No matter how many times...

I watch the replay of American Idol, Carrie Underwood still beats Bo Bice.

Snakes alive.

Skeletons from the closet

Going through old cds is much like reading love letters returned from an ex-girlfriend, embarrassing and self-destructive. Truly this is the true representation of once great decisions turned sour over time, and moments of inspiration that come few and far between.

While cleaning out my CD collection I was astounded to fine such rare works as Tim Finn sitting along side Rachmaninoff. Ech. Remember Charles and Eddie? Tom Cochrane? Too many one hit wonders haunt my musical past.

Moreover, bad flashbacks of big hair, choreographed poses and wagging tongues were wrenched from the dark corners of my brain and puked upon the table as Cinderella, Saigon Kick and Ugly Kid Joe stared stupidly upwards at me as if I'd shook them from a drug-induced stupor.

So as I packed these best forgotten relics of my musical adolescence, I solemnly promise to only buy what is truly good.

And torrent the rest. =P

A Day for the Proletariat

While the labor of Manila was out in the streets I was gleefully indulging in what may prove to be my financial undoing, a morning at an art gallery.

Rina and I left the house at 930 this morning, made a quick swing to PPT to fetch my dad and JJ, then down Edsa extension to F.B. Harrison and into the quaint compound where Tito Albert's gallery is located.

The moment we entered the compound, it felt as if we had slipped into a kinder gentler Manila. A soft canopy of leaves sheltered the one-and-a-half car driveway and two-storey houses lined either side of the road with eight foot high grilled windows staring wide-eyed at our approach. I seriously thought that people in white americanas were going to come filing out of the houses. White men absent, we pulled into a shaded parking space and as we emerged from the car, sweet, albeit hot, air filled out nostrils and our anticipation was at its peak as we made our way to Albert's gallery.

Step, step, step, up to the porch, and through the door.

Lovely, lovely space.

Floating all around us were pieces of brilliant inspiration, marvelous color and jaw-dropping majesty. To my left, metal, acrylic paint and gold leaf was hammered and layered into a cushion for the eyes. Before me, reds, greens, whites and blues were married into an impressionist summer field. And at the base of each wall there were sculptures of various sizes that proclaimed wit, agony and spirit. Oh, feed my culture starved soul!

After an hour of moseying about, chatting with the artist on show, and generally playing squire to my dad, Albert says, "Have you seen all the rooms upstairs?"

"Why yes!", we replied.

"And?"

"The pieces are, um, nice?"

"Haaay, hindi nakita, halika may ipapakita ko sa inyo."

Back up we went and into one of the rooms we had just visited. Albert trainied our eyes to two pieces on the floor and on the upper left hand corner there was a piece of paper that read,

"Simon and Rina,

Happy Anniversary!

- Albert"

I was floored. Albert threateded to keep them since we did not notice them the first time around. I hastily arranged to have them transferred to the car. And being the gracious host that he is, he lent us another piece so we could see which one(s) work best with our place.

I felt like a kid at a candy store. :-)

After a while longer (and a visit to the furniture store across the way), we begrudgingly tore ourselves back into the real world. Away from the tree-lined roads and clustered homes. Away from the pieces of genius suspended. Away from passion captured on mixed media. Carrying hope in our quickly beating hearts.

This is the Manila that longs to emerge from the dirt encrusted metropolis in which we currently reside. Tucked that small compound off F.B. Harrison, Tito Albert's gallery is a haven for the re-emerging cultural spirit of Manila.