BEST GIFTS

FOR MY birthday last week, my kids surprised me with handmade cards. They handed them to me early in the morning on the 21st, accompanied by a flurry of hugs, kisses, and giggles. As I mentioned in a previous post, there are always wonderful reasons to celebrate your birthday, just as there are countless reasons to maintain a positive outlook on life. Let me say it plainly: receiving greeting cards from your children is the absolute best gift a father could ever ask for.

My three kids are my ultimate source of inspiration. Seeing their faces in the morning completely replenishes my arsenal, giving me the strength to stay on, move on, and hang on through every challenge life throws my way. Of course, I still flare up sometimes, scold them, and find myself wishing I had more time to spend with them. But I won't dwell on that today. A child will always be a child—by turns naughty, demanding, and incredibly sweet—just as a father must always be a father, forever carrying a profound soft spot for his offspring.

As parents, we can get so consumed by our relentless daily routines that we become completely oblivious to the small things. To my kids, there is no better way to express their love than by translating it into heartfelt words and colorful, chaotic artwork.

Here are my children's recent masterpieces

This one is from N-yel, my eldest.

Yes, those two photos on the front are of Manny Pacquiao which he (likely with his Mom acting as a co-conspirator) clipped from an old newspaper. My wife and kids love to tease me that the world-renowned boxing champion and I look like two peas in a pod. This is especially true whenever I sport longer hair with a middle split and bangs framing my face, or when I let myself go unshaved for two or three weeks. But if you read closely, did my son actually scribble the word handsome in there? Regardless, I choose to interpret his entire message as: "Hey, my dad is the champ!"

This one is from Dudoy, my second child.

This boy has not outgrown his absolute obsession with dinosaurs. Not even a little bit. He still loves to collect dinosaur figurines, watch dinosaur movies, read dinosaur trivia, stomp around acting like a dinosaur, and think like one. So, what else would you expect him to use as my visual representation on a birthday card? A massive T-Rex with a gaping mouth ready to devour its prey was the obvious choice (though this time, he cropped my photo into the scene and drew a birthday cake as the T-Rex's target). Looking closely at his drawing, I realize my little dinosaur lover actually loves burgers more than anything else. But for "dinosauring" me on my special day, I told him I won't let him have even a single bite of my next burger. Just joking, of course.

And this one is from Eya, my youngest.

My little girl with the missing-tooth grin absolutely loves writing love notes and doodling on paper scraps or the margins of her notebooks. (Just the other day, I overheard her Mom telling her to stop sending sweet-nothings to her classmates, one of whom happens to be a boy!) For my card, she went all out, using vibrant colored paper and a scented pen for a change—and why not? It was her dad's special day, after all. The heavy erasures on the page were likely the result of her older brother trying to "edit" her work. The highly unusual, jagged cuts along the corners were definitely her doing, as she still tends to transform her artwork into a chaotic mess whenever she gets her hands on a pair of scissors.

JUST LIKE all the other random letters and impromptu notes I have received over the years, I will keep these cards safely tucked away in my personal drawer. I know all too well that the day is coming when they will no longer do this for me or their mother. One day, they will grow up and barely recognize the versions of themselves that wrote these pages.

The he-he-he's, the hand-drawn emoticons, the dinosaurs, and the scented notes covered in heavy erasures will soon become a thing of the past. They may not always remain as outwardly sweet as they are right now. Like so many of my fondest memories, these moments will eventually be anchored to a fleeting era that no longer exists. But I secretly hope they never entirely stop sending me handwritten cards.

My kids truly love to pour out their sweet-nothings and flaunt their creativity whenever they make cards—whether it's for their Mom on Mother's Day, for each other's birthdays, or during Christmas. Sometimes, they do it when there is no occasion at all.

Whenever the mood strikes my youngest, she draws simple stick figures surrounded by "I love you's" and "I miss you's", naturally embellished with misshapen hearts and smiley faces. Then, pointing eagerly at the figures so I can see, she will chatter away in her sweet little voice: "This one is you, Daddy; this one is Mommy; this is Love; this is our house..."

I will hold onto these stick figures for as long as I can.

A BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION

A GOOD music in the morning to pep me up, a hearty breakfast with steaming black coffee, hugs and kisses from my wife and kids, the smiles of neighbors you meet in the street. I try hard to establish that attitude of joy in my life, because I want a day that is filled with happiness, not sorrow. Especially when it is my birthday.

And that will be tomorrow September 21.

I was born exactly a month before the Plaza Miranda bombing in Quiapo, Manila, and exactly a year before President Marcos declared Martial Law in the country. But the later event is more significant. The presidential declaration is considered as the most crucial episode in our history that ushered in the long reign of Marcos dictatorship. Since then, September 21 has become a very memorable date in the country, and just like those birthdates that fall on holidays or any historical date, it has an easy recall.

But do I really need to celebrate for all the world to know? Is it supposed to be a purely personal celebration?

For the first time in many years, right before I write this blog, I remember my former boss (God bless her soul) and her antipathy on birthday celebrations.

She wasn’t keen on celebrating birthdays. If she had her way, she didn’t want us in our department to greet her with lavish gifts or throw a party for her, much more to celebrate on her birthday. A birthday to her is purely personal thing, a time for her to introspect and evaluate her life, so why throw a party just to have fun and tell the whole world that it is her birthday. Once, when we invited her to attend one sumptuous party for an officemate who was celebrating her birthday, she naturally declined the invitation.

My former boss was one of my mentors when I first worked in Rex Publishing, but her stance on birthday celebrations didn’t suit me well. I had theories why she hated it: she might have an unhappy memory about birthdays, she had no family of her own as she was unmarried, or she didn’t want obsequious people to use her natal day to strut their skills on her. Or she just tried to rationalize things in her or the company’s favor, that when we do a party we are practically cutting our working time in the office.

That started then my own introspection and reflection during my birthday. I began to reflect on purely personal terms the significance of my natal day.

To me a birthday is a cause of celebration. There's always a certain expectation and significance for it. Just like anything good that happens to you, a good report card from your kids, a great day at work. I believe that life is about rejoicing. Every good thing is significant and always a cause of celebration and you want to share that with your family and friends. We are all for a party, anytime.

So when one celebrates his or her birthday, it’s one way of saying, Hey, I live for another year in this planet and let’s hope for more years to come. Who cares if a birthday would just add another year to your age? You grow old year by year, even if you don’t celebrate your birthday anyway.

I rather think of another year passing, what I have accomplished so far and what I haven't. I tend to focus on the first. And this gives me some reason to make merry. There must be good reasons to celebrate.

I don’t usually have particular plans for my birthday; except that, I must be sure that I will have a nourishing dinner or lunch with my wife and kids. Last year I treated them with an early dinner at KFC in Caloocan, just that one, and then we went home.

Because it is non-working holiday tomorrow (this year it falls on a Ramadan, now a national holidays upon the official declaration by Malacañang), I might have a real party this time. It means I have more time with my kids; and I expect some important guests, particularly my brother and two sisters, and some of my in-laws from Malate to come over.

I’m not twenty-one anymore but I can still pretend I am. I can always think of my birthday as a milestone, another marking up of my chronological age, but not my outlook in life. Grow old, and grow wiser than ever before, seems to me a good dictum.

A RENEWED PASSION

SOMEONE once said that human nature is at its weakest inside a bookstore. I found the absolute truth in those words one Wednesday morning while browsing a shop that exclusively sells secondhand books: Booksale at WalterMart near the Muñoz Market in Quezon City.

It was 11:30 AM by my watch, leaving me exactly thirty minutes to spare before I had to head to work. Yet, that half-hour stretched on until past noon. I knew I was going to be late, but I simply couldn't decide which book—or books—I should buy. To make matters worse, I had only ₱400 left in my wallet to get me through the rest of the week. With such limited time and an even tighter budget, I had to whittle down a massive pile of potential candidates to just one or two final choices. Dammit, the shelves were overflowing with incredible finds that morning; on regular days, I would be lucky to spot two or three worth taking home.

I stood there balancing my heavy haul: Main Street by Sinclair Lewis (₱65), John Lennon by Alan Clayton (₱180), East of Eden by John Steinbeck (₱180), Mitla Pass by Leon Uris (₱45), Mexico by James A. Michener (₱65), and Presumed Innocent by Scott Turow (₱85). If I held onto the pricier titles, I could only afford one or two; if I opted for the cheaper ones, I could take home at least three. The clock was ticking mercilessly.

To think, just a day prior, I had also thoroughly raided a secondhand book stall in the lobby of TriNoma, another mall along EDSA. After nearly an hour of rummaging, I had proudly walked away with five excellent titles: Get Shorty by Elmore Leonard, The Cider House Rules by John Irving, Roger’s Version by John Updike, alongside Dingoes at Dinnertime (from the Magic Tree House series) and the Happy Feet junior novelization. The last two were treasures for my two boys, who have happily inherited my fondness for reading pocketbooks.

Over the past few months, I have fallen into a steady rhythm of purchasing an average of one secondhand book a week. Given my financial constraints—after all, I am a father of three, balancing a part-time job while trying to finish a law degree—expensive new releases on display at National Book Store are a luxury I cannot justify. Even when I do have a little extra cash to spare, I have severe second thoughts about shelling out ₱300 or ₱400 for a single brand-new book. I would much rather stretch that exact same amount to buy four or five secondhand gems from Booksale. Why shouldn't I? I don't explicitly need modern bestsellers when there are myriads of brilliant older books out there—so many, in fact, that I won't be able to read even a fraction of them in my lifetime.

Admittedly, I haven't even touched the twenty or so other books I've bought since June. But I don't mind looking at my unread pile. There is a distinct comfort in knowing that the moment I finish my current read, I can immediately scan my own shelves and pick my next adventure from a ready selection.

This reading fever has been steadily climbing since the middle of last year, sparked when a friend invited me to open a Shelfari account. It felt wonderful downloading titles from my memory box—everything from childhood storybooks and whirlwind romances to bestsellers and timeless classic novels. I compiled them all into a virtual library, complete with familiar cover art and publication details.

But looking at that digital shelf also made me think about all the books I hadn't read. It was then that I realized how much ground I had lost since I stopped actively reading and collecting years ago. I had a tragic falling out with the hobby, courtesy of a colony of termites that completely devoured the first collection of pocketbooks I had painstakingly built in our old rented space near Muñoz Market.

Now, in a desperate bid to catch up, I read everywhere. I read while squeezed into vehicles during my grueling, one-and-a-half-hour commute from our home in Marilao, Bulacan to the office in Quezon City. During office hours, I stealthily steal a few extra minutes beyond my official coffee breaks to squeeze in a few more pages. And I have firmly established a habit of reading late into the night before going to sleep. By those metrics, I am firmly on track!

The only unfortunate side effect is that my allocated study time for law school has plummeted to an absolute minimum. I have been spending far more time getting lost in fiction than analyzing my codals and heavy textbooks on Taxation and Civil Procedure. Consequently, I find myself frantically cramming for those subjects most of the time.

I don't think this is a belated passion for reading. I haven't truly stopped reading pocketbooks since high school, but I have never consumed them at the breakneck speed I am maintaining now. I am finally rebuilding my home library—a proud second attempt to establish a literary sanctuary after that heartbreaking incident with the termites.

Back at Booksale,  I finally made my peace and settled on the two more expensive titles: John Lennon and East of Eden. They are rare finds for a secondhand shop like this, and the copies were in pristine condition, looking as though their original owners had never even cracked the spines. The damage came out to ₱360—plus an hour's worth of deducted salary due to my inevitable tardiness at the office that afternoon.

You could certainly call that a textbook sign of weak human nature. But as I walked out, it was incredibly nice to think that the moment I got home, I would have fresh text waiting for me. It is the perfect inspiration to hurry up and finish my current read, The Sandman: Book of Dreams, and I have officially vowed to conquer one more book by the end of the week.

My latest Shelfari account on books read

POLITICAL

I AM an apolitical grade schooler when Senator Ninoy Aquino died on August 21, 1983. But I was aware of that event early on. I could feel that most if not all people of Ilocandia (the Ilocos Region) just shrugged the event off as nothing serious as to distract President Marcos—yes, the Apo Marcos of us Ilocanos. And the old folks wouldn’t care! The Apo is a strong man, they said. That settled things then, the event would never be a distraction, even children of my age would agree.

But more than two years after Ninoy’s assassination, the “event” would lead to a monumental uprising, no longer a mere distraction of the strongman’s rule. After the snap election pitting Marcos against Cory, Ninoy’s grieving widow and a political neophyte, crucial episodes of our history unfolded before us. When the regime’s Defense Secretary and one of his trusted generals defected, citing massive cheating in the election as one of their reasons for their heroic act, hundreds of thousands of people had began to gather in EDSA to support them.

I remember that fateful day of February 25, 1986. It was wee hour of the morning. I was stirred from my slumber by a neighbor calling on my father to go out and hear for himself a very important scope. “Awanen ni Marcos! Pimmanawen! (Marcos is gone! He’s left!)”

As I had been a captive listener to my grandfather’s radio and to gossips and serious conversations of adults who had been following the developments in EDSA since day one, I was interested to know the outcome of the said rebellion or revolution (whatever side you were in then). My grandfather was hoping early on that these rebel soldiers and oppositionists and opportunists alike, including the Catholic Church hierarchy, would eventually see the light and concede to the Apo’s election victory. My father, my neighbors and almost all Ilocanos shared the same sentiment, at least during those troubled times.

But now the Apo had given up the fight. I hurriedly went out with my father and proceeded to our neighbor’s house. Heard over the radio in crackling signals was a report about a US helicopter slipping Marcos out of the country while nobody was looking.

My father was speechless for a moment, so with our neighbor, and his sons who were also stirred from sleep like me. It was as if a light went off and a breath of life snuffed out. It was sad for my grandfather, my father, my neighbor and the rest of the Ilocanos.

When I went to school, where I was a high school freshman, an overcast air is evident in the campus. I could sense the somber mood among the students, teachers and school administrators while they discussed about our future. The school owner, a staunch Marcos supporter, after a moment of gloom would eventually shift its loyalty to Cory, as there was no more chance for the Marcos loyalists to fight back, and a support from the new government would be necessary for the survival of the private school. But even months after EDSA, political discussion would rather center on Cory as usurper of power; otherwise, Marcos loyalists, most if not all of them in Ilocos, would rather not talk about it. So I finished high school with no politics bothering my life again.

But my self-imposed ignorance was only short-lived. By the time I entered college, the Cory administration had been fighting tooth and nail to ward off rebel soldiers. The bloodiest of this series of coups happened in 1989 during my first year in college.

By then, I know what’s good and bad for our government. I had learned enough what Marcos had done to our democracy, and the excesses of the dictatorial regime. I would know then that the military cannot just grab the government from Cory. It helped that I regularly read the Free Press, which I bought almost every week with whatever I could save from my allowance. I started subscribing to the opinions of Teddy Locsin and other magazine contributors in their defense of democracy and the Cory administration, and their aversion to dictatorship and its clones. Gen. Rodolfo Biazon, the Marines commander during the series of Honasan-led coups, would become my hero for successfully defending the State against power grabbers.

There wasn’t a time that Cory became popular among us, at least in Ilocos. I heard people mumbling that they’re better off with Marcos, and they thought that if life wasn’t as easy as before, why would they have to embrace a new regime. Marcos was still and always be their guy.

But to those moderates, or those who would rather embrace Cory administration and its shortfall than to revert to martial rule, believed that there were other factors beyond the control of the Cory administration that kept us from progressing as a nation, such as these tragic calamities (Mt. Pinatubo eruptions, earthquakes), series of coups, and the fact that Cory inherited a bankrupt government. That Cory wasn’t popular in the region was also true at least with student leaders and campus activists. For them Cory was a “tuta ng Kano” because she had wanted to extend the stay of the US bases in the country. But the magnificent 12 in the senate, headed by then Senate President Jovito Salonga, thwarted her when they rejected a proposed bases treaty that would have given the U.S. more years to maintain its bases here.

While in college, I also joined some student movements, campus demonstrations and forums against US bases and everything that stinks of neocolonialism. As part of the student publication, I became a member of a militant writers’ group.

Immediately after college, I went back to my high school alma mater to teach for a year. There my third year students would remind me of the usual apathy that most Ilocanos had for Cory. I remember that class we had in February that year. A day earlier, the Ramos government had just declared the EDSA anniversary as non-working holiday. Now my brief discussion on the date as part of my motivation for the lesson, turned out to be a question-and-answer forum. “Do we really need to celebrate the People Power?” somebody asked. That started it all. Then they barraged me with questions centering on Ninoy, Marcos and Cory. Is Ninoy a hero? Was Marcos really bad? Did he really order the assassination of Ninoy? Or was it Imelda? Why a revolution happened in the first place?

I was surprised that I could tell them in simple words and with conviction about what I know and felt about the People Power. I narrated the events that preceded it, and saying in summary that Marcos was bad, that Ninoy had good reasons to go against Marcos, and that Cory was brought to the fight, by a stroke of God’s hand, to save our democracy from the dark reign of a dictator.

From that day on, I affirmed my admiration for Cory and my political conviction, that everything contrary to democracy is bad.

That, I admit, must have started my real political awakening, and the burden that I must bear until now. It pains me to see our country still wallowing in extreme poverty many years after that euphoria and exhilaration of the success of People Power of 1986. I feel nothing but utter disdain to our present leaders. It upsets me to see politicians doing everything to perpetuate themselves in power, obviously by nepotistic and patronage type of politics, and by charter change. It disturbs me to see leaders of rebel soldiers who wanted to grab power by force, disregarding our Constitution in the process, but who are now so eager to join democratic elections just to continue their greed for power.

But what disturbs me more is to see deposed President Erap Estrada raring to run for president again. Erap even becomes an admirer of Cory, something he didn’t hide during the wake of the former president. He even extolled the heroism of Ninoy and his ideals. Now this pardoned convict wants to run again. For what? To go back to the government that he plundered from 1998 to 2001?

Well, we are in a democratic country. It’s damn complicated living on it. But even with the kind of political leaders that we have right now, I never regret living with this country. There’s always hope, as Cory, the plain housewife, had shown us during trying times after the death of her husband.

MY CHAMPION TEAM

NO matter how busy I am with office jobs and school assignments, I always find time to watch my favorite team San Miguel Beer when it has a game on TV. That’s why when classes in college were suspended that Friday due to a heavy downpour (a typhoon signal wasn’t even raised in the metropolis by the weather bureau that day, July 17), I left our office earlier than usual and went straight home to catch up the live telecast of an SMB game. But it wasn’t an ordinary game. It was the do-or-die Game 7 Finals match between my favorite team and a more popular and very aggressive opponent, the Ginebra Gin Kings—yes they are still the most popular ball club long after the exit of its legendary playing-coach Robert Jaworski.

I had plans to watch the game live at the Araneta Coliseum in Quezon City, perhaps with my two boys in tow, but I didn’t have the luxury of time and extra budget within that week to go to Cubao for the ticket. Watching a live telecast on TV of a do-or-die match, anyway, is no different than watching it live in the venue; the thrill of the action is also present, except the deafening cheers and boos, and heart-thumping exhilarations from thousands of fiery fans. But no one can prevent me to shout and cheer with wild abandon, even when I am alone in the living room and the clock is ticking into the last quarter of the day when most neighbors are already snoring in their beds.
But for this rare Game 7 of the finals, my cheers and that usual panicky feeling was rather subdued, not because my two boys and their little sister were already sleeping (my wife would rather watch a teleserye than a basketball game for more than an hour), but because I felt relaxed with the Beermen leading the scores throughout the game, thwarting every rally the Gin Kings could muster on the crucial stretch. And halfway to the fourth quarter, I knew my team was a cinch to capture the PBA (Philippine Basketball Association) Fiesta Conference title.

I have been rooting this team since 1993, after the disbandment of Great Taste, an old favorite team of mine, and the eventual transfer of its streak-shooting franchise player Allan Caidic, my idol way back in my high school years, to the Beermen. But this time Caidic, was on the other side of the fence as Ginebra’s assistant coach. Yes, even with the transfer of Caidic to Ginebra in 1998, my loyalty remained with the Beermen and the talented crew now headed by Danny Ildefonso, Danny Seigle (in the injured list), and Olsen Racela.

With the Beermen leading by 8 points with a minute to go, I saw some Ginebra fans starting to negotiate their way out, hoping to leave before the balloons and confetti fall on the arena. I knew how they feel. I also had a painful experience at the big dome in 1998, when my favorite team was on the losing side of a Game 7 match.

It was an All-Filipino championship between the San Miguel Beermen and the Alaska Milkmen, then bannered by the formidable triumvirate of Bong Hawkins, Jojo Lastimosa and Johnny Abarientos. That was my first time to watch a championship live on the venue. I was so excited and hopeful that my favorite team will bounce back from its loss a game before. I was with two of my female officemates, both Beermen fanatics, who turned from demure office workers as if with the flick of a switch into shrieking unlady-like fans. In the final two minutes, I knew that the chance of our team for the title was already buried by an insurmountable lead of their opponent, and with Nelson Asaytono and the rest of the Beermen fumbling with the ball all the way into the crunch time. We decided to go out of the arena half a minute before the final buzzer, hoping to beat the onrush of fans exiting the venue at the same time. And lo and behold, we were joined by thousands of other SMB fans, in a funeral-like procession toward the exit, silent and sluggish, and exhaustion and disbelief imprinted on our long faces.

I fear of a repeat of that heartbreaking Game 7 loss with this present game between San Miguel and Ginebra. Thinking of a déjà vu made me go aarggh! And the number was not on our side, because prior to the season-ending Friday game, the Beermen had lost all their last four Game 7 matches in the finals, yes, including that defeat from the Alaska Milkmen in '98. And the last time the Beermen lost in the finals two years ago, it was on the hands of the same Ginebra team (sans their marquee player Mark Caguioa whol, like Seigle, was sidelined with injury).
But what I fear didn’t come to pass. Bilog ang bola, indeed, as one Ginebra ad would say! After a four-year title drought and heartbreaking losses, six semifinals and one finals, in between, the team finally captured the crown, the Beermen's first with Siot Tanquincen as head coach. It felt good, damn it, seeing Ildefonso and Racela again leading the victory whoops for the team.

Hoorah to the Beermen!

GOODBYE, MJ!

I GROANED when I heard from a female officemate, her eyes glued to her eMac, about Michael Jackson’s untimely demise. It was early morning in the office that day (June 26, Philippine time) when the news came in via the Internet. Elizabeth Taylor would be saying then: “I still can't believe it. I don't want to believe it. It can't be so.” And I felt the same way that moment.

In a wink I joined millions of people—fans, die-hards and just curious—who utilized the worldwide web to confirm the death of the King of Pop, and just like them, I Google about Michael Jackson’s life. I made broadband-quick flashback from the 70s when the popular quintet The Jackson 5 with the prepubescent Michael and his brothers singing “I’ll Be There,” to the zombie dance in the “Thriller” video and space walk-inspired move in the 1980s, up to his startling physical transformation and allegations of child abuse, and to his reclusive years in the latter part of his life. I was born when Michael released his first solo single “Got to Be There” and since I was a kid, I have enjoyed listening to every chart-topping hit he churned in his long career.

I’m sure, people like me, who were born during the peak of the early part of his career, along with the bell-bottomed pants and afros and hippies of the 70s, who had spent teenage life in the turbulent 80s—fashion-wise, and who had matured along with musical fusions and crossovers in the ‘90s, cannot escape from the looming presence of Michael’s music in their lives.

I myself love many of his songs and some had remained a significant imprint in my life. “Give Love on Christmas Day,” as ubiquitous as parol, Christmas trees, and puto-bumbong during the yuletide season, was an early favorite Christmas song of mine. I’d love singing it from the moment I heard it from our old vinyl record. “Ben” was also an easy favorite, not only for its melody but also for the reason that I have a very dear brother whose nickname is Ben. “Beat It” made me dance and sing during my elementary days, trying every way I can to copy his eye-popping dance moves and be popular in school. “We Are the World,” his collaboration with Lionel Richie and other topnotch celebrities of the decade, opened my eyes to starving multitudes in Africa. “Heal the World” made me feel the same civic feeling at the time when I was contemplating with what to do with my life after college.

Now I can only think of his 750 million records and record-breaking albums and complicated dance techniques, not for whatever he had become or for whoever he was. I must say that his pedophile cases, his penchant for plastic surgery, and his Wacko Jacko persona are just sidelights of his stunning musical versatility that I admire, and loads of sheer star power that had entertained music lovers around the world.

Wacko or just plain wacky, pedophile or not, black or vitiligo white, I don’t care, because Michael has always been one of my idols in music. What he had done to music—our soul, his legacy, is far-reaching. Look at how many artists, from Mariah to Usher to our very own Gary Valenciano, he had influenced. And as one blogger puts it, MJ made the world a better place for a lot of people.

His music, from his boy soprano to his androgynous high tenor, will live on in my playlists.

Thanks, Michael!