Sometimes, the most random of things can remind you of entire years of your childhood. An Eraserheads song, for instance.

Although not so random as far as frequently played anthems go, whenever I hear one of their songs I always feel like I'm back in the late 1990s and early 2000s.

Anything from Cutterpillow, and suddenly I'm in my uniform, not-so-fresh from school, Indian-sitting on the yellow sixties tiled bodega floor, singing along to every song with my cousin, flipping from side a to side b until it's time for dinner.

The Metrotren is noisy in the distance and the neighbors are playing basketball, but who cares? In that bodega, with that album, we could shut the world out and nothing could disturb us from singing "I'm a traveling man! Straight from the can! I'm a thousand miles away from my number one fan!"

Anything from Natin99 and well, hey it's 1999!

I'm in high school, and I've discovered other bands but every time anyone comes to school with a guitar, it's still Eraserheads songs that everyone sings at the top of their lungs, until we hear the ominous clicking of some killjoy teacher's heels coming down the corridor.

And of course, that day in 2002.

I heard it on the radio, the same way I found out about Alexis Tioseco, and although it was definitely not a life that had ended with Ely Buendia's farewell via SMS, it certainly felt like something had died.

Later on, the Eraserheads breakup became a favorite drinking topic, and fortunately for us, questions were limited to what ifs, and not what now.

Though some would argue that the Eraserheads were unbeatable, the individual members have gone their not-so-separate ways, and are still rocking and rolling to different beats.

Marcus Adoro is not the Eraserheads, but Markus Highway is definitely Rakenrol.
Raimund Marasigan is not the Eraserheads, but Sandwich is definitely Food for the Soul. Buddy Zabala is not the Eraserheads, but The Dawn is definitely, well, The Dawn.

Still, you can't help but miss the Eraserheads, and I was one of the thousands of fans who went to the open field in Fort on August 30, 2008.

I remember it was raining at around 6 pm. I was in a class in the new College of Arts and Letters building, and it was very, very dark outside.

I began to feel nervous as I imagined the jeepney ride to the MRT, the overflowing train ride, and the problem of getting to the open field from Ayala.

But just thinking about the concert made me giddy, and I was having a fine time just imagining it.

There were so many people when I finally made it, and after considering hitching a ride with a stranger, we decided to walk.

We got there in time, not knowing if the magic passes would truly get us in.

They did, and within minutes, we disappeared in the crowd of fans, all abuzz with anticipation. I could taste the excitement. It tasted like dust, cigarette smoke, and that elusive high only good music can bring.

We walked around, sat down, stood up, walked some more.

People were so wired, you'd think they were the ones who had to perform for fans who had been deprived for 5 years.

People eyed the limited refreshment options, wondering if their hunger could wait, if the insanely long lines were worth it, or worst of all — if the band started playing and they were still in line.

We gave in and lined up to by some enhanced water — the type that comes in candy colors and looks more like it belongs in the hands of a lab-gowned wild-haired inventor.

Before you could say "hold-up," people were counting down, hugging each other and screaming and squealing arbitrarily. And then.

It was like coming home.

They were onstage.

They began with Alapaap, playing through the set in classic Eraserheads style, too caught up in the music to stop — to heed the ridiculously sweet chant of "group hug! group hug!" or, in Buendia's case, to give it a rest.

The rest of the show was a vivid blur.

It felt like swimming in the sound, the collective bliss of seeing them perform one more time, Buendia's voice nearly drowned out by the fans who knew every single word, the open sky that decided to cooperate and held back on the rain.

Even the stars hardly twinkled, as if they knew the night, this time, wasn't theirs.

After the abrupt ending, I was too happy to be disappointed.

Of course the hospitalization didn't make me happy, all I mean is I didn't feel like I wanted the second set, or the third set. I felt those fifteen songs were enough, and maybe that's all that was meant to be.

It felt like being greedy to ask for more.

Apparently, I was wrong, because they played again in 2009.

The morning of March 7, I was at the station for an orientation for University Rock. Someone was brave enough to ask for tickets to the Final Set, and we wrote our names on small pieces of paper.

I had one in seven chances of getting tickets. I didn't get any. I never win raffles. Maybe it was just as well.

I had said earlier that I didn't want to go, because for me, the August concert was perfect. I was afraid to expect something as amazing and I didn't want the possibility of being let down.

I'm pretty sure I haven't seen more than five Eraserheads gigs, but I've heard their songs countless times, whether on purpose or accidentally, and I sort of feel like I know the band.

Not personally, of course, but it comes to a point where you can plot your life against the albums. You know how it is when you love a band, you can't quite decide if you want to declare it to the world or keep it to yourself, like treasure in a box you hide under your bed.

But then, there are some bands that are so good, you don't mind sharing them, because you know that every chord progression, every bass line, every drum pattern, every word, brings back a memory that no one else but you remembers.

At the same time, you know that any time you start singing one of their songs alone, the person next to you will most likely sing along.

And that, I think, is why the Eraserheads is the seminal rock band of the nineties.

Five years ago, I lined up for three days at three different venues, for a total of maybe fifteen hours.

I'm not one to cut lines, in fact, it's safe to say I enjoy lines to some degree.

There are lots of things to do while waiting in line, beginning with counting tiles.

The infinite permutations of math problems you can do in your head with tiles guarantee lots and lots of fun and entertainment. That is, of course, assuming you're blessed with a line-mate who is tolerable, lest you be unable to focus on the numbers.

By tolerable, I mean clean-smelling, polite, and willing to do mutual favors (holding your place while you run off to the washroom, or to smoke, or eat, or go home and bathe, depending on how extreme the line is).

If you’re lucky, you may even have an interesting line-mate, someone who doesn’t ask creepy questions, or share too much information, but is pleasant to converse with for the duration of the wait.

Souza says happiness is a journey, not a destination.

In this case, it could be the line and not whatever's at the end of the line. Or who, as the case may be.

Five years ago, I was in line for the Neil Gaiman book signing.

To be specific, I was in line for other people. Was I paid? No. Was I bored? Maybe. Why did I do it? Who knows.

I vaguely remember the rules limiting fans to having just two books each signed.

My sister, who was celebrating her birthday, took care of Stardust, and got a kiss as well as an autograph.

I had Good Omens, a very well-loved (tattered) copy, and I was having my doubts about getting it signed.

Not only was it in a pitiful state, it was co-authored, too. Would he mind? I wondered.

I ended up entrusting Good Omens to a friend, who was also in line, and just lining up for someone else, who had more than two books to have signed. Which reminds me, my friend still has my copy of Good Omens.

Books should be like homing pigeons, I think, but that's another story.

We took our time before lining up, loading our tummies with ammunition, which we anticipated the long wait would require.

The line began along Aurora Boulevard, more than a block away from the mall entrance. It then snaked into the mall, up the escalator, round the stairs, and finally, finally, into the bookstore where Neil Gaiman sat, signing book after book.

We took a side trip to the grocery to buy two cans of Red Horse beer, which my friend Phil thought the author would appreciate.

I had my reservations about giving him warm beer, but I was too giddy and the weather was too warm for such discussions.

Instead, we were content to hang out in a convenience store, stocking up on cold drinks to sustain us for the next few hours.

Five or so hours later, we finally reached the end of the line.

This meant I would step aside and let my friend take my place, and have his book signed.

I don't really remember why I didn't take the chance then. I have a fuzzy recollection of saying, "It's okay, I'm not that big a fan, I'll line up for you."

Perhaps it's true, I wasn't that big a fan then.

Despite having read a bunch of Sandman comics (a rare concession I made, because comics in general make me dizzy) and loving Good Omens, enjoying Stardust, and getting a bit too carried away by Neverwhere, I was too caught up in other reading material to realize that I was missing the opportunity of a lifetime.

Or was I?

When my friend returned, blissfully hugging his signed book the way Smeagol presses the Ring to his chest, I felt a strange sense of regret.

We have around five Gaiman books at home, (thankfully spared from Ondoy floods), none of them signed. I could be sourgraping, but is a signature really all that?

I suppose you could argue that it isn't the signature, really, but the few seconds of proximity to the star. Or does a signature make the work more valuable?

When he signs it and writes your name on the dedication, does he know who you are?

Will he remember you? I'm probably over-analyzing here, but it's only because I am now officially a Neil Gaiman fan.

Not just because he writes wonderfully, but because he wants other people to do so, as well.

Fortunately, it looks like he's willing to return. Again, and again, and again.

He supposedly said the basis for him coming back here is dependent on how loud the fans get. The fans were pretty loud last night, so I’m hoping he’ll be back next year.

Maybe then I could afford to buy the necessary 2,000 pesos worth of his books to get a book signing pass.

Or not, because I think that if I were ever to meet him, or any other author for that matter,

I'd want it to be because we had something to discuss.

On second (or third) thought, no.

If I ever got to that level, I don't think I'd want to meet people I look up to. It's a bit like fairytales.

Wouldn't you rather the characters stayed in the stories? Wouldn't meeting them make them somehow, ordinary?

When Neil Gaiman came here the first time and was met by a "wall of sound," I was there. I didn't contribute to the noise, I was too overwhelmed.

Writers are solitary figures who rarely get recognized, I thought, how is this possible?

"In the Philippines, the people are enthusiastic on a level that makes the Brazilians look reserved and polite. They shout very loudly when they're happy, too. There's a noise that a few thousand of the locals make when they all shout at once to let you know they're happy to see you that made me finally understand the idea of a wall of sound..." he later blogged.

I used to think being noisy was limited to girls from my high school, but it looks like noise could be a national thing.

The best thing about it is despite being "shellshocked" from signing books until the wee hours, Neil Gaiman was equally supportive of his fans.

He said Filipinos have such a wealth of mythology, and such immense talent.

He said he was depressed that there seemed to be a lack of outlets for this kind of creativity, and so the Philippine Graphic/Fiction Awards was born.

He, together with Fully Booked brain Jaime Daez, made it possible.

PGFA goes where traditional award-giving bodies can't, or won't, and on its third year, it even includes a short film category.

For internet addicts who want something else (from, you know, Facebook) to do, the shortlisted entries can be seen here.