Neil Pt. 1

Hanging out with the Dream King. Really.

It's my turn to say: It must be love.

Sheepish and almost tongue-tied. Warm, fluttering wings in my stomach. After 10 hours of waiting in line, and 13 years of feverishly flipping pages, finally.

Neil Gaiman.

I have spent countless afternoons running to the Filbar's in Katipunan (and later on in U.P.) and ComicQuest in Greenhills to ask for the latest installment of the Sandman or Stardust. Never mind lunch. There was telephone-flavored ice cream to devour.

There was also a time when I felt too cool to like Neil. Everybody else was suddenly deconstructing the Endless, some columnist began painting her face like Death, and I didn't want to be mistaken for jumping onto the bandwagon. It's just the way it is. When someting undergound becomes mainstream, the purists who don't even pee in the shower ;-) start searching for the next big thing.

Which was a phase I was really thankful for. But Terry Moore and Grant Morrison raves don't belong here.

I think it was six years ago, after reading American Gods, when I started reading Sandman again. Took the comicbooks out of the boxes and their acid-free wrap and just read the entire weekend. Bled over some of the pages, too.

And fuck it. Fuck the coolness. Fuck the cliques. Fuck the exes who memorized lines. (Well, not really.)

Mr. Gaiman wrote and continues to write great stories. Here's to more running and missed lunches.