Hop on the B-train

They stay late at premieres, never far away from that last, lingering paparazzo. They take a gift bag—maybe two. No discreet “We’re just friends” for them, they mate and break up with each other noisily. They dance until all hours on the banquette at Les Deux Cafés or Bungalow 8 or wherever else was cool five minutes ago. They don’t hurry along the red carpet, cosseted by handlers and bodyguards; rather, they stop and smile and answer questions. They wave and wave—some even blow kisses. They’re working hard to be on a first-name basis with the world, even if they’re not there quite yet. But they’re striving. Ardently, publicly striving. They do it because they’re B-List—and that’s why we love them.

Well, because we can't all fit on the first train. As for me, deadma na lang sa hierarchy.