We were there for Chris Martin. Because Coldplay Manila tickets were slippery unicorns, and because my sister would not have any of my defeatist shrugging, and because we had a good friend in Singapore who was more than willing to play host. So okay, we had the weekend. We knew it wasn’t enough. We knew we wanted some tita time to rest before the concert. What to do? Where to go?
I’d said ‘it’s okay, let it go, it’s not meant to be’ to this night too many times for my sister’s liking. But my sister, half in love with the band and Mr. Martin as she is, wouldn’t have any of it, so she persevered. So we found a way. From the first strains of A Head Full of Dreams, she would have had every right to holler ‘I told you so, I told you so, how dare you’ at my face. Followed by ‘how could you have thought we could miss this.’ But the music was weaving a spell. The…
So I was looking at my brand new, post-concert Battle Born CD — the first one I’ve bought in years –, and one thing led to another, as they are wont to do on a rare lazy Saturday afternoon. I found myself squatting in front of our CD/DVD rack and there they all were: physical, non-digital, non-iTunes Compact Disks with actual cover art taking up actual space. The covers were not dusty because someone actually took them out for a good wipe, but the labels were upside down and the order was all wrong. OCD and fuzzy sentiment kicked in. I plopped…