WEIRD SIGNAGE

By: Iris P. Concepcion

I took the picture above a long, long time ago in a galaxy, far, far away.

I remember I was up very early in the morning for brisk strides in downtown Quiapo where fruits, I discovered, are huger than the rest of the marketplaces. See their bananas. They look like baseball bats.

I shall never understand the third item no matter how much I juggle my brain with symbolisms of the comfort kind. I understand that taking a dump is equivalent to a ten peso payment at the door; some pissing, five pesos, but the word tenant: just what IS this privilege that you need to shell out three pesos for? I can only surmise:

1.) You can take a nap inside the CR's cubicles for that price;

2.) You can put up a tent inside where you can perhaps, take a dump or urinate for free, for as long as you bring your own pail;

3.) Just hang around inside to monitor if the urinators are not actually duping a piss for a dump (say you pay five pesos but you take a planetary dump there that costs, in current market value, 100 pesos). Violators shall be apprehended, handcuffed and brought to the police station. Violation: dump lying.

I just wrote some funny sentences, I think.

One of the finer things when you walk instead of ride are these mini installations of oddities that would make you think twice.

In some form, a lot of pages now are devoted to the closure of the rock station NU 107. I caught its last airing and had fun listening to the farewell messages. Lots and lots of buckets of tears. I presume some of the corn's children were in the booth watching by the sidelines, showing off their goofy teeth and new parody pants.

They never say anything these days. I cut off their tongues and attached them all to my face. They are busy. Busy untongued kids.

Anyway, the film maker among the lot has a lot of hacking to do in this playlist of fantasy nusicdom: they had been copied and I take it as a respect for their warped originality. They take after myself after all.

You should not miss all that great music though. Lately, I am listening to two Chewbaccas exchanging views about relationships and they are hilarious as hell. I do not know where they get their music from: they have sandy music, spectacular comic timings and what is wonderful, they speak in Tagalog. If you see my imaginary kids, tell them they had been had. I do not know what station this is: I apportion my dials to the corn children's names. One time I heard they made one for me: Iris Sattelite. You could not get it at first click though, the DJ has a severe speech problem.

If that is substandard for your taste, just dig their music. Extra natural. They get all these unnamed singers from the concaves and wombs of unknown women but they sound like a billion worth of enormous vocal pipes.

I leave out a lot. They must truly be discovered as they are. No advertisements needed.