WHO IS DAVID F(L)INCHER?

By: Iris P. Concepcion

My son, a cross between Dennis The Menace and Charlie Brown, has taken on another role as a close friend of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

Perhaps, he has taken much of his visual absorptions into his psychological psyche that he bugs his mom/friend via the retina of captured dreams, not to say, sprained ankles.

Anyhow, we usually talk about films, food, the abhorrence for trash talk (guffaws magnified to the tenth power). We never say "manyak" casually. It is evil. We are courteous to people on the road. He loves caviar and totally skips candies as part of his meals: he says it is bad for his ears. We both dress up impeccably well-----like we are so glamorous and fragrant and modelesque first thing in the morning. Our breath smell of spring. Our armpits smell like Chanel. We normally face each day hating the smog, doing grilled food and showing off some chipped feet. We hate protruding tummies like we do nicked fingers and there's our hair: shiny and long and never wiry.

But onward to films: we normally neo-realist everything in a non-realist manner. Every block we find on the street is a stage: the spousal/adulterous infightings, the ridiculous tears, the kicked workers, the pious people, the extracted lizards from ceilings. He has an ongoing story about people living on rooftops and formalin reek.

In other words, we never are funny. We are smug as hell, uninspired, ridiculously wealthy and are currently holding managerial jobs in some huge building with tables filled with sojourns in Alaska.

He loves David The Filmmaker. Actually, this director's identity is so obscure he must have landed in Uranus at 3:00 p.m. yesterday aboard a tikbalang spaceship. We understand each other this way. We like chopped heads rolling down lanes, giggle at every blood squirted from a cold hinterland. Every moving scene is almost usually, brutally in fact, accompanied by a live appearance of say, a baggage man detailing a political thunderstorm (while getting some laundry off hangers).

This film maker usually drops off his self in forbidden places. He cuts off an impeccably nuanced spiel of dialogue that is so grammar-perfect by planting a meowing cat, barging in :"Hoy, I have an assassin!"

It is hilarious. The haughtiness is usually snuffed in these live films and I would love to enter this film maker's brain. I wonder how fabulous it is to audition for this brilliant guy: his cast never seem to know of Provost. They do their make-up in some dinghy comfort room while taking a dump. I have been with some of his million-dollar-actors and they all possess this knowingness that you need to dig deep. Like that film about the Earth's core.

He could be irksome like hell. His lens is just as booming as a frozen bazooka.

His materials kick ass because they are, like the Bible, seminal strories about birthing, creation, good vs. evil, Moses' journeys. His films are................figures of some Church.

One of his smaller thespians mouthed the fabulous : "But I already said I am sorry!" in that wonderful rugrat, Harvard way of speaking and I said: "Whew." I mean I could never compete with his little rascals no matter how well-read I am.

And they smile like super fabulous villains. Even the audience is in his cast. Even his feet are in a plaster cast. I mean it is not even neo-realism anymore. It is pushing a notch higher to reality-t.v. It is morealism.

This whole place is under David's camera and he spares no one, I mean no one, to be closer to God.

Hehehehehe. That last line sucked. But I love the preachy tone to it.

(Thank you son. Your candies are the greatest tasting stuff there is in this whole field-of-dream universe.)

IN THE REALM OF WILDERNESS

By: Iris P. Concepcion

One of the rascal-retards had shown over some moony-covered days to ditch the technological gadgets of communication and rely on my gut. Somehow the unique satellite formations loiter miraculously as they provide visual linkages that had been fattened more in substance than mere flash talk.

I had fun utilizing these newfound foodie spectacles lately. People I do not know had shut up the old harrowing skeptics of the untwirled world. I do not know up to what extent we have now managed the language of Godzilla and the Norton anthology of visual apparitions. Sometimes, I simply find myself laughing over quirks of men who are so pun-filled and flat-emotioned that I learn combative science from them. I think we have reached Level 11 already.

There is a leg without toes running to atrocious money squirts this side of the universe. The running gag here is upfront and condemnable to a degree of hilarity. There is a carnival going on in the creative department that slices months into days.

As I said, we use our telephones for radio, our television sets for washing clothes and we definitely use the loo to watch the stars above winking down on people who had well, transgressed and wanted to be worshipped.

Well, we worship them: that half-trodden path of double cheeseburgers and galaxy heroes scaling down sanity, good taste and pop culture to just, below 18 pesos.

WE CAN DO THAT

(Si Puo Fare)

Title of an Italian Film

By: Iris P. Concepcion

A conglomeration of creative senses usually comes not in a traditional corporate setting but a loosened unleash of the visual, hearing and tactile senses via a sudden overturning of say, molten rock.

I have seen an Italian movie whose title is carried in this entry. It is unique in that it stars lovable retards doing "commie" cooperative work. This is what I mean by creative aggrupation of underground artistry. The only "normal" man supervising them is its head, a man who clashes occasionally with the doctor who handles their medical conditions.

I said this out loud inside the moviehouse: this could be the best "socialist utopia" one could ever conjure and it does not take much to make it work. The ingredients of a "coop" style of governing a business is there: grant, proper usage of fund source, democratic consultations with its members and equal distribution of profits.

It is specifically endearing as you empathize more with the men whose mental faculties are being harangued and questioned. They do more work; are prompt; mindful of deadlines. They value whatever is handed to them in a quirky, productive way.

The acting is supernatural: you hear these mentally-challenged gaining scores and scores of hits against their "specialist" counterparts. Eventually, they did things better even in non-opulent times. I think what got them going is this humanist way of finding some sense in individual production, the value of knowing right from wrong, and finding a personal fulfillment that you have contributed something to a new perspective of doing things.

A film talks, speaks, cajoles us into a sense of questioning, even onto ourselves. It is like a moving pulpit with the camera as its preacher. I have seen not a few in the audience shed tears. They might have seen themselves in the interplay of visuals as these retards "steal" their work that purposely make sense in the end.

This is shocking: the noveau-riche are implementing social reforms that are being mouthed for so long by socialists themselves. This sense of reverse (socialists fronting for capitalist ventures) is much more a moral play than being principle-driven. Such madness of twisted roles.

In the end it is clear: the maligned men are the "real" innovators.

These retards are the only sane people remaining in that huge circus of personal masquerades.

I would be squirming in my seat too if they can do "better" work, me with my degree and my great grasp of culture and history.

Sure, I'd feel stumped too. Let us hand it to these film makers, they never fail to make me go:

Splendid. Simply splendid.

THE THIRTEEN PESO SANSRIVAL DEVOURED OVER BY ITALIAN GELATO THE NEXT DAY

By: Iris P. Concepcion

Suddenly: the drift off the coast. I saw one tricycle turned over by strong winds. It was a mini-tsunami with a megman's touch.

I still do not trust the telephone lines. We do the walk and find some sharp fang on posters.

I was hoping that some exaggerations could attain their full potentials. The typhoon did cloud the Metro but I was struck by this aftermath: the pavements were so clean the day after. I imagined hobbits digging up the canals, bringing some broomsticks in the middle of the night while everyone fell asleep over the cold temperatures of bedrooms. Hobbits walked silently, touching their beards that fell to the ground, sweeping the dirt in nods, occasionally picking here and there some residues of junk food stuck in their long nails, muttering the humping words: tsk-tsk-tsk. Errrrrrr, tsk, tsk, tsk, because they are little people.

PAG-ASA was doing something good finally, and it is not just selling some of its immobile scraps to buyers. They truly know the terrain of rains this time around.

I have seen some shrunk faces when the dreaded cyclones of fear did not happen: they really wanted some macabre outcome this time (I do not understand their thirst for the worst) but on hindsight, the fear factor was a dud just like its secular followers.

Anyhow: an impassioned kibitzer and commentator that could not find anything right with the current administration had at least credited some silent heroes working funnily underground boohhh-ing the rains to stop. It even crawled in churches. One song was composed: We fear not the storms of heaven: God the Father will make sure it is above the catastrophe. Well, not exactly the words. I am not lyrical in the context of a Canseco but I finally understood a segment of societal malaise that I had bought, tooth, line and sinker in the past.

I did not believe some people could float fear to bilk off from this writing and verbal conditioning. Now that the goofy swordsmen are manning the streets and air, everything went upside down.

Also, there is breakthrough education on television right now. Especially the drama series illuminating some acting highlights. Best comedy in the universe. I was very impressed with my throaty laughs after: I saw the worst actor in the galaxy and I could not help asking why he was given a spot in that creative continent while a real actor (a kid am throwing daggers with) is with me, making an Oscar trophy out of everyday life.

A teaser on the film La ragazza del lago went this way:

"It is eight-o clock in the morning when Marta, biting a doughnut, is returning home after having slept at her aunt's house."

The sentence stopped being spectacular after the word doughnut. It is a funny sentence. It is crass, out-of-synch, terrible and overtly delicious. I mean, this is funny.

I think I would like to scribble a movie synopsis along the lines of this recent Keynesian film product:

"She batted her eyelash while holding her spinal column dredged in bandage, at a wigwam (a Monopoly-like board game) that is built like a pyramid. She thought it was him."

I think I did better. Hehehehehehehehehehehehehehe.

Children of the corn, stay away from your Mom. She is bad news to your grammar.

Readers: I will not tell you where I bought my out-of-this-world sansrival. My God. Could it rival your prattling jewelry in fulfillment-content.

Ask me where to get it when you pass by this writer, even in some gutter's paradise.

PEOPLE WHO HAD BEEN WITH YOU IN THE UNIVERSITY WHO RE-APPEARED AS JEDI SORCERERS IN YOUR PRE-MENSTRUAL YEARS
By: Iris P. Concepcion

The time I knew I could write (mediocre-ly, fairly, excellently) was when I was pulled out by an English teacher from a high school class to discuss with me her predicament.

The council of nuns was going to hand the Best In English ribbon to the smartest in class.

It was a recognition I shall eventually cherish for the rest of my waking life.

No, I was not the smartest in class. I had managed to crawl into Top Ten but that is beside the point.

Anyway, this teacher called me and quite motherly, spoke a gem: "Iris, come here. I want to discuss something with you."

I am aware that my grades were not that stunning to begin with, medal-wise, and I immediately pondered: What infraction did I commit this time?

She stated her piece which was pretty much a confidence-booster that kept on reccuring inside my head. This usually emerges when I could not summon my writing muse.

"I want you to get this year's Best In English award."

I was not aware she was paying attention to my "theme writing" outputs (the only thing I enjoyed in school aside from swapping horrible jokes with classmates--they usually involve deconsructing adverstisements on t.v. or radio).

Titles like "The Things I Did Last Chistmas" and other reindeer subtexts which I severely enjoyed wasting my ink on. I thought then, I could at least write something earth-shaking even if it involves my socks-----only.

Anyhow, she continued:

"You are good."

I know my grammar was horrible at that age ( a pre-pub chubby) but she corrected them patiently. She saw some quirks in my sentences, perhaps, similar to my liking for H.H. Munro stories later on in my life. (Hmmmmmmmm, them readers now google this writer and sees one cool name).

Hence, I do not understand the "good" part.

But like breaking a camel's back, there ought to be a stumbling block.

"You did not make the grades. You are only ranked second in the English category," she continued.

Not exacly her words but it was as close to an epiphany as I could have in my imaginatively myopic, writing life.

Pause. More pause.

She admmitted in a Godly way: "But I want you to get the Best In English medal."

If I can recall it correctly, I said something like "I could not be bothered by that." It was enough that between two writers (she was the first kindred teacher I had encountered), we have said "yes" to a common ground.

I listened to my informal award like it is Halloween.

Here is the bomb though. My teacher divulged: "I pleaded with the nuns to create a special award, just for you."

Finally excited, (I was hoping for a medal as Class Clown or The Only One Who Knows Joseph Heller In This Batch). I asked: "What is it?"

"Essayist Of The Year."

Readers, it was one of the best days of my writing life.

I humbly muttered: "Thank you. I could not be bothered by it but thank you."

Her name is Ma'am Dizon and I bet she could not recognize me anymore. Her impact to my scribbling adventures was so huge though that I can still reconstruct the venue where she told me I got "it": in front of our school canteen, in a bermuda-grassed ground.

I also encountered in college a guy who sported a Billy Idol look (Emilio Aguinaldo if you may) who was writing about yellow journalism and Henry Miller. I told him: "When this was first introduced into my imagination....." He was impressed then but I told him I bilked it from Keats. He laughed hard.

This guy told me he was educated in a public library in Negros (its resource of books, he told me, was exceptional) and had spent most of his time reading, devouring everything in this nook. He was so ahead of everyone: his sculpted words better than those I have read via Mills and Boon.

I am glad I had befriended this guy: I would like to create another planet with him, aside from the corned kids. He never lost that core of rattling boring states.

I had met people of these types several times over and they are the reasons why you have those beautiful roads, pathways, good drainages, spectacular music, incredible writing outputs, unique fashion, humble but rich people, over-the-edge-films and a vibrant creative environment.

They are the ones who had seeped into our consciences one way or the other and had made dreams a little easier to achieve.

Oh, I adore his fat friend too. They had garrously fought in the past but did Mediterranean music . That way, they shall be more difficult to get dubbed or cloned by substandard practitioners.

GETTING NOODLES; BLUFFING SOME OLD BACK PROBLEMS IN HAYWIRED PHONES (Hahahahahahahaha---they lost some sleep devising it and the victim is laughing like a Glee club fan member)
(I Love My Life)
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I should have been somewhere in Iloilo right now scouting for the best chicharon (weak condiment for noodles) but found a cheaper way to step on its gastronomic deliverance via a HK noodle stall. It is a great time waking up to the sound of Chito Miranda with his death allusions, done in a weird, warped way. Life is good I can almost taste it. He makes the headmen soooooooooooooooooooooo musically corrupt. He has done the reverse accolade and it is shown in his lyrics.

Artists do it precisely that way. When they see a picture they want to see, they do not block the view. If they want to write songs, they do not get some Bieber-gay doll to sing an offtune music. If they want to paint, they do not hoard the real ones via a floodgate wave. If they want to write, they do not allow old hags to mess up the printed words.

Artists, first and foremost, do not "buy" art from feeding programs. They simply "do" it. That is the worst, not to say, tackiest scam ever exposed. Feeding programs my God! Somehow, real artists remove the superfluous niceties from their life; they stop bickering about a non-functioning toilet and here: they do not bed their student-muses. Even if she is wearing smoking boots for that, that is still like, booby-weenie.

Daily, I find new things to be thankful for. And it is facing head-on the posseurs in their silly attempts to be cool. Sitting by the sidelines, I feel the "real" culprits laughing like crazies in their terrible outfits, talking like aliens i.e. " Hithit hooray!". Sounds like a portion of an axed program.

And I am almost lost in my laughing arsenal to express my guffaws when the clueless p.a.'s get their own melted ice-cream under the sun. You know, this is the film script: when their eyes get red from guilt and shame and their voice pipes seem to be transferred to their, like, ears, there is your camera. Upfront and true.

And when they get angry? That is my winner: when they get mad, it means we are hitting WELL. Silence does it. Always.

It is hilarious, what can I say? Now, if only they do not flinch from the dung and heat and work and MY music.

Hehehehehehehehehehehe. Lee Bluffed.

That is my new name.

And I saw a graffiti marking on the wall: EBS.

What the hell is that? But it made me laugh.

BURGERING THE STUPIDLY GASSED ALLEY VIA HURTFUL MUSIC
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I am using a Dead Sea Mask packaging as a fan.

I was listening to jail radio (its jocks seem to be facing drafts of complaints, I don't know, depending on their adamant defiance to rescue their souls from humdrum mobbing) and had fun haranguing imaginary texts to the perpetrators of old siliconed breasts (I know the breath, perspiration, smell, quirks of the children's corn: clone you can but not your Irisally-genetics (DNA) that is, get this you sons and daughters of the flood, injected in a specially-designed rocket to Mars). And they never, ever, say they are my offspring: that is how cocky they are that I'd spot them even on blind alleys.

Anyhow, they have learned to be angsty but still do sound like bored wives of the suburban, legendary caves.

Actually, I already find damp the alleged threats to the Presidency: I just walked past its builders and workers fixing the Espana road. They always clean the mess left by these black guys with black eyeliners and bad arrangement and it is not wuzz work. Truth be told, the President's men know from where they speak of: they know their facts and figures, how to eradicate the problems in concrete time frames and they know the history of progress (or digression) in their assigned agencies. They did their homework. Not nerdy: one can feel it; their inside knowledge of the ropes is shaking up and buffing up the institutions for greater social amelioration heights.

These sore losers in the last Presidential derby (just my hunch) may actually want to hasten up their ascent to power (I'd say it as is-----this country needs more forthright people not engaged in circuitous language calisthenics---the pretense to be good workers when you actually see nothing in the midst: bubble barbed claims). They are more grumpy than the candidates themselves who must have accepted their fate in good graces. I salute them.

Actually, the reverse is truer: I wonder if they are out there on the streets cleaning up their tracks and cameras. So smart and so caught by the fast changing spills of the times. One of their ilk had converted and had this genius explanation to his conversion: "We revolted because we wanted good governance. Now, this dispensation looks like it is implementing good governance."

In short, the reason for being, raison d etre, this source of whining, is already lost since the tables had been turned. These marchers for hire actually do not have concrete goals in mind when faced with basic governance problems, i.e., how to improve the state of the country. Instead, they devise plans to make money out of public service, using its structures for free in pursuit of their private enterprises, blackmailing its good servants and simply, just pretending they had improved rice production somewhere in the mountains.

It has gone comedy and horror and a source of spectacular scripts for morally-aware film makers. We no longer need paper work: we need to see actual work.

If you had been following the press conferences of the President, he is always blunt and straightforward: he knows how to spot the just mundanely irritating queries and he responds to them as pointedly. On this, he is better-equipped in parrying than her spokespersons.He truly knows how to use his words, his deep psychology of the "reverse" communication sitting well in his realm of governed diplomacy. I like it: this appeal to conscience more than the sissy threats of boxing etc etc. This is a battle for exact works. Imagery could not save the absent service track.

They were not invited to the brainstorming therefore they are plagiarizing information that they need to be courted. For what? I think they had been politely told to straighten up but are filled with pride to do it. The best option to address the endless whining is there: the reason why they are yacking is perhaps, they were not summoned to the process since they too had been checked on their previous accountabilities. I never know the exact reason but I have seen its visual replicas. It is pure sulking. And this saving-our-face for our love of cold-bilked snow.

Oh, you see the violators cutting down on road lanes, their bravery confined only inside the booths of microphones. They, nonetheless, turn red-faced in real life encounters. I had seen a lot of these walk-outs in my debate engagements: they simply stand up when the badgering of truths seem to be difficult to digest.

Just remember: music kills. Truth does too.

HAPPINESS BELOW 100

By: Iris P. Concepcion

1. Piranha, the recent film- This is a horror flick with lots of lesbos' boobs chopped courtesy of fishes that look like my lunch, tilapias. I found the flick horribly unique in that it is sooo bad it actually makes sense. There are lots of chopped bodies mangled severely in this film, with plenty of cameras and booze and underground water kissing (between girls) that emitted a different sense of fright: making sense out of water-bound leisures done at the expense of family responsibility.

2. P15 movie pass in a nookie that is surprisingly, not replete with ticks. I watched a horror film in this place and I loved its sense of the dinghy; off-kilter mood strung with lots of people from the nearby campus shrieking like they are in perpetual spring break (not that we have spring break--I just use this as an analogy). One time, I went to this place with extremely badly-dressed people haranguing the screen, with their unshod feet hung unsmelled (thank God for that) on armchairs etc...etc....It is not their house but they sort of cooked food inside the cinema, feeling a casual belonging present in spiritual gatherings. This is my place. You need to pay me to give me its name and location. Kidding. Their array of watches is spectacular too.

3. The Buy One Take One burger chomps at Burger Machine (I need to write down its name--it is THAT good; priced below P50.00). I actually miss its coleslaw component and its kind of rough bun. If I remember it correctly, this joint also serves superb fruit salad.

4. The P18.00 sanitary napkin called "Sisters". It does work well without the overpriced tag.

5. I was sitting down last night and had the hugest laugh over a super healthy kid riding in a mini bike forcibly banging a nearby table. His face is priceless: it has the look of a fantastic actor in the making. It is extra hilarious since his look of suspense is immensely in-your-face. Don't fool around with kids possessing some stunning performing abilities. They kind of shake your minds sometimes. I kind of mussed his hair after for a job well done. His cheeky smile spoke tons of mischievous interplay but it was ridiculously superb.

6. Finally knowing who the map creator of shirts used as slogan for Laban: Rhett Eala. The President graced his fashion event. Every visitor in this country should buy this as clothing memento: it is really a stroke of genius; the ability to Ralph Lauren-ize this unique "reform" revolt from within. Thanks for your gift of design.

7. Walking along the pavements of combined forces: I never forget faces, especially when they had tickled the funny bone, one way or the other. We had sort of developed a similar kind of kinship: it is some silent avowal of shared attitude. From here, I had developed a knowing affinity with a "crazy" man who put oranges to car trunks and wherever part he may choose to train his eyes on; a free read of pages from a newspaper guy who did not take offense at my hustling buffoonery to scan his wares; fat men with one-liners bordering on intelligent silliness; men I know who are as silent as a still river but running wild inside their wonderful, wonderful souls. These are the people I notice; they are rumpled, dirty and weird but I have seen them in their glorious and steadfast resolves at one point in my life. Simply put, I love them.

CALLING BLOGGER
By:Iris P.Concepcion

The little hoodlum stoop just closed this site. Watch out for these insecure people. Kindly return my words, administrator.

I AM NOT KIDDING

THESE KIDS CAN FILL UP

FUNNY GAPS

INSIDE YOUR SOUL i.e.

THE XHILIRATING

CHILDREN OF THE CORN

By: Iris P. Concepcion

I told you they are cute.

And the last photo; that is an elephant's hide.

It is OUR favorite zoo entity.

EAT, PRAY AND WRITE (LOVE TOO)

By: Iris P. Concepcion

I went to this place which is kind of far in my walking standards just because it looks like a sprawling airport.

It did house yoghurts and steaks and pasta that are tummy-friendly. I felt so out of place there because the people are new; the mini-kids are somewhat familiar and recognizably naughty and funny. It has a neat cyberzone section. There were spaceship-like structures within and not enough people were milling around (less elbow room for the smug mob escapees).

Once a mallrat, always a mallrat.

Of course, I went there to catch a film. That Julia Roberts flick about finding yourself. This is a movie travelogue with a purpose. Instead of immersing in the richness of materialist entrapments when gifted with opportunities for new sceneries, the lead woman instead used it to find a way home within herself. She went to Rome, Bali and India after a failed relationship. She cultivated kinship among people she had accidentally met along her journey.

She did nothing except eat (savor the frozen yoghurts with nuns; salivating on pasta dishes) and meditate (albeit grudgingly).

She found love in the end.

I would not review this as a film. I would rather flip its motional ride like I would a pastor's preachings.

I am especially drawn to the characters of fatherly figures who, again, gave tempestuous nuggets of wisdom for the unsatisfied souls. Along the lines of : "WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT?"

Similar to that old man in Wall Street who ceremoniously advised tradesmen seeped in their unending greediness : "Go with the birds. Go with the birds!"

There were tears of assuaged egos. I am familiar with this territory, having had altercations about slicing consciences, sometimes in a combative manner that often times drew teardrops from heaven. It is an essential part even in my own life story.

There is something Dostoevskian when men are confronted with things that are unacceptable only because it bruises the ego: I like to dig deep into the recesses of their motives. Perhaps, another knowledge lurks there.

I often state here that money is good (it allows you to buy stuff for people you do not know) but when it breeds internal happiness in exchange for its use, it doubles up the meaning of existence.

I could not understand why people should not laugh over mundane matters. If a person would call his sons F1, F2 or F3 since their Dad is a riding afficionado, or Nail or Hammer or even say, Sink, why deny us the benefit of a hehehehehehehe? I got this story from an evangelist.

I had encountered this in real life. My own niece, after her own transformation educationally, advised me that I could use whatever name I want for myself. I called her Blossom. She called me Sky. She told me that in her educational surrounding, her classmates were called Cola, Moean and so on and so forth.

Do you still find value along these discoveries? They cost nothing but the guffaws you get from them: fulfilling.

I accosted the kid who frequents this page into the bathroom for a pee. I held her since the toilet bowl was too big for her bottom. Out of the blue she asked: "Is there a 'dump' included in my piss?" She developed this habit of hoarding tissue papers from public bathrooms and it is cute how she rolls it, neatly packed inside her backpack.

When it is my turn to take a leak and finding myself without a wipe, she blurts: "See, I come prepared."

And I laugh, like the loggerheads of fightings they likewise commence. I am not working but I am working on these little molecules of life. Hopefully, they could become pantomime artists in the future.

I am not imposing this kind of mentality to attain a sense of purposefulness but you sure can interview people who had tried this route. Believe me, you could learn so much from them.

And yes, EAT, PRAY and LOVE are just the simple secrets to fulfillment, no matter how circuitous the road is, no matter how long you search for it.

IN THE LOOP

By: Iris P. Concepcion

Great things happen to secure people.

Like getting voluptuous doughnuts and pluses of this kind.

We gave them to people who are kind of surly and lost and dating in the breakwater appearing so miserable for not getting what they actually desire i.e. personal contentment.

We sat on a swinging booth with unattended bags and went inside restaurants with incredible faces (pretty girls with confidence in levels beyond the ugly Reichter scale---they were preparing food) just to take a pee.

In our world, we are sought. We never seek.

And happier for it.

G, you are INCREDIBLY adored by the universe. God told me (has a free line to him) you do have a spectacular butt.

Go on and just make your products huger, better and tastier than the sun-soaked painting albino looters. Thanks!

KIDS FROM ELM STREET

By: Iris P. Concepcion

There is a man whose harelip is not much evident when his head is looking down (but of course). This is truer when he is vicariously washing his clothes , down at the end of the kitchen as he fights with a radio.

I take a bath, lathering my laundry too as he does his harangue, swaying between a sweat and a howl with a laughter that is uniquely irksome. Sometimes, I join him in this mangling of lyrics, garbling my words with "travelling tradesmen" and he laughs his skull off. I never understood him in every possible way but I have always understood him. It is weird that way.

His kids are different though. All ridiculously goodlooking, one was diagnosed (the one who constantly appears here) with a funny clinical condition.. She thus, announced this as a matter-of-factly:

Me: You just got back from a hospital. What's your sickness?

Someone: None. She is just malnourished.

Everyone then provided this underfed beauty with milk. When she returned from her, I do not know, dietician, I suppose, she told me:

"I am no longer malnourished."

She often asks me what I am wearing (I call her Mom now; she calls me "anak"---we got rid of our "pare" spiel, it wore off its laughter component. Besides, it is already on t.v.--and we are originals).

Pointblank one time, she asked this writer if she is wearing Pampers.

I said: "Whaaaaaaaa?"

"Yung me-dyom, yung maliit."

She was referring to a sanitary napkin. She fears ghosts and anything stupidly frightening on screen. She regaled me a story about birds. She slept inside a moviehouse (but not that long because: "It is comfortable there. Ercon." She pronounces it that way. Ercon). She is a little dynamo hustler.

The youngest, that whoppack of a beauty who looks like Suri has undergone a huge transformation. She has gone bald. To make her hair more lush. She now looks like Jet Li. I call her a name that comes from a Disney animation. She snores just as cutely and goes little peewee sounds like "mommy" and this is incredibly guffaw-ish: bobo. Cut after her own mother. It is cute.

We all like putting petroleum jelly on any itch we see on our skin. It is our hobby.

They play with kids whom I have not gone tired of yapping with: fat kid (incredible cheeks: like two planets were gobbled and they landed on his face, one for Guinness), a curly one who eats his candy in two seconds and poohs it out. Another one has incredible hair: shiny as waxed floor.

And I often wonder why some people are so surly. These kids are real-time, work of art pieces of brats and they are funny as hell.You just need to fight and laugh with them.

I would like to quote Conrad de Quiros this time. About the reproductive health bill where the entity Celdran was zeroed in. We now see his famous prison bar picture but this is what this favorite columnist has to say about the ruckus:

"Celdran has shown that you can. He has shown that with much power comes much responsibility. Or at least he has shown that with much injury comes much insult (hihihihihihihihihi-myself). He has shown that if you are reckless, if you care little for the catastrophe you pose by your benightedness, indeed if you are venal, if you are carnal, if you are abusive, if you are oppressive, if you are so driven by lust to possess the body of Maria Clara or Inang Bayan, you can and will be called "Damaso!"

THE COBBLESTONED STREET

By: Iris P. Concepcion

Let us call him Caldwell. He was teaching mathematics in a snow-cold part of the world. His students were not listening to him as he miraculously devised creative ways to make his lessons more upbeat and palatable. The numerous 000000000000000's and xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx's in explaining Earth's age.

He is a character in a book of course. I would like to ascribe its creator as limping and freckled-spock. The corn therefore dropped her kernel while devouring his tomato-based pasta that is priced lower than the usual market fare (tastes good: like my own recipe).Him.

Sprightly. His walk. He is wearing an apricot shirt (I learned this from a crayola carton). Strides of a typewriter that had been oiled and spared from an antique house. Sturdy walks. He was picking greens and bally things in that container for salads, in that grocer's middle corner while the corn is holding on to her bladder. The excitement is not upfront: it slowly grows into a boiling, incommunicable awe. Henry.

My freaking God. That is Henry. He snobbed my honeydew place in that capitalist haven (it is heaven) as everyone scoops stuffy leaves and pasta shells and vignettes (I am sorry, the sour thing? But I am a writer) like they are chewing a whole rainforest.

Bringing his salad bowl like a Prada bag, eyeing the fruit shakes with caution, he took hurried steps, like someone from Star Trek: a hiding, deep smirk hidden from his chin (I am imagining), his silver hair was blinding the light.

He went to a bakery. If loaves of bread can talk, they would be out of teeth by now.

Corn could not bring herself to look at that presence: it was unbearable.

This could be something close to facing God face to face: WHAT DO YOU REALLY SPEAK during times like these. Mouth inanities? Pee? Feign a seizure? Pick some hair and wish that it will turn into a fur?

I had imagined this every day of my life, practicing how to react to presences like this and I did my best: as a dud dumb.

I know we are already well met and his words? He exactly looks like that: a magnificent novel.

He is a book.

I had taken something huge from the universe and I do not think I deserve the queenly treatment (I am overtly appreciative in this manner: off-kilter and overbearing). Like having experienced the best creative buffet in my entire, stoic life.

And my kids continue to roll with the punches, outclassing everyone in their midst, elevating myself to importance that could never be bought.

Ano ang maluwag? Ito ang hindi masikip.

Diamonds are forever, thanks chap. Easy on the dressing.

And Kigs, as usual, hilarity spurts over the dinghy block, snuffing misery like an invisible laser. You are extremely gooooooooooddddd.

EXCALIBUR
By: Iris P. Concepcion

The President was asked:

"What inspires you to keep going despite the problems some of which you know are probably intractable?"

He answered (in his positive $24 billion investment confidence):

"Why will I give up if I think the goal that we have set for ourselves is worthwhile? It really redounds to the common good. Why should we be distracted?"

His detractors had taken a long time cornering the airwaves and print space and are trying obscurely desperate pumping up an option that no longer works except to wake us all up that there is a way to improve a system: this misplaced reliance on an institution that horrors, is used to bilk instead of getting fixed.

On mean-spirited criticisms:

"If I pay attention to it, then I would try to turn the tables by applying my strength on the reasonable ones."

I am still continuously educated, evolvingly, on the differences of outputs, pound for pound, work for work. I often sleep tightly after hearing the improvisations, from the arrangements to vocalization.

And I feel sorry for myself everytime I hear the glaring differences. Some had been poorly and hastily produced they could have plucked the notes overnight via bottles of beer and some skin exposures. I felt shortchanged. The things I had defended like an amazon jungler had turned into a house of musical tyranny and fright.

Drinking and accommodating slurring benefactors to studios does not make an attitude for rock and roll. Genuine creativity does.

On hindsight, I ask: why was I so duped then? The glaring answer: I was never given a choice. They corner it, monopolizing and haggardly disintegrating my ears with what are actually, pure garbage.

It is not even pop; it is pooped out.

Why are these divulged only now?

Under the helm of a Presidency that encourages this kind of creative vibe almost effortlessly, I say, there will be more room for "real" musicians to test their wares in studios without having to strip, to look ridiculous or to accompany the famous lead singer who does know how to use a guitar, frolicking abroad.

I mean, when good creative deed peeps in a manner unimaginable before without even having to pay millions for it (it is laughable knowing it does not cost much to do quality music), I welcome it.

You see the gist is this:

If I have the power of purse to set free all musicians and writers in pursuit of creative deliverance, I would do it not because it earns but because I would have given something essential to the universe with all its uncreative imperfections.

I likewise advised someone who has gone throaty in his somewhat lost steam to widen his vocal range:

"Lose your mascara and your wuzz car, wear fat pants and head to Tondo. Find your musical piece there, among dirt and heap of smelly things."

One argument I had likewise discovered: When people can belt out even with real crappy accompaniment, you'd always find a gem there if you're just keenly listening.

Now, a breakthrough letter:

Dear Excalibur,

May I say, your "real" mother is cool. I am 88 and she is like 15 years old.

I have always known you as a true winner. You needn't even get invited to my universe, it is yours to reel. This writer seeks your presence in the usual affinity-grabbing way. I heard my corn cob's only precious kernel named Grit loop another track about opening another chapter in OUR story. Your handiwork in his craft is evident. Similar to how your celluloid innamoratas would project it, a single tear dropped on the side of my eyelid when I first heard it. We are never suckers for the put-on "emotionality" of things. I never even knew he could sing. What I know is he sings soulfully.

Of course, them grabbers ascribe your exceptional works to other people but I have lived and interacted with you far enough that I already know every twitch of your eyebrow.

You were mad at me for not tracking you down more purposely but you already know I always do things that way. I never lost hope for people but it is important to give a courtesy reply. Whenever you give me jewels of messages, another message enters that has nothing to do with creation. Talk about being spooled wrongfully. Oh, you get the hint.

I must get through a lot to hear you and your chipmunks sing. They really sound good, real good. I may not be always a witness to your funny ways of X'sing your foreheads to rattle some staid system of cute butts but the XXXXXXXs are there, in deer boxes, in funny elephants, crawling turtles and model zebras.

I have known you, Team Ignite, to continue breaking the molds of complacency, scoring points in our similarly shared aspirations: building, creating, influencing, sparring. You have a tight group there. They even bemoaned their paycuts (they accepted their present jobs as part of the ring) When I heard it, I thought I had won this one over, gladly.

If our common father says "shut up" in his most ludicrous manner of speaking it, I know they had already been had.

Thank you for the gift of light; for the gift of comprehension, bravery and candor. You always spoke well.

I hope you could address me by my name next time. I most certainly shall be thrilled about it.

The "true" rockers are running this country dammit and better have it sealed ROLLING!!!!!

Yours in Chaplin film,

Iris Corn

P.S. A director singing lullabyes. Again, the richness for literature!!!! And TPV, thank you for saying you like some white butt parading before your eyes. It was funny.