ADVANCING POETRY THROUGH COFFEE

By: Iris P. Concepcion

There is a perfect place in this country to wage word swaps, emitting not only tactile but mental expansions. The possibility of one person not getting the message though, even while lounging inside a mall, is 10:1. That mediocre.

Today, I read a print ad on Taiwan as a tourism haven and was astounded by the clarity of its execution. The tagline brief; the picture uncreased. We need to work ours in this minimalist manner.

A day before, I laughed at an eyewear's ad outlet inside a mall that used to be a racing track. Do not get me wrong. I love horses. They are the studdiest animals in the kingdom. In lieu of the stalls though, you may miss the old days of jockeys galloping in royal-like thumps like revered nobility. The ad featured a man cutting a kid's hair. Poor vision led to a bad haircut. The face of the kid wincing in muted obedience is one for the books. That is certainly aesthetic abuse; I want my hair shiny, not spotted.

I absolutely love its daggerish medium. While the space was not properly maximized in this shopping location, some stalls deserve attention for their quirks and cutesy factors:

1. Comic Marvel store with miniature, Japanese anime characters in compact arrangements. Beautiful sight.

2. A simple logo for a silver jewelry shop.

3. A yogurt stall with Stan Lee-like pow-wow inscriptions. Delicious, even the words are appetizing enough.

In my favorite destination, even their ad burgers talk wildly. It is a visceral moment of hushed fascination. Every nook is a poet's moment to ponder. You might get irked by the robust Manny Pacquiao laughing there but that is just us, tumbling up. It is also very receptive to visual artists as they are given spaces side by side with barber shops and spa joints. That is poetic interlude.

In Quezon City, the open air structure of another mall has Disneylandish style of installations. With proper themes. The M pedestrian walkways are just the added attractions.

Dapitan has gone on a streak of clean-up drive. I walked today along its newly improved street and felt free walking along its new stores. Even their meat shops are similar to your delis located in posh villages. The prices are affordable too. There are a lot of food choices in the area. Their barangay captain must be doing great in its drive to beautify its surroundings. The key, I think, is that they cooperated toward progress instead of sowing disorder to conjure a chaotic conditioning. Somewhere along the street, I saw a car with the Laban emblem and the words: "This is the Ateneo way." A given, but imaginative.

I likewise watched a string quartet from the University of the Philippines. I do not know how to write about the buzzing fireflies and fighting felines upstaging the artists. They brought a guitar with a flag sign that had travelled as evident in its "Fragile" sign.

Curiously, their foreign renditions got eclipsed by a David-improved "Karitela", a native song that had done a rework. It sounded different and tasteful.

My funny anecdote comes from a bunch of Nipongo-looking guys in blue polos who, like me, scoured the free taste samples of fish fillet, sunkists, beef ravioli and chili chicken in my favorite mall. You can go inside its grocery corner extremely hungry and get out from it filled. We are watching the guy who did his skillet of pasta. Emerging from nowhere is a Groucho boxer explaining to me what needs to get improved on the taste. We have a new code of facial expression. It is fast catching on. Hilarious but true.

The better other is such a glutton. He got three servings I think. I do not have the balls to gulp down the freebies as if I am Hulk Hogan. Such a happy place for very happy people.

Thank you for the props in words. Well-written as only the indie underground lit types can do.

M did don this one:

I LIT UP. Beside a teddy bear shop in satin housewear. This is another splendid shop in that racetrack area.

When you throw it away to these wordsmiths, life breezes like a mix constellation.

Now:

HOW TO USE APPROPOS IN A POEM

Blackened and shut

Spectre of colors

Opened the pastels

Appropos to medieval

Compact history

I do not even understand my poem. Do you?

THINGS THAT YOU CAN MARVEL IN MANILA

By: Iris P. Concepcion

Someone wants me to brag. I desist since that is not part of the vision.

Some things need to get scribbled though.

If you are clever enough to beat the heat and roam around the city on foot, you can find these things. I am really omitting the names of the outlets to drum up curiousity and whet the appetite of the wanderers. It is really silly once you get to the bottom of things. I mean, chocolate mousse that is usually pegged at P90/slice, I had at P3.00. In smaller portion though. But still.

Here:

1. Mochi Pinoy Rolls. If you can find the original mixture.

2. Best-tasting kikiam is in front of a Swiss outlet. At P10.00, sauce is not for the gander; it is the wife's kitchen secret, peddled on the street. I asked the vendor how it is done. He answered: My wife. As simple as that. I found the bulk buy and just like anything from David, it is huge as a flying saucer.

3. Most beautiful kids. At my address.

4. Cake. At P25.00, it is like a folded fan with the most luscious filling you can find in the galaxy.

5. Most beautiful skyway. Going to the airport. Use the expressway inaugurated by the President yesterday.

6. P15.00 ice cream Hershey's variety that tastes like Haagen Dazs.

7. Goto at P20.00 with innards, chicharon and free music from funny people.

8. Snackies (new word for "tsitserya"). Find those with P5.00 tags. Even the marshmallows are prepared by God.

I am still recalling the other stuff, aside from the hotdogs that are fat as poles that I can add up here.

An adage: More Is Merrier!

THE NOOSE ON THE ANIMAL
By: Iris P. Concepcion

Beat the seasoned writer twice. I got it by the word: Jots. As in jotting down the words on paper. A triple letter word. It added up to 44. I felt like I developed instant biceps.

The letter K needs to be retrieved though and we need to fix the table for the matches. After winning, I showed my backpack with the words: "We always got our ideas from the outside world." From Mareart. I love making people laugh. It is a hard role though.

I am really relishing the silence and nuanced arrows of my league. Sometimes, I just need to release the chortles of surprise. Fathers now deliver enigmatic lines like "Shut up Iris" and "I am sent to protect those who bilk you."

When the whole world conjures the demise of this writer's affection for the better other, he comes walking in great topshirt with the words: "Wanted: Young and Skinny. Preferably Orphaned." I failed the first, am working on the second and passed the third requisite.

Of course, we are still tight as a braided rope.

The kids scamper for eggs. Eggs and pulp bits. Their voices are so distinct like old, old people.

I am truly from Stanford University and my mentor flies, literally, above the skies.

GETTING MY FACTS STRAIGHT

By: iris P. Concepcion

" In fact, it doesn’t have to dig deep at all, some of those officials were GMA’s loyal servants before they thought her number was up and became disloyal. She has the goods on them."----Conrad de Quiros

Abruptly, words gain prominence when tabulated.

No matter what the headlines speak of, the streets have better ears to feel the pulse of the country. You do not digress from the litter of words spread, you add them up. Strangely, I outheckled the writer in a gentleman's way of settling scores (not the writer above who sometimes shares bread with the underling) . This is how we do it and shall always be.

I guess, you gain respect by face-offs. Fair and square, blocking sentences upclose is my forte. I also need to make my opponents laugh. That is important. As it were, we are all on the same platform and grounds and our eyelashes will just keep on getting longer.

Ladies and gentlemen, the eagle has landed.

I hope they captured it on television. It is better than your average sitcom.

And yes Virginia, I do scripts better.

Onward rapunzels and mouses and pens and daddies and mommies, even mummies.

One for all!

Smile!

"Quote Of The Day: "Matapang ang gerlpren ni G-Spot."

ADVANCE GIFT

By: Iris P. Concepcion

I did get my birthday gift and reward in advance. A good friend anointed a beau-in-waiting with a sly smile, wicked as a fox during a weird celebration of overpoured holy water.

What does one wish when she gets Evian at 18 pesos?

Kids yelling like crazy at each other, that's what. And mastering some alien language as when haranged, the two-year old wonder replied:

"Ano ne? Ano ne?"

Bygad, a Japanese below 5 feet.

Thanks world for embracing my quirks back.

HAPPY EASTER AND EGG HATCHING
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I often wonder, scratching my chin, if I have friends in this world.

(Pause. Pause. Sigh. Smile.)

I think I have. I did not know they are just as diverse as the rainbow.

The mass is my new movie theater. I laughed at my wits' stupidity when them kids again scattered flowers from nowhere. Entrance with drama; exits with aplomb. Maria de Leon is the name of the bus station near to me. What a cameo it was. Just like as it was written in The Hand book.

Aside from my favorite priest, he sired another underling who, on cue, improvised the dramatics of the soul by grabbing the mic and did his spiel. On the spot. Yes, my God, that face needs protection. Too damn gorgeous to get wasted on heckling and mouth brawls.

I am healed already; it was just hilarious though.

I know now why David slayed Goliath. He knows how to have fun. 1 peso and 1 million is just one and the same with him. I get my floss from a marshmallow and David is showing his butt to prove I am correct. I had the most atrocious piece of pizza and it looked bad, like a mess. When I tasted it, it was like a universal melting of palate heaven. That was fun.

I am from Stanford University and closes my eyes without a bed.

In the face of adversity: BRAVERY!

Hmmmmm, I coined that myself. Would look good on a shirt.

Reminder to everyone: GOD OWNS THE CITY.

MY BABY GOT MAD ON HOLY THURSDAY AND KAKANIN STORIES ON A GOOD FRIDAY

By: Iris P. Concepcion

I never knew what to do during the Bisita Iglesia.

I do not own booklets of prayers and I do not know how to talk to emblems on the walls signifying the ways of the cross.

Nonetheless, I just learned today, I have a lot of friends from way back. The better other was merely a part of the audience and it was great looking at him scooping for food in times when people ought to be fasting. He was mimicking somebody.

I saw the structures of Japanese and the United States coalition of aid via the church. I think, the children of the corn and the kids wanted to improve even the mass celebrations. Some had mocked me for lack of food and money (hehehehehe) but the people in the ring made sure I would not be verbally harrassed this time. I fed the cats opening their mouths instead of my wards as they placed themselves under my feet. The pedicabs are aplenty.

I think the usual celebration of Tagalog masses are again the subject of improvement as well as the content of homilies. I was with my "real" Dad this time around. I felt safe around him and his people.

The sides of the church were converted into pieces of contrasts and familiar settings. I placed myself right into the center of the centerpiece and saw some of the people walkaway, teary-eyed. I have seen this in malls. I have seen it duplicated in churches. A statue of Mary was looking at chandeliers beside botched medical missions. I saw my women clicking, helping me out with their visual explanations.

I guess, in New York, this is called shocking art installations. Even I was privy to the verbal passing around of tidbits. One character I obliged a comment: "I think that's your gate."

She said another name and headed to the confessional box. I believe her. This is the warning of the priest to head to confession while the time is still ripe for it.

I saw this on a tee-shirt: " You might be surprised to see how many things we can all agree on." They were mocking themselves, atoning for their sins even those that are not theirs. It was touching.

I have to edit the line though. I prefer this: "You might be surprised to see how many things go unseen."

With all the warned mob who shall crawl, my people put up their best scenes. Silently, they made people see themselves through things. And I began to realize why I was returned and who are the people who benefited from it. Somehow, this Lenten season, I forgive the trespasses. Surely, God has His ways of mending things.

Thank you friends for sticking it out with this crazy woman who dreamt of gardens and playgrounds and words filling the world.

And better other: Great, great shirt. Your stall is smashing.

Fathers and mothers: thanks for looking at the world through my eyes this time. And yes, I liked that mute guy who made the homily a whole comedy routine act.

I was keeping my mouth from further strengthening. I need to coach my ward how to speak another word instead of heckling "stupid." It was hilarious.

To the prexy: God Speed and Congratulations!

Postscript:

Good Friday emerged as another tableau of realizations. I went to another Church and saw a replica of what normally happens in a famous church worship house. Here, the mayhem is better handled. There are basket bins to throw the garbage out. I did pass by Quiapo and it was rowdy as a rally. People do not have direction so I basked inside the flow of the crowd and went to the smallest of places where I could pass my frame in.

Intramuros is such a delightful place to lounge around nowadays. Even its churches had been improved. From what I gathered, some of the donations and tithing given were not used to repair the ceilings; the new engineers, witty as they are, placed house ornaments inside the Church instead. The chandeliers were shipped from Turin, Italy and they are indeed magnificent. The sign at the entance goes: "Look Up! Ceilings from Italy." When I did, it was mansion-like.

Nearby was the 400th year of Augustinian Service where the passion and death of Jesus was also celebrated. The museum adjacent to it has offices and comfort rooms. The amiable cleaner told me: "The owner is gay." The projects, I suppose, were meant to manufacture detergents and fun snacks.

It was a brutal exercise of the fredom of expression without being pompous nor gangly. There were R.I.P. signages but what was hilarious was this inscription: Manuel Encarnacion de Roxas and above it were the letters D.O.M. Reverse lay-up and it went in.

Of course, one who shall trumpet his success in governance will continue shouting and howling but you already get the comparison there. Between two people I shall outline here, whom would you choose?

Someone who raised our medicine prices down and who cleans up other people's mess (the garbage in Quiapo left by today's festivity shall still be combed by Leonel's people) or someone who had left almost six 6 digit bill of operation bills to a mistress so he could fool around again with other holy women's places? That is responsibility.

The answer is clear. The structures are costly but they had served their purpose of reminding everyone that the confessional box is just a stone's throw away from anyone's house.

Where did the airport taxes go must be coupled with: where did all the tithing go?

Go to Intramuros for the surprise and bonanza. If you are truly brave, visit this Manila spectacle of aesthetic excess. You might just want to punch a gate there and curse yourself for being sane enough not to be humbug about the loot.

You can even eat the best kakanin there, in red stalls served by hospitable ladies.

The Seven last Words came in quite in contrast too. The first two speakers made us all fall asleep. The fourth and fifth (5th especially) was a good gdeclamator as he intoned:

"I have given you everything (speaking as God), what else do you want?"

He even sang and that better other voice is already familiar. Mousy G, thanks.

Clear as a sky, I pray the book title: "One who sings well, prays twice."

A Blessed Lenten Season to Everyone from your brainy flamer.

THE MORNING NEWS
By: Iris P. Concepcion

There was a picturesque moment as I walked along an area that is not a usual site for a Church to get built. In front of a Church with a Virgin Mary emblem is a guy waiting for the Church to open. I took a double look at the guy as he was warmly lit by a lampost. I believe Gorgonian Bite.

I noticed that they had improved the lighting in the avenue where I spend my usual entertainment fare. There was an R2D2 light. My personal antennae keeps up with its own bayonet and dagger though, Strength in numbers they too, came, in impeccable sentences.

It is indeed a makeshift studio and it is staging a Teatro Mensahero's play about the death and passion of Jesus Christ. There are reversal scenes that remind me of my own father's impromptu domestic tableaus before.

This is both stupefying and splendid as scenes stroll in a play of contrast. I do know who has theatrical background though. It did the "Lord's Prayer" in Tagalog song and it was as soulful as my newfound inner intuition to act by gut. I liked this part and the black-cloaked guy painted fabulously who self-mocked himself in gyration and knowing ears. This is a fantastic costume make. Very Burtonish. There was a dance portion that worked well on "sagwan" motion.

The most beautiful voice, only because it harks back to the voice of Bjork belong to Maria. It eclipsed the dubbed Jesus' voice where tonal tremolos at the end of the songs came out funny.

The Judas scene was also a clappable scene as he received silver in exchange for his master's trust. It was a pained cry and was one of the best-applauded the whole nativity, errr, confession sins.

The comedy here is upfront. In the beginning, Mary and Joseph (looking uncannily like this writer and the better other) gave birth to baby Jesus. They are protected by cute people in wings with crowns. When they were covered, what came out next was the older Jesus and this was my gasp. He looked like my favorite author but possessing a villain voice. It was not Met-ian. I do not know how to praise the whole juxtoposition of faces and voice but it was a smash.

Jesus' resurrection was cinematic. It opens up with a rapid unwrapping of white gift and from there came out the Savior. Reborn. Enthralling. It could have been done by the Cohen brothers but it certainly uncurled itself visually.

I am giving you my trophies in due time.

Even if she was not on the play, a kid who sounded like my ward, when one of the characters posed the query, "Ikaw ba ang Panginoon?'

She answered: "Oo, siya nga!"

Thank you gents and ladies and my friends who had risked limbs to cover up for this stubborn scribbler.

The BEst Stage Appearance: The cloided man, bold like an impaled Darth Vader.

The Best Voice: I hate bullhorning my own toot: Maria

The Best Support Cast: Angels with crowns and so translucently white.

The Best Scene: When people scourged everything for these: thievery, sloth, avarice, the wanton selfishness of what my priest had called :Ano ba namang mga tao ito?"

The Most Dranatic Performance: Not from stage. it came from the audience having to hear the past sounds of truth.

WHAT MAKES A SONG TICK

By: Iris P. Concepcion

What makes a song climb the charts, etched in Billboard memory of greatness? Looking closely at the chord movements, the songs do not difficulty in their melody progressions. D, G and E combination goes along with D, Em, E or Am.

When fixed or morphed from their original forms, they could lose their lustre of time transcendentality. Style Council has gotten in the league of the untinkered "Beatles" in my list of bands. Perhaps, the ditty "You're The Best Thing" is a fixture in my Top 5 list, hovering between 3 and 4.

Its magic lies in part with the closeness of its music's vocal range with the better other. I can already imagine the notes matching his vocal chord.

On another note, I know for a fact that God exists. He made everything move on cue. I am flabbergasted by the precision by which actions click even without the clappers. Children appear from cornfields in exact clockwork; voices come in SFX's via Kurosawa's lenses. I question, sometimes, thrown off-balance to a bad dialogue I myself had produced. More often than not, thy ascerbic tongue gets a bad entrance.

Readers, have you at any point in your life, experienced a Gollum hissing "Laaaaaaabbbbbbaaaaaannnnnnnnn" like a reformed ring keeper?

Bad as I am with improvisation, I tend to match the irreversible sequence with "Panalo kami..............tribu Kenshepshen.........." That is really how this pedicab driver pronounced my surname.

This is definitely a Father's way of making his presence felt. It is a round table of rotations. I know who my parents and friends are. They did not build personal structures off my back, definitely.

The most heavily played are by forces of nature and by, sigh, kernels.

Always, always, the kids control the knobs to hilarity though.

Even when bombed, they shall continue farting, heckling (in a good way), fighting, spooking, laughing and outsmarting people ten inches taller than them.

Even an aetheist would believe it. I can do a Renata Adler short kilt out of this and it shall be wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.

Cheers to the rugrats. They who had staged another musical coup via Kulay at Kasarinlan. Its programme swam. I liked best C. Debussy's Jardins Sous La Pluie "Estampes" who is a student of Ms. Cecile Roxas.

As all eureka moments go, G. Gershwin's Three Preludes was a smash. I mean, the pianist is incredibly cute (shades of the composer) and like the patch on his hair, made love with the keys in a rich, opulent, reverse rendition of melodious communication. His nemesis get a homage via a prelude to soul keys. Here is how he aranged it:

Allegro ben ritmato e decisio

Andante con moto e poco rubato

Andante con moto e poco

The arrangement is by Lorenzo B. Medel. Gamma rays in B-flat minor numbers, you did one heck of a hahahahahahahahaha, worldclass musical reverse of the mind.

This time around, the competition got its due of improving its skills (Conrad de Quiros was batting for this route; he got his wish). Some numbers have sleepy intros. When improved by this group, it glides like a surfboard. It is getting there. A free market of aesthetics slamming it out for our own good.

The little tot who shall soon become President; the parents molding the kids (they got free vaccination from health workers who went house to house instead of them trooping in heat to health centers); the circle of L people, thus far, is getting qualitative support daily. Thank you very much.

I sat beside a couple of cute Japanese couple who, also on cue, sleep with me when the numbers get boring. Even in slumber, we coalesce.

Goryong!!!!

THE ROAD TO PERDITION

By: Iris P. Concepcion

Putrid smell came out from a clogged drainage. Piles of wood cover it. Just above it is a newly-built road being promenaded by people from all walks of life.

You feel the calisthenics of emotions burgeoning for a wondrous anticipation that this too shall see the light of good plumbing.

I take a walk on the wild side of that western sprawl of hilarious mix. The article of Conrad de Quiros today is a good one in that not much is truly written about the avenues nor the artists where these performers show their grit and wares. I am glad though that their arenas are filled up even without P.R. machinery nor sponsors. Some visit for mere aesthetic stalking but that is how the abnormality of situation demands it. NBN-4 should now be the alternative medium for the proliferation of these arts. What we normally pay for steeply as entertainment in the past can actually be had for free as pushed by this government if you only take a leisure walk and locate these hubs.

The thrill is in the finding. It is an adventure by itself as people prowl: "Where is this?"

I am always inclined to say: "secret", but that is too banal even for my own lying artiste riposte.

Yes, the camera here is tight. In Pippens' brand of basketball, this is called a stopper. This writer likes pointing at things in delicate sentences instead of yelling. Sure, I have a stupid garden where I was at but the better other has a green thumb that allowed wild flowers to bloom in my parents' graveyard. The aesthetics there is the line of San Francisco leaves that out-age me. It stands for a fence as my Father had wished it. I used to hang articles of value there when I was harangued by the mob in their unilateral and uniform spiels and sadly, humbug.

Perhaps, it paid off as I now read columns from the mainstream voicing out what is normally indie work. It is catching like wildfire, albeit in mysterious ways.

When people own sins even not their own transgressions, you just know you had put the best foot forward.

When you are invited, take the opportunity to participate. Someone did and learned the finer part of striding and gliding, waking up early and doing domestic chores. I think they are enjoying it instead of just nodding to insipid directions.

ANTICIPATING THE FUN PAGE

By: Iris P. Concepcion

I was buying my purified water when I heard a prelude to rehearsals of a tribal performance by artists from Davao City. The arena was filled with a potpourri of foreigners.

I saw my mentor, a gangly man aged 481, spooking me with his his new, green tents in the vicinity.

Since I had been attending this musical performance, I was impressed for the first time with the program blurb. It says in part that "Kalumon" is "committed to the proliferation of art and promises to assert space in the holistic development of Davao, Mindanao, the Philippines and the World." Holistic. As in spiritual. Not wholistic. I remember my favorite priest who had been churning out drama stories better than scriptwriters. He always makes the flock weep. He is that good.

A seatmate was commenting why the Philippine Anthem was not played. What kicked off the programme was a supernaturally splendid production of native instruments fused with guitar chops of blue and black make. What a blast. I mean, what a sound. Engineering was perfect; sound system, a technical triumph. I read from a paper that the Mt. Makiling school had been teaching its students this kind of art mix. I am wondering though why this was not hauled off to mainstream media in big gongs and blasts. I have not heard nothing but the crop of dialect mixes. None of the depth of melodies that I had heard yesterday. That is the visionary Makiling.

In another play of self-parody, it was opened up by "Tambolan", a percussion piece by Afro-Cuban and Mindanao indigenous music. You shall be in for a universal mesh of sounds in lutes, drums and kulintang. People from outer space had landed. The kids are getting paid and can they shout. Gorgeous names and mix of faces, this is a group that had long been herded for blending. A man who, as story goes, looks like the President, directed these young kids how to play together. He played as a prelude. I thought he was performing. He was only teaching his wards. Garbed in slippers and scarf of the hinterlands, he played and played leisurely as people tried distracting him. I saw his morphed self in shirts and tux too. It is a plague of sorts; a badge and emblem to think of nothing but on how to improve the already existing craft.

It gave me delightful creepiness already: seeing the morphed prexy playing the piano, doing ethnic songs, looking at variety shows in smugness and invading art scenes with Noy signages and emblems. It is a splurge and the kernels are in the forefront, showing off their souls stripped. It is an affliction.

I was very, very, very impressed by this one.

I wanted something like this to happen with our cultural instruments. I did not know they could mount something intelligent, smooth and worldclass like this output in such a short span of time, straight from the whirls and beauty of the boondocks. It can be done and what a beautiful impact it has to the aural senses. If ever we are going to break it into the world scene as truly Filipino performers, this is the way to go. I am very proud of the children who had pulled this off, hook, line and sinker. There is a piece of song and dance titled "Matsalam", correctly intoned as "Salamat" by the host.

They have voices that are felt; that is the trick. They sing from their gut with a doze of self mockery as they ascribe the production as stupid. Even I was stupid. Of course, once you have seen the difference in the renditions of Singkil dance, you shall know who slept on the job and who took the history with lyrical awareness of prose.

I could not begin to dissect the opulence of this richly-endowed mix of melody with honest tracing of the roots but it was pulled off. They should bring these young 'uns abroad along with the Bayanihan troupe. Their fares were shouldered by a certain "Ma'am G" since they all came from the South and had no money to travel.

I take my hats off, including my hair, to the choreographer and original musical composers. Especially to Mario Leofer Lim who masterminded the whole affair.

You have come a long way babies: damn, did you make the Mommy proud. The shout of the old lady in curly hair is certainly the best there is.

And the eldest had to bring in his ramen megman and I kept on saying: A. Kurosawa.

Yes. Him. And the subtlety of it all. Feeding yourself to the wolves is a good thing to change the world. That is lesson Number One kids. Kudos for making it.

(Subtext: Hihihihihihihihihihihihi.) This will not look good in my writing portfolio.

This box had a fix: Hanabishi, A Quality That Grows With You. 18" stand fan. Windmill. The pageant was a hoot by the way.

RETURN OF THE NOT SO PRODIGAL SON
By: Iris P. Concepcion

The last time I heard, the mother's eldest, a genius retard at 14, went to Peru to escape his supernatural prominence. He also wanted to visit the Bridge of St. Luis Rey just to impress his Mom who had admired the book in the past.

David, slayer of Goliath, slept 365 days and left those whom he had known since six years old, vowing to return as a second rate stuntman.

The return of the comeback is another feather in the overburdened clown who had to battle Resident Evil, the billboard of which graced a Quiapo theater. I had laughed so hard at the exaggerated scuttlebutt of mane drawn like a man possessed.

These are not funny guys. These are latently hilarious men who know when to get mad and get madder.

Earlier, I attended a show called Kulay at Kasarinlan. I do not know where they got the title but kids on piano were featured. More than twenty performers keyed in that piano but having been honed in the ways of the knowing, I pick these performers as giving their best shots in throwing their balls out for melodies.

I choked a little bit when I heard the little girl Maria Gianina Jimenez play F. Chopin's Valse in D Flat Major OP 64 No. 1 (google this; it coould be a trick) since he looked like my niece. She was the best in that plum of kiddies trying to communicate with notes. They got it from this Mom. You question their integrity, they would hand them to you, warts and all, unblinkingly.

Among the older folks, I was spooked beyond my normal self by Lisa Zheng, a twelve year old prodigy who was trained by Ms. Cecile B. Roxas. The familiar mannerisms: she entered first in a mini skirt and silently sat in one corner. When she came to the piano, however, the dynamo unleashed a horrifically wonderful, stuntman-like approach to the piano keys. She was in flaming red and looked like a nerd but what a woman! The monster, devil attack on the notes, pitched from the blackest of moods, came alive as she played like a serpent. I got my P50,000.00 buffet plate once more. This time, I shouted some initials and from a fellow comedian to another: the better other laughed, proud perhaps that his best half recognized what is essentially obvious.

The happiest notes came from Jescha Obeta who rendered Scherzo from Mikrokosmos Vol. III. I also liked the First Arabesque, Passepied and the Two Part Invention In A Minor No. 13, BWV 784. I could no longer recorgnize if what I am attending is a car show or a major play. This is self-parody but what a beautiful rendition of the trio successive songs.

The best part of course, was the closing ceremony. No. The last piece. A raze from sky, an airplane SFX, drawn in the sky from Almond S. Ponge. He is a cherubic satan himself if ever one exists, banging the piano in wild abandon that I had to squirm on my seat. He is exceedingly good. He is pompous, obese, a riot, an outsider, a legend with a patch on his head.

Damn the reaction of the mother: she almost shouted. With these words: "Hey bastards, he is MY son!"

With enough reason. It is his time to shine after dissecting that book. The affinity is widening. I just heard children of the corn rendering a duet. This writer said: "That is a duet from two of my sons."

The Daddies nearby almost choked, teary-eyed. Such simple joys for simple men.

Indeed.

MOCHI PINOY ROLLS
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I wonder why I could no longer find online the front page stories about the lady pilot of Cebu Pacific who was feted in an otherwise bright picture of how women professionals are treated well by this airline. It was in the front pages of both the Philippine Star and the Philippine Daily Inquirer today.

I believe that its President, Lance Gokongwei, was also succinct in supporting the "open skies" policy of the government. He had been vocal about supporting the law of reciprocity. A feature about him in Philippine Star brings a light to the opening up of competition that eventually redounds to the benefit of the riding public. I love this organization, for the record, and I am not a paid hack. I write as a customer.

I could not somehow get the article of Scott Garceau. The hacking republic paid a hefty sum of money just to look good. Well, the price of insecurity. Nonetheless, the link shall be, well, linked. I love these writers. Even in close encounters, they conduct themselves with tact and decorum. I envy their stance and fortitude. How dignified.

Moreover, the palate had been fed with tastes bursting with vast, gastronomic experience.

First off: some came from in-house culinary staples.

The others I had just accidentally squired in odd places. While waiting for a sermon one time, I entered a grocery store. Being a watchful fan of anything stacked in groceries, I saw from under one of the stalls a purple-looking roll named Princess' Mochi Pinoy Roll. It looks appetizing with a leche flan-like buchi type of filling. It only costs P18.00.

I paid P23 for it (I almost returned it when the price spiked at the counter) but the food was gorgeous enough to make me pay the extra P5.00. I guess there was a mix in the price tagging. And the maker wants to direct me to a clue.

I expected the normal face of roughness in mongo-stuffed pastries but was in for a treat.

The "espasol" outer coating is not bland nor does it taste like flour. It tastes between a fine milk and a pulverized pulvoron. I am not partial to pulvoron since it chokes my throat and it makes me cough weirdly.

I was not even biting still. When I tasted the mochi pastry, I had to mouth: "This is good!" I munched it like I have not eaten in a week. It tastes like G-spot a.k.a. the better other.

Terrific. I could not even describe it. This is a good partner to this ultra hip bakery in a favorite mall. It looks Japanese outside. I love its bakers for knowing their gag spiels. I ask for their names and they speak the names of those who have hurt them.

Dough Joe. Even the name rocks.

Those loaves of bread that are expensive are priced halved in this bakeshoppe. Its coffee bun and Hongkong bread that come out as huge as my face are enough to allow you flying in your palate senses. They do not scrimp: sausages, hotdogs, starred pizzas. You know for a fact that the guy who loves Apeng Daldal did not sleep overnight to make this dough. The sofa in front of it is homey: it is close to my heart as I found myself sitting on it one point in my life.

I do not know why this brood does not flaunt their accomplishments. They like to sell but you'd get the drift it is not for money or pride. They really like making people happy.

And G: nobody beats you in the game of breeding. That is a class act.

WHILE WALKING UNDER THE RAIL
By: Iris P. Concepcion

A Chinese teenager once approached me while I was paddling my feet under the LRT train station and posed me a query:

"How do I get to Intramuros?"

She spoke in good English. I directed her to various options. Riding a public vehicle or scour the place by foot.

I asked her where she is from. She replied that she is from China.

"Mainland?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied.

I wondered why she could understand me very well. It turned out she is educated in an International School where the English subject is taught.

I was at that point contemplating to pitch the beauty of the city but was afraid of the garbage that might not have been picked still along the way. There is no pedestrian lane in front of MET theater to cross the pretty landscape on the other side of the road.

I advised her to walk so she could pass by the Post Office and its newly erected fountain. To this writer, it is one of this country's most beautiful edifices.

I asked where she had been to in the Philippines. She told me she had been to Boracay. I told her to visit Luneta. She had, in fact, and to my delight and glee, found it beautiful.

Yesterday, I revisited the place asked for. I went to Intramuros just in case I die and resurrect as a tourist guide.

They (I know that the President is stern in having all the government agencies coalesce in promoting and pursuing projects) had improved, in a subtle way, this remarkable place of history.

I walked and found funny the clean eateries on the foyers. They are immaculate and their servings of food are chopped hugely. Their fishes outrebound their plates. Their fishes are sticking out from the soup bowls. Their fins are immense.

I walked and found myself in Anda Street where I saw the huge billboard of:

"Ang Hero Ko 150 na!"

It trumpets Rizal's Bagumbayan Light and Sound Museum. Behind it is a curious sight, in front of Colegio de Isabel. There is a hotel-like house (massive and sprawling) with a tourist bus parked in front of it. It says: "Welcome Ghost Soldiers." Then came a "karitela", this famous carriage driven by a horse with a Caucasian and his Filipino friend riding it.

I overheard the tour guide saying: "That is the oldest Catholic church in the Philippines." It looked like an abandoned and bombed out building. I saw the Caucasian train his lens instead to a resort-like hut in front of the what looks like a huge trade center.

I would like to write Eminem and his alter ego, Stan, at this point:

Dear Stan,


Why is this huge closet being cleaned up in Intramuros?"

Yours faithfully,
Rice Field

Armed with my new aesthetics, I entered the store called the "The Papier Tole Shop."

It has a Universal Studio production clapper. It is small but packed. Aside from being a janitress in my favorite airport (NAIA-3) and being a staff in this curious mall, I would like to be this store's resident vendor if only to dispose with profit its great output.

Ladies and Gentlemen, in case you are wondering what the corn kids had been tinkering with, you can buy their wares here.

They still place the souvenir items of the Quiapo variety. Those "buri" made handicrafts that run to thousands. They improved on the craft though.

Gift wraps are made into beautifully drawn jewelry boxes (4 for P100) and intricately astounding 2011 calendar with drawings of Intramuros places (P241). It is the best piece: haunting, classic, worldclass, Filipino. This goes on with a variety of products: notepads (3 for P100) and diaries (P200).

The pencilled sketches are magnificent and are, simply, splendid. When a gaggle of Caucasians entered and were eyeing the overdone wood necklaces, earrings and dilapidated coin purses, I wanted to shout at them and say "Errrrr, errrr, errrr are the better buys!"

If coin purses are your thing, buy those that are arranged behind a Japanese wrestler. It is authentic Philippines and is a steal at P120 per pack (4 pieces).

For the piece de resistance: A Rubik's cube type of design for the whole Intramuros landscape.

Breathtaking. Each rubik piece costs P150. I beat the vendor/tour connoisseur and hastily multiplied the whole diorama. 13 x 4 = 52. Using the calculator, the whole beautiful sight costs P7,800.00

There is a painting using the gift wrap. Delicately sketched: dainty, Filipino, new. P11,000.00 but worth the tag.

I pity the "buri" letter and bill ornament that is quite overpriced at P160. A Caucasian woman said laughingly: "That is so.........(name of a person)."

It did not help my already excited self that a Japanese-looking wrestler announced: "Hinahanap ka na ni Apeng Daldal."

Readers, it is a happy, happy, wonderful, wonderful place.

I then went inside Barbara's, a restaurant that also houses the White Knight nook of paintings. This building also includes Islas de Oro Travel and Tours. There is an exhibit by an artist named Dan Libor. His painting of a prisoner breaking out from a jail in a suitcase is such a classic. The colors are telling.

I passed by the "yeah, yeah" paintings but got stuck with this enormous, definitely the crown of the canvass universe. Titled "Tambuli" by the fabulous artist Matt Garcia, it is an oil painting of a clown wrestling with animals, horses, men with horns.

A clown!

And the canvass itself is like a Dave Eggers book, a variety of which you can also find at the Papier store. It looks like a torn door. The guide told me: "That is done in fiberglass."

I almost peed. My eyes do not deserve this kind of magic. It is obviously a superior, superior play of color, atrophy, comedy, horror, shock, triumph and the hidden divine power of the brush.

The guide then directed me to some sketches in black done "on the spot." After the clown, my hormones and aesthetic orgasm are so spent already I could no longer curse at the decrepit counterpart drawings.

The artists, huddling in one corner, eating biscuits, knew I had been happy. They told me "Thank you for visiting," although the reverse is truer.

They are cool, old, peppery chaps who love pranks like this writer.

I got hungry and went inside a Richman's carenderia. His meal tasted good as his looks. San Juan de Letran and San Beda are schools that I would love to walk around next time. From afar, Letran looks like a towering palace.

I caught the :10 movie afterwards. I was laughing at an otherwise somber flick. It stars Eric Bana and is titled "Time Traveller's Wife". It does not make sense except the word "travel". Even the foetus baby is travelling, according to the on-the-spot dialogue.

The better other is good at these dubs so stay away from his mike.

I was laughing my butt off as I remember scenes spliced from a multitude of movies viewed in the past.

This, I spent for less thanP100, while walking under the rail, in full blown sun, as I saw Jim Carrey being carried in a stretcher, thirsty as camel.

He should walk faster because this is simply put, MY domain.

And father: I am recruiting them, the affinity. I am winning them over to my side. Wink. Between us, I am starting to like their stories.



She spoke in good English.

UNTITLED
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I had been thanked by this corn cob's better other in more than ways than one. I never understand his ways oftentimes but he gets through like a blitzkrieg in the Milky Way of my universe. He is loved like a toddler in the arms of his mother.

On a beautiful note, Ping Lacson's visit to Malacanang was not found in the online news. I wonder why this did not get through. It is pivotal in context since the President surely knows how to ingest the valuable help of people who know the ins and outs of governance. The reason why he is being riled by some engaging people in the news is simple: he shall never pay hefty sum of money to look good; he would rather build. He was advised on this by a coterie of women who surround him like hawks of the wilderness. A powerful picture of him with this group would show you this guy is in great, good, motherly hands. They shall whip him, mind you, should he be caught taking a short time in a cheap motel with his underlings than buckling down to development work.

Senator Lacson was asked by the President if he would still receive his pork barrel money now that he knows it is being siphoned to worthwhile, tangible infra projects. His answer was still a resounding no. I think the good senator knows where the present dispensation stands on the corruption issue. The repercussions redounding in the mainstream info highway may be rendered meaningless especially when those who got the spite in living theater could not stand the reality standing before them. Mind you, this guy can do a mean music in the ensemble; I was impressed by the hues and magic of the sync and mix.

I am giving credit where credit is due. The lady of the house where I am at told me that the improvements on the road and water pipes in my alma mater's area were promised by a Congresswoman during a meeting with her constituents. I remember this lady. She campaigned with a group and walked with people during the election period. She gave me a sole kiss and left. She is pretty. Trisha Bonoan-David is her name. Young and silent. She is giving scholarship grants to underprivileged children in conjunction with one of the President's programs for out-of-school youths.

It pains me writing this. They do not like me being obfuscated by being pompous. I need to scribble this down though. I told the kibitzers that these working men are doing double work. The roads are being tarnished when they are resting. They had to plough these out, incurring additional cost. Imagine then how people who are hateful of functional structures cost much in terms of production work.

Let me stress the obvious: they are not in for a war or vengeful, restrictive projects.

If it irks you walking on their roads, if you experience guilt eating their affordable food, do not hyperventilate. Ask them how they do it: they shall tell you how it is done.

Without strings attached.

THE VEHICLE PARK OF MUSIC

By: Iris P. Concepcion

Underneath the old, oak tree are malunggay leaves. How they got there, living with tombstones, I could not exactly fathom.

Today, a church that looks like a prison cell of Jose Rizal is hosting an aria. Yes, this church where "talahibs" grow out of its seams looking every inch like an exceptional setting to The Secret Garden reprise is hosting it. Men do not exist here. Souls of the vineyards do.

I had a taste of Chili's burger or its variation thereabouts: I got stuffed. The child Jesus is in a tabernacle flashing a Laban sign, although unintentionally. It begs for attention.

St. Vincent de Paul is holding a bread with a curly baby who looks like a ward I am teaching spelling to.

The featured composers are Bach, Vivaldi, Handel, Schubert, Mussogorsky, Rossini, (these names are getting better and better without the Wikipedia) Arceo and so on and so forth.

These times, the usually maligned people of the past who could not explain themselves because they do not pay for blackmail ploys are slowly, patiently and without a tinge of upfront meanness, finally emerging with their own "real" stories. Their arena is no longer in print but the living theater.

I can commiserate with these beautiful voices and their perennial silence before. I was once a target of this mob and still is. Luckily for me,I have manifold parents now who likewise put out their brave faces in front of those who lack decorum. They never shame the perpetrators of bad habits. They, instead, grapple with those feisty words: "conscience" and "guilt" in addressing the gallery crowd.

In this aria, foreign languages speak the laments of those who were wrongfully spinned. I love this personification of the mix. Like the previous performer of gamut emotions written here, the vocalist was not indicting. The lipstick repetition of gruesome prank (it debases) was repeatedly chanted in a Vivaldi number. He was teary-eyed as he was explaining.

Giving him a superior, superior musical accompaniment is the incredibly adept pianist Gregorio Zuniega. This musician does not overpower. He brought forth the wishes of the singer. He does take the backseat for the melody confession to shine. Always, these performers remind me that mainstream opinion shapers who pooh at these projects need to get reminded also: we do not lack funding nor does the public lack interest in what we do. We are not just buzzed about. I guess that is in my job description.

Perhaps, some people are occupying themselves with conceptualizing oversized spaces that do not appreciate maximization.

Yes, it is a humbling experience but we can get past through that. I tasted a gorgeous hotdog for less than ten pesos. I am not expecting to get jailed for this manna from heaven. It is an art by itself, lying without a package in a beautifully arranged space. Do you see the connection?

Deliverance signs are everywhere. I see it as everyone winning this war. When they are dirtied, they shall be picked along the way. Repetitive and tedious but credit these guys for persisting. I ask: How do you educate people for things that do not promote digression? It is an ongoing process.

The President is definitely doing the right thing even if the beneficial outputs are undermined by mere propaganda. Beckon not the harbingers of doom, the real shindig is out in the streets. There is a very long way to go. I can see this conductor becoming his own man in building this affinity without going to cocktail parties and backdoor dealings. He is enlisting the proper people who, like him, shun spotlights. I see him watching things from afar though. Perhaps, he is likewise meditating for improvements.

Last night, I even wondered: who is David? Did he have a hand in what is otherwise a supernatural twist to the musical bonanza that had people re-examine their ways of cultural "fund" use?

It was my only time to heckle. The only thing that I could manage, dear father, is this: "Di nyo kinaya ang pobre." And the impervious "Go Green guy!!"

An orchestra was lent to render songs of the variety program types. There was shock, there was awe, there was an invitation to re-awakening. Again, the guy in a beautiful organ did not overpower the somewhat struggling bassist. The violinist helped him and so did the flutist and keyboardist. These guys rendered hymnal narratives even in their monotone touch keys.

Cinema Paradiso was excellent. It was improved by the participation of the keyboardist. Coming from the fantastic "Rocky" brass band, I know what is exceptional right now and what is not. This group did not overpower. They were accompanying them, ready to finetune what is certainly lacking and not working in this beautiful blend of music.

On a bigger look at things: this is an assent to correction from the divine. This insistence to enunciate aesthetically that some people can do it better; just allow them to innovate for fresher and newer things.

The posters have improved; the front stage was pruned. And the arena? Filled to the seams, bursting like my previous fats.

They are improving the lights very soon, perhaps in astounding monochromes. This arena is filled. Even the food stalls now serve "real" food.

Who is David? "THIS" is David.

COMMON DENOMINATOR
By: Iris P. Concepcion

The clinking of payloaders hummed the roars of vehicles as I alight expecting a downpour in the street.

A dessert has suddenly sprung, enabling the workers to fix things overtime, drenched in sweat, toiling for a country on the brink of a deliverance outburst.

A kid is calling an apple mango; another one writes A instead of an implored plea to write the letter H.

A pimple erupts on a woman's right nostril, its hole swirling, gathering booger overnight. It is her new hobby: picking it up.

A closer look at the world bears watching as it unfolds and unfurls a secret of hushed job completions. The envious of the lot give snide remarks to the fixed structures, embarrassed that these were done. The gall to aspire for improvements when we could endure the potholes for over 50 years.

There is only one thing coming out productively out of this: piercing the corporate veil has been literally defrocked. The once mighty are no longer that invisible. When the funny silliness came out, the myth of superiority was rendered meaningless.

Appropos to the current buzz on streets, jobs and counter jobs abound. For all the ingenuity of persistence, there, triumphs the compounding reasons why it is worth walking and trodding for. Somewhere along the intersections, you find commonality with these people in their quest for order and common decency. One of my Dads has told me a story about walking to a building that no one knows he owns. I now see his wisdom, his abhorrence and refusal to use an overpriced wallet.

Here, threats do not count except this propensity to debug what had been bugged.

In the end everyone wins in this war of deliverance. Not everyone sees it that way but is is a worthwhile climb to conversion; of making sense out of things; of revelling on transformation and renewal.

Blogging has never been this much of a reward but it pays off in the end.

Meanwhile, the stretch of Dapitan, at the back of my alma mater, had been elevated. I am glad the materials are of high quality. The cement is as thick as my pride and it is a beaut. You have to see it for yourself and know how it is done. It had been mocked on but these wizards of corns just sipped the dirt off and went on improving it. Indie governance (NDe and Gal brands) had never been this upfront.

Also this morning, I saw an end to manual street sweeping. The blue vehicle rolled, converting itself into an instant broom picking automatically the dirt and garbage off the road. Those who resist are usually the stuck tricycles parking on blocks who do not have zoning ordinances. This moving vehicle is cute as a cool toddler. It bears the waste management bureau signage which likewise gets the garbage consistently called Leonel or something like it.

If you are a voracious reader like me, there is likewise an interesting ad on wine stories that culled its source from happyaprilfoolsday.com. I know its writer because he is butt-crazy like me.

It could enliven your day to no end.