efficient Mayor of Lipa City and has, since the turn of the century, stuck to classic pant suits in mild and neutral colors.

Because there is no excuse -- NOT being beautiful, NOT being the Star for All Seasons, NOT being a multi-awarded actress, NOT having been married to yummy Edu Manzano, NOT even being in the eighties, the most horrific decade, fashion-wise -- for her dressing up like this:


It looks like a piece of orange tulle that was supposed to decorate the ceiling for the supposedly fabulous occasion had fallen on her head. Also, her earrings and her choker do not match, and the choker looks like something my Grandmother used to decorate one of her life-sized saint statues (I think it was Santa Rita, the patron saint of lost causes). The dress itself looks limp and saggy and looks like something a statue of a saint would be draped in, if it weren't so orange, and if it didn't have shoulder pads. But that's not the worst part.

The worst part is that she is wearing orange gloves.

Revived!

Since the Laitera has been quiet for seven months and the Laitera doesn't want people to think that she has gone the way of starlets who have been gotten pregnant by either old politicos or some other middle-aged wig-wearing forgotten actors or yet one of those never-heard young actor-wannabes, and thus she has opted to just sit it out in an obsure provincial town without internet connectivity and spend her days reading trashy celebrity magazines and watching "The Buzz" with herr bloated feet up on a bamboo chair while waiting for the baby to come out and then be invited by Joebert Sucaldito to an interview where she can air out the baby's father's dirty laundry out on radio, the Laitera has decided to create this post to say that she has not been gotten pregnant and that she is still baby-less and thin and bitchy and fabulous as ever!

Well, truth is, contrary to what her detractors keep saying, the Laitera has got a life. But since she has also spent part of this life gathering all the celebrity trash magazines she could get her perfectly manicured hands on, she would like to declare this blog revived as of December 15.

Let the panlalait begin again!