MEDIUM RARE

He was a builder of churches, a tertiary hospital, at least one school for Catholic boys and girls. Professionally, he was a banker. At heart, he was a lover of music, a silent impresario. What is not so obvious from a brick-and-mortar point of view, he was a keeper of memories of our postwar pop culture. Danny Dolor was not a historian, but his collection of yellowed and ageing movie tickets, ads and posters, Pilipino komiks, pictures and magazine articles about the stars that shone and fell on our screens and “real life” once upon a time should put him in the same ranking. A chronicler of movies, concerts (including his own popular “Harana” sunset series by the bay, at CCP), fashion’s comings and goings, etc. he produced a book that took him years to publish; alas, its launch was blocked by the pandemic. Each copy weighing a ton, a huge pile of it now sits waiting for a never-to-happen formal launch. To think, said his ageless man Friday, Marcus Zuño, he was planning an autobiography. Danny Dolor, a true Batangueño “ginoo,” has taken leave of this earthly existence to join the eternal firmament of angels and saints. And why not? He was a true Christian whose manners were as impeccable as his morals where faith, hope, and charity dwelt; his conduct in public was how he lived as a private person, 24/7. He did not utter bad words but as a keeper of memories he was also a keeper of secrets, shh, involving the celebrated as well as the about-to-be notorious. As he lay in state last Sunday in the Forbes Park church a stone’s throw from his house, his buddies reminisced about Danny’s gentle ways, his gentle words, his ability to tell the “inside story” about anyone currently or primed to be in the spotlight. Gina de Venecia, Dolor Guevarra, Helen Gamboa, Lawrence Tan, Bechay Nakpil, and Pat-P ate a late merienda while inside the church, a cardinal, bishops and priests celebrated mass. To me the combination of food, story-telling, and praying was a charming way of triangulating the memory of Danny. “O Danny Boy, the pipes are calling, from glen to glen and down the mountainside...”