HAHEHI
By: Iris P. Concepcion

There has to be something puffy and huffy inside the airport. I have seen the world's most exciting people inside this venue. It never fails to bring out guffaws from under my droopy eyes. I have seen eyes watered, grins widened, laughter magnified. Do not believe the harbingers of doom in mainstream media: this is the kick, the people improving the lot and having a heck fun of time doing it.

The work ethic is simple. You really have to pitch in and share. You do not get much if you are into yoga and gym stuff. When you receive P100 for a job that requires you to stuff food in containers, it is the best P100 you shall get in your entire life. Just today, I got my salary that does not reach P2,000.00 The reward though was the laughiest meal with co-workers. God, the parody of it all. The people who I want to be mentoring me liked Apeng Daldal and Paquito Diaz.

This airport is my workplace: its builders are the craziest, most forward looking guys you shall ever meet in this world. My fathers are stringent (you'd have to bleed blood for a twenty) but they would give you a million bucks of history and zany character-building. That is priceless.

I wondered why their products taste best, or why they are always smiling. Now I know. The man on the helm was coughing funny with anecdotes in his Epistles. It is is my new comedy bar. This sanctuary of goofs and clowns who can drown out everyone with their stupendous stories.

Hence, I hooked up in conversation this guy who was extolling the best of German crafstmanship. He was critiquing about how to build, that you do not need huge land mass to create. And this tale about German women matching their male counterparts in workload. I think he was humble enough to claim his open space. I have always been vocal about my fascination inside this arrival/departure place.

Someone wanted to enter and was doing a Garfield kind of "I want to be in" look. This guy invited him to come in. Everyone can come and partake the bounty of good vibes inside. Even the kibitzers are free to growl. Feel free to be impressed though.

Now that I have met the Pugak and Tugak of billionaires' row, I realize the core of their happy success. They really live a HAPPY life. They engage people in word swaps without being mighty.
Twice, I refused food from these goofs. I was laughing horribly; it was not out of shyness. I just thought the least that I can do is buy marshmallow from one of their stalls. I also did not put bills to their spiritual kitty. The reason was the choir lead. He was terrible.

One of the daughters had confessed one time about the eccentricity of her ascendant. Now that I have experienced its extent, I would not mind receiving ten cents just to mop his space's floor. He IS incredibly hilarious.

My fathers are all the same in their quirks. For their bravura and spunk, I say, thank you for siring me and showing me my visual daffodils.

And for making life's transportation bearable, here is my one huge punch. Kidding.

THE BEATITUDES
By: Iris P. Concepcion

The vicinity has not been changed. Remnants of junk food packages still litter the ground. Straws were not picked. Musical scoring had gone Comedy Central. A little ballerina closed her ears to the blasting fusion of music that did not quite sync. It had gongs with April Boy Regino and Freddie Aguilar songs mixed like a confused Sinbad in his lost carpet. It was hilarious.

A couple was sweet. The guy was removing lice from his girlfriend's hair as this terrible coalition of songs blare like a stupid recording.

A guy in a wheelchair was dozing off as the songs polluted the air. That is how bad the mix was. There was a disco playlist though, rarely heard on radio. This proved the be the balm to the senses.

A guy who looked like George Burns was sitting in one corner so smugly creased.

The arena was filled; the audience better cheered and no one was perspiring as everyone awaited the performance.

So this is ballet when they plugged out the tutus off Lisa Macuja and Nonoy Froilan. I do not claim to be an expert in dances; I learned the moves only through folk dances and "bayles" prevalent in town gatherings.

I do claim one thing: I have seen the best of what Kirov and Bolshoi theaters can offer via Ms. Macuja and Ms. Froilan in the past.

I am blessed to have a stern aunt who knows her notes. She had been to NAMCYA competitions as a conductor (I do not know what this acronym stands for; it has something to do with the arts during Marcos time). She is into that: arts and its variations. She has a friend who invited us then to Macuja and Froilan's performance in Kalibo, Aklan. These well-trained dancers donned their best inside a basketball gym.

I was enthralled then. I could not believe the premiere ballerinas can grace a rusting setting whose people might laugh at the tight, leotard pants of the performers.

Hence, I can match the "Living Dolls" staging of ballet with that one afternoon of magical superlative in the Visayas a long, long time ago.

I do not want to lend a critique to a thing I am ignorant of. I do know the technicality of movements. I am sure of one thing though. Macuja then did not have wobbling feet: she was perfect. Never did I see her once depart from her pointed tutus. That is discipline.

These ballerinas, on the other hand, are no well-coordinated. They do have fabulous costumes though. There is only a sequence that I liked: the Dutch-clad women of four who used castinets like dome in their dance. They were much better choreographed.

I do not know who killed MET, the ballet dancers and our real talented musicians but you long for the days when they provided the yardstick for cultural excellence in this country and had us mapped in the world for our aesthetics.

This is education and I learned one thing: profitable ventures require only mediocre talents to break through stage. Who altered the paradigm shift ought to examine his/her cultural conscience right now.

This race, this country, this nation is certainly capable of doing better than that.

"Freedom is my new choice."

WHY I PREFER WALKING THAN RIDING

By: Iris P. Concepcion

And thus: the three muskeeters, hatched from a giant egg, decided to hold a meeting and played instruments. They likewise held their own tea party at the backroom though in different attires.

I was fed from where I am at in the morning and had my fill of jolly passing around of food. I attended a rally for those who want to oppose the Reproductive Health Bill and instead found a fleet of helicopters hovering on top like giant toys. They muffled the sound of the mass in the grandstand. I saw streamers but not for opposing the law. They were saying Yes to Life and No To Abortion.

I saw one t-shirt that caught my attention as far as taglines go. It says in proud green: If You Want Peace, Protect Creation. It was worn by a young man who was sitting on the ground leisurely in a picnic mood. I am reminded of my ever evolving hateful, better other who made me laugh today. I do not know from where he gets his wondrous gamut of expressions. I have only three; he has like gazillions.

I left the place hurriedly to catch a guitar presentation. The three guys just made my tummy ache out of laughter. The featured singer was doing an exaggerated rendition of soulful performing. I could not understand why I was laughing. The performer was Irish. I told you, the children of the corn also hate their Mom.

The playlist was a mixture of old songs. I wondered if Minnie Ripperton will ever wake up learning to love her famous song once again. Everyone was into the groove of muzak. By the time the fourth song was belted out, I just had to laugh. It was really weird. Especially when the featured hottie started doing a belly dance to "Ghost". I am keeping a chortle on hold as I am writing this as the facial expressions of these otherwise wonderful performers (Mike Villegas can do a superb Chaplin kind of strums if I may recall) surged again. The violinist is a superb, class act. If I were a director, I should cast him on the spot. The lead guitarist is, plainly, a virtuoso in the art of strings. This reminds me of another string gig of kundiman that was a confessional melody thread that we have beautifully-composed Tagalog songs. The singer has a deep, emotive voice. The bahista was struggling with his instrument. The lead man, nonetheless, instructed him to improve his sockets. He played similar to Chet Atkins and he did it like peanuts. It was an ode by a Dad to his daughter.

I left the place like I had been gagged. What remained always was the laughter. And how the merrymaking adornments in heaven tweaked their fate again to become masters of the universe as if nothing, nothing, really happened.

Try walking along Palanca to the Ayala Bridge and you shall experience why I skip riding any form of public transportation whenever I go to Taft Avenue. You could not miss it at night. It is brightly lit; it does not smell of urine or dung. You can meet the face of the President once you descend upon it.

Afternote: I had been wondering about the new mood of the mob. They mouth this: "Di mo kaya si.....(mention the name)". I always know they are in the same cluster group. It baffles me though. The man on top is silent doing his thing while those below are buzzing in sentences that are overtly similar in superb direction. I rest my case. Thank you to the corn kids for providing their mother provisions. Two of them gave me my fruit just now. Great duet of name.

JAPANESE RES IPSA LOQUITOR
By: Iris P. Concepcion

"These levels of self-sacrifice, or suicidal behavior, are particularly eye-popping when seen from our eyes. We do have a capacity for self-sacrifice too. We do have a capacity to brave great dangers too, which is in fact what some of our OFWs are doing in volatile areas, but for family. We will risk everything for family, but not much else. The Japanese will do so for things that extend well beyond that. They will do it for the good of Japan and the Japanese people, a thing so ingrained in their psyche it no longer carries the aspect of duty or command, it is reflex action. You can’t get any deeper sense of country than that." -Conrad de Quiros

This is a timely call for writing after a powerful earthquake shook the country of Japan. It eventually exposed not how fragile it is but how the Japanese people are very resilient. As a nation, this explains much for their enormous psyche composition and strength.

Before going to mass yesterday, I passed by a quaint Japanese store.

I could not pinpoint exactly from where its serious comeuppance translate to its happily wicked commercial products. Their products posterously grin even without them embossed with smiley faces. Bright and in-your-face and eyebrows, I had to tell one of its vendors that it is such a very homey, hilarious and gleeful area. I figured, the Japanese's first impulse when they encounter things is to innovate. They see paper and they create food patterned after it. They are, to my recollection, the forerunners of Oriental crafsmanship. Even their films attract me like moth to, well, old clothes.

Channeling this energy of enthusiasm and hardwork to something happily soulful is what I look for in my streetside walks. I ate a chicken delicacy last night and was tempted to arrange it like a face. It is our privilege I suppose not only to be filled; we must also be allowed to elicit guffaws aside from excreting saliva when pacifying our palates.

I hopped to the nearby "mainstream" grocery/deli and met actual Japanese, sumo wrestler built and all. They were discussing about the parade of hotdogs. They are so huge I am reminded of the better other's armpits upon seeing it. Of course, I am naive. Japanese products there are likewise happily presented I need to pinch myself to return to normalcy.

If only we as a race can be as upbeat even with the mundane things in our midst.

Going on the same train of thread, I did catch a brass band after featuring Japanese arrangers. The first performer had a flute as he played "Can't Take My Eyes Off You" in a semi-cabaret mood; the second one had a monumental trumpet. I do not mind the soft and cozy emission of melody from the dainty flute. I was flabbergasted by the horns though. The soloist performer did it like Chuck Mangione would. He of the Munich Olympics theme song in the '70s. His piece is Sylvester Stallone's "Rocky" soundtrack and I was one with the two old men who nodded in agreement that it was the better rendition.

This is boxing at its best.

With that in mind, I do wonder if throwing babies in pools after delivered as is customary in Japan made them a race of historical experimentation.

You can just sense they soar from all sorts of tremblor.

STRIKING WITH A SANDWICH SPREAD
By: Iris P. Concepcion

This is Ash Wednesday: a feast of burnt palm trees, reminding me of catchphrases like urn, Napalm, Palm Spring and tomb foreheads. My deceased mother was a recipient of my odd joke in the past. I was about ten years old then and had the garrulous itch to play with spiders fighting against broomsticks than having my head marked with a cross.

We had to cook our food in "pugon", a huge structure of hardened soil. This is a Brokeback Mountain setting. From here, the ashes placed in foreheads are similar in terrain. Even the texture.

I told my mother, I could do what the priests can do: dip my fingers in her kitchen area and draw the muddified cross on my forehead.

This is Ash Wednesday and as a middle-aged woman trapped in an 18 year old body, I am still a creature of habit: I went to a Church.

On my way to the worship place, a rally was being held in front of the Hall of Justice Building. Here is the twist: the rallyists were impeccably dressed in clean red shirts, looked well-fed and are not suffering from the heat of the sun. They were mouthing "Laban para kay Ninoy" slogans. There were free sandwiches spread around, the placards were beautiful and the "makibaka" chaps were served triple decker yummy bread like Subway. My forefather was in the foreground munching his own share. His support team made sure no one litters on the ground. They were likewise given free, bottled water from a well-known tobacco and beverage company.

I had to laugh at this warped sense of the reverse. I left in haste least I might like it too wildly. The one in bullhorn was extolling how to help this government in a positive way. Spur: that is the title of their resistance. Order and Law and an End to Corruption. I remember this title as a semi-porn title of a detective book that I once read in the past that was lounging in our bookshelf.

The pleasures of writing: is it me or is it just the whirring of the equipment that are making our roads wider and more navigable? I could not help but smile silently at the logos of these builders. Sometimes while walking under an intense surrounding of buffoons and hecklers, I see these massive engineering machineries and I easily forgive those who abhor the beautiful and the orderly. I am only used to fulfilled musical extravaganzas but these men, they truly delivered on their promise, silent visionaries of these islands. I know who you are: you got credited in the newest brochure for our country that I hoarded (happily) at NAIA-3 Terminal. This has paintings and drawings that are certainly eye-catching.

When they play flutes, they provide notes to the melodies and the rich histories of songs are explained. I even attended a dance presentation and was deliriously bawled by the kulintang instrument used in hip hop form. I think I am pitching in something for this country, pebble by pebble until I can build a national awareness for a happy, cultural structure. The audience is getting numerous; they are more forward with their appreciation. The Cordillera history was made a magnet of bouncing educational tour of melodies and subtle as the movements are, the people are finally getting the drift of it.

Everywhere I go, I may be hungry and felt myself alone sometimes. At the end of these explorations though, I feel little when I see how far others had contributed more than myself. On the road, I met people who had denied me water but I likewise found generous individuals who do willingly I got all their names. I want to pass by them again to thank for their humanity. Most of them are guards and vendors and carinderia owners.

Last night, I spent a night inside the airport with steadfast airconditioning unit. I have seen a jeepney refurbished that is used a a free shuttle to an otherwise exclusive world of players Now, everyone can have access to it. I explained to a girl the comfort of having to get outside of terminals unharrassed; she was for the other procedure. I democratically brought forth my piece. One person at a time.

I met my family who fed me wanton, provided me with provisions (I see the futility of having much these days) and I am glad we are bound by same faith on how we swirl around in this world. Better to laugh than pout indeed. We saw people gorging on meat in waiting areas and wondered where the tables went.

God has a way of making fun of things and while being harangued for being skinny now, I had the hugest laugh at the comical nuances of these incredible, incredible encounters.

I can now wear a bikini without flabs I suppose. Kidding. I am eating stuff with funny creatures drawn. I even got a funny soap. Thanks little miss; you are a great person. I did not know you are that creative though. My size: XD in G-strings.

And that ad with a turtle for safety? Priceless.

Did I tell you my parents are, bar none, the most hilarious old men invented in this universe? Why have not we discovered them before? Even their teeth talk!

And yes, Griffin, I won. I did. You cannot argue with that by just walking to school. You need to sweat.

AND THEN, CIRCUS DU (DE) SOLEIL

By: Iris P. Concepcion

Dear Stephen King's Children,

I just wanted to place the word DE in my title.

Your mother thought at one point this week that she could circumnavigate the world on foot. She had never felt more strongly than to elongate her legs around the globe shrank for her keeping on her fingertips. She had rendered meaningless the excess of her past splurges and could laugh at the stupidity of having to search for things that are unnecessary.

She had thought a P50,000.00 plate for Broadway or a brief skiing trip can perhaps save other people's lives much more than their want of self-esteem; she has not been to those, rustic embering lass that she is, earning her keep for films in the not so distant past. She is as broke as a camel's back and more the richer for it in writing explorations.

It is a hard knock's life but she had truly allowed you to unprettify yourself in melted ice-cream, opening chocolate packaging using her two front teeth. She had been maligned in the process. Taunted too but she had tried holding on to her sense of self. It bode well. Your shrieks had been the best option out of the mundane. She is fighting back tears as she is writing this. The most that she could make sense out of this is that two is never better than one in terms of upbringing. They show you burgers when they know you have been passing food; it is not enough to taunt---they had to tell you you are a slut. What a macabre bunch of people.

She had subsisted on dough staples given by a wild flower of the prairie. Her companion in spirit stood firm behind a voice that could outshine them all, in one twist of thought she never thought she could view.

She finally got the P50,000.00 dinner/plate concert, feasting on a P2.00 bread. It felt like a million bucks. She was shocked to admit she must have revived singlehandedly the creative latches of the past in her imaginary screwdriver, unlocking the bolts of the wild minds. Even the tummies. Not to mind, a priest told her to abstain for three days.

Thus:

She entered the the humdrum mortuary of the ghosts and bumped onto London. Impossible but true. Forgive her confused reaction. How could she cramp in one face the emotion of melancholy, horror, contentment, fulfillment and laughter? Would she appropriate these different masks in arrows? Eyebrows are for laughter; mouths are for tears; ears are for guffaws. In five seconds, she had contained her laughter over the tacky crepe paper waved in a ballerina sequence. The contrast of the women faces are striking: the purity of their devotion to the dance delienated.

Of course, you have always been sassy to downplay the ways of the child wonderment in your saner, entrenched travels. You dug about histories and used them to inspire your works here. You did not use them for evasive trysts in the Roman canals. That is your advantage.

Children of the corn, she saw all these and one. An opening salvo of an ensemble with ethnic overtures. The woman lost her silver fingernails and was glum all over. If only the real Tausug history was made musical through the edgy instrument kulintang: I can see its promise crisscrossing in hiphop beats.

Pamulinawen was rendered beautifully by a lady pianist and the arrangement was enchanting to say the least. Executed in a bravura of happy notes, like elves and tikbalangs merged to finetune its keys. Someone recited Ophelia Dimalanta's poetry which was better than even Maya Angelo's piece. That was spoken verse. The poet was aping the reader and got her just due.

After the verse, this dynamo performance of a petite woman whose only armory were a bag and loud pipes that could detonate even the loudest bombs of musical extravaganza. My GOD! I can only mutter. The song is "Glitter And Be Gay". Is it possible to compress the multitude of entities in one face. This vocalist did. I wanted to scream at her for being ridiculously wonderful! She is a one-woman theater. I wanted to curse why I am getting her for free while teenagers scrimp to score P10,000.00 worth of ticket to watch a foreign band whose language you could not understand. Her name: Nikka Mae Lopez. This is reverse scoring again.

And then came the angry lament of a woman directed at her tormentor in diagonal gaze. It is a warzone in stanzas.

She was addressing the oppression of the leafed trees; can they ever be spared from the cries of the wild?

Then came a trio of old women saying "Bilis, bilis, may perdeble ba?". Upclose, it was brutally grinning than a Hughes flick. She was about to sing. Stuttering and admonishing the pianist, she finally said: "Ayan lumalabas na ang boses ko."

Children, this was the best comedy flick for me. Sure you could not talk in proper phonetics still but to your hecklers I say:

"These are my kids and they are featured in Stan Lee's Spiderman comic book.

Two days after this musical miracle, I caught an open-aired Hiyas Ng Bulacan Concert Band. This is not your usual parade of fiesta cymbals. The host wickedly called the two conductors who alternated in baton beats as "Band Masters."

More on that in another entry: the better musical pied piper looked like this writer's better other, her true, good friend and her favorite author rolled into one. He was wearing a patch on his back like our Prexy, Noynoy Aquino.

I enjoin everyone: Head to Rizal Park (White refurbished) and catch the concert series there. It is worth all that blob and daggers. Nakakatayo ng balahibo. I was happy to see my mass organist friend lounging in one of its benches too.

Thank you Mr. President for having the balls to have these musicians show their wares. They improved our OPM in a tremendous, tremendous scoring worth a Burton flick.

Now, I am no longer hungry. And that G shout after the Eisenhower March is worth the lusty handclapping.

Yes, WE can.

WOULD YOU LOVE A GUY WITH A HICCUP?
By: Iris P. Concepcion

The line could pass off as an introductory salvo to a forthcoming Alex Garland novel set in the Bahamas this time, possibly featuring a toilet bowl as an alien intruder.

The world is shrinking to the last 25 cents. Amid the continued roar, I know I have not been forsaken. Not by some material measurement. The MET theater should be rehabilitated.

I had walked far today to view the beautiful improvements in the Quezon City area. It is beautiful, cosmo and orderly. Kudos to its local government and the Belmonte clan for turning this place into what it it is today: habitable. Its people are likewise disciplined. Noynoy Aquino must be proud of his people here.

I am glad some of the local government units are more receptive to the investments ploughing in, giving the city a panoramic touch of splendour. They started the work here in Manila; I guess it just needs more prodding to get things done.

I have only seen the darker side of things; I finally saw how it is done on a wide scale range and gratefully too.

The platform works if the leaders are into the vision. In so little time, they got rid of the dirt and grime.

And I must admit: I do love M's walkways. They are a delight to the eyes.

Thank you Diamond for the extra strong advice. Insert wink here.