Still gots the fizz

Aside from writing kilometric drivel week in and week out for this reputable newspaper (which thankfully has not disowned me just yet), I have struggled to maintain a B-movie star popularity status in the local media over the past several years. 

A few of you may have seen me mug my way through GMA News TV’s Best Men, where I expel tidbits of male wisdom while ballroom dancing clad in a body-hugging sequined shirt that exposes my cleavage down to my navel, attempting extreme stunts on a skateboard (which has led to my current predicament: wearing a fiberglass cast on my right hand. I tell you, typing right now is a b*tch), and helping relieve adolescents of their foreskin with a manunuli (I didn’t do any of the relieving, by the way, I just did the commentary).

For the morally ambiguous among you, you may remember my self-defecating — este, self-deprecating — appearance on a late-night TV show that comic Tim Tayag and I created, the critically-acclaimed (the MTRCB was very critical of us), cult hit (the cults have since gone into hiding) The Men’s Room — a comedy program that included as guests scantily-clad starlets named after coup leaders or ice cream flavors and… well, that’s pretty much it. The “comedy” on the show resulted from the fact that we were as scantily clad as our female guests (Tim and I have since spent years in self-flagellation and on medication to cleanse us of our sins).

However, I hazard to guess that when someone from my generation — the post-EDSA 1 generation that grew up with red rotary payphones, pagers and a barrage of Joey de Leon-Rene Requiestas movies — remembers me, it is most fondly (not because they fondled themselves when they thought of me) for helping to carbonate their growing-up years. 

Because, lumped together with their memories of rushing home from school to catch the Thursday edition of That’s Entertainment, is the faint memory of a commercial featuring a pudgy, wavy-haired adolescent in an oversized Pink Panther T-shirt and puruntong shorts who reluctantly trudged to the neighborhood sari-sari store to buy a bottle’s worth of mantika for his mom. Despite his efforts to remain discreet while buying mantika, he encounters the neighborhood bully Jake at the sari-sari store who asks him “Anong bibilhin mo, ha (What are you buying)?” The puruntong shorts-wearing boy hides the empty bottle behind his back, fakes a smile and answers “Royal Tru-Orange.” Then, without warning, the tindera Aling Flor shoves a plastic bag of bagoong in Jake’s face. Jake cringes, gingerly picks up the bag of bagoong and slinks away in shame. Meanwhile, the chubby teenager triumphantly walks away with a bottle of mantika while merrily chugging away at his orange soft drink (and thankfully, not chugging away at the bottle of mantika).

That was me. I was Joey, the chubby, be-pimpled, fashion-unconscious Royal Tru-Orange boy.

(And I think my contemporaries still recognize me because aside from the stress lines that have been chiseled onto my forehead, I have managed in Dorian Gray-like fashion, to keep my boyhood looks in suspension since 1989. At least that’s what I pay people to say about me.)

What? A self-inflicted lobotomy has excised your brain of all things ‘80s? Well, then, you can watch a couple of those Royal commercials online on YouTube — just search for “RJ Ledesma Royal Tru-Oange.”

(Unfortunately, a royal chunk of those commercials are not online because my younger sister — who also played my sister Trixie in the series of commercials — has warned me not to upload any more commercials if I wish to live out the rest of my life with no more fractured limbs.)  

Even today, I still get a few people on the streets who give me a long, hard stare trying to figure out why my face seems familiar. And, truth be told, I am quite flattered by their stares (unless their stares are meant to undress me with their eyes. If that is the case, then they should pay me some royalties first). So when I receive a prolonged stare, it can mean one of two things: they want to beat me to a pulp, or my commercials struck a sentimental chord in their cheesy Pinoy hearts (admit it, you still sing the lyrics to Total Eclipse of the Heart when nobody is watching).

The situations depicted in the “Joey” Royal Tru-Orange commercials were vintage ‘80s: soirees where you played truth or dare, calling your date on a rotary phone to ask if she could go with you to the school dance, or actually writing out a tacky love letter to your crush. (For my readers below 20 years old: you may find this hard to believe, but there was no Facebook, no Twitter, no text messaging, no e-mail. Yes, we were that prehistoric.)

Out of the commercials that aired from 1988 to 1991, some were more memorable than others. Joey calling Jenny for a date. Joey mistaking Jenny’s older brother for her boyfriend. Joey tossing a love letter cum paper airplane to Jenny, only to watch it land on the teacher’s desk. Joey playing truth of consequence with his barkada while stealing a kiss from Jenny. Joey and Jake jockeying for a chance to dance with Jenny in a disco. Joey’s barkada asking his sister out on a date. (Oh, and film buffs take note: the Royal commercials even had quite the directorial pedigree, including Lino Brocka, Ishmael Bernal, Jun “Mr. Shooli” Urbano, Peque Gallaga and Lore Reyes.)

And up to today, I still do get the occasional question about my brush with Royalty, such as “Did they really give you a lifetime’s supply of Royal Tru-Orange?” “Did you really go out with Jenny?” “How did you deal with your legion of imaginary female fans?”

True, my brief adulation during those years was quite an ego massage. I recall the first time somebody recognized me in public. He pointed emphatically at me, wailed “Joey!” and then mimed taking a swig from a bottle. I feigned coolness, but deep inside, I was freaking ecstatic! I was recognized! And I was still freaking ecstatic the second, third, and fourth time. I definitely had my “freak” on. 

Of course, there were also teenagers twice my size and with the I.Q. of a walnut who would scream in my face, “Hoy Joey, bili ka na ng mantika!” or “Hoy Joey, san yung bagoong mo!?” then laugh like they would have a seizure. That was less freaking ecstatic.

Then there was the whole autograph-signing phenomenon! Nowadays, nobody asks for my autograph unless paid by my yaya to do so. But during my carbonated heyday, my signature actually had a value other than paying my overdue bills.

Then there were other pogi-scoring points: I remember when I could get into Euphoria Disco for free (thank you, Louie Y!) and even bring in the (forgive the ‘80s parlance) “chicks.” The other perk of pseudo-celebrity-hood was my brief romp into ‘80s showbiz: I was featured in a teen magazine (and quoted horribly out of context); I guested on That’s Entertainment, and even got to call Inday Badiday “Ate Luds” on Eye to Eye (what could be more showbiz than that?).

So, 22 years after the commercial first aired, and as my carbonated popularity has finally gone flat, are there still lingering perks from the Royal commercial? Well, I consider it both flattering and humbling that the character of “Joey” has become embedded (much the same way that reporters are embedded with platoons in war zones) in the memories of thirty-somethings as a pop cultural icon of the ‘80s. In fact, the “Joey” series was fourth place in the Pilipino Advertising Klasiks (Pilak) awards. (First place went to the late Bert “Tawa” Marcelo’s “Isang Platitong Mani” commercial, so being one of the top commercials was no laughing matter.)

My Royal career was a guilty pleasure, and it was good while it was lasted. Was it fun? Most of the time. Was it surreal? Certainly. Was it cheesy? My cholesterol levels don’t lie. But do I ever regret being Joey? Not one pulpy bit.

I don’t know if I will ever have another carbonated brush with the kind of reality that I enjoyed back in the ‘80s. But all that I am really hoping for now is to have my image and likeness merchandised on notebook covers that are sold in National Bookstore so that when my daughter attends pre-school, she can proudly show hers off to her blissfully ignorant classmates and say (sniff, sniff…) that that person with the cheesy smile and the eternally boyish looks is her dad.

And what is my secret to eternal youth? Somewhere in a hermetically sealed Swiss vault, there is a yellowing Royal Tru-Orange poster with droopy cheeks, deep-set eye bags, a wrinkled forehead and an emancipated scalp.

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My book It Only Hurts When I Pee: RJ Ledesma’s Imaginary Guide to Bodily Gases, Pink Parts and Hair Loss is available in National Bookstore, Powerbooks and Bestsellers. They make for a great holiday gift as reading material, paperweight or toilet paper.