There are three seasons in the Philippines. Hot and sunny, hot and raining, or hot, sunny and raining, like a while ago, when the sky was so clear and then something came from the clouds and left the pavement wet. The smell of alimuom was on the air. My two kids were watching Dumbo. Somewhere out of sight, someone was playing a saxophone cover of Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline. The wind blew harder for a while, then subsided as the sky lightened. I know you don't care but I do have some sort of fascination with weather forecasting. Anyway, here's some music.
My first apartment was in Malate, and calling it “small” would be generous. I lived there with two girls and one guy, and to this day, I genuinely don’t know how we all fit. It felt like a magic trick. Or a health hazard. We were a musical mess. One roommate lived and breathed ’70s classics. Another was permanently blasting Korn and Slipknot. One survived solely on cheesy love songs. And me? I was floating somewhere between new wave and folk rock, pretending that made sense. Somehow, despite the noise and the chaos, we all lived together in this weird, mismatched harmony. No murders. No lawsuits. A win, honestly. My music taste now is nothing like it was in my twenties. Not even close. But I’ll always be grateful to Jacqueline for introducing me to this song in particular. It was playing when I woke up from a very memorable sleep in 2002. I was 21, half-awake, probably confused about life, and that song stuck. It still hasn’t let go.
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