Mr. A-Z





We bought Jason Mraz tickets as soon as we heard he's coming here, remembering all too well the fiasco with The Script concert tickets being sold out about -7 seconds before the announcement came out. So we paid online, and left the tickets unprinted for about two months.


We almost didn't make it to the concert - it was raining, and not only in the meteorological sense.  But we did one better than Rihanna and chucked all umbrellas out the window, pulled up our bootstraps and raced through P. Tuazon half past eight.  Understandably the only spaces with free parking were located midair.




When we entered through the yellow gate three things immediately greeted us - a fantastic light show, the backs of teenagers who for some puritan reason kept shouting "Wordplay!", and space just enough to stand and stare at the screen, as the dome was nearly regurgitating people.


He played more than a dozen of his old and new songs, making the it about 50 pesos a pop.  There he was, right in front of me, as small as a Lego piece.  I had to remind myself to look at the miniscule figure onstage rather than at the enormous screen - I keep thinking that I'm merely watching TV with ten thousand other people in a rather large living room.  A fleeting sadness graces the moment I realised I had to remind myself to do that.  He was there, we were there, and this was now.


I watched Jason Mraz for nearly two hours, with a several thousand people, and it finally sank that for Baudrillard's prophesying, I imprinted onto my brain only a very special Lego piece who managed to turn his whole person into a song, amazing lights, and a dance.  It is a happy kind of sadness, the way the amazing ceases to be, with the mind as a nonchalant accomplice.

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