Meeting your idols can be a nightmare—but also the stuff of dreams.

I will never forget the day a strange man grabbed me and kissed me right in front of my boyfriend.  Of course, since the strange man was Neil Gaiman, I don’t think my boyfriend felt too bad about the incident.

It was the afternoon of the 2nd Philippine Graphic Fiction Awards, and I had just won 2nd place. I had gone up the stage (escorted by my boyfriend as if I was a Little Miss Philippines contestant because I couldn’t climb the stairs by myself in high heels), had taken my award from Fully Booked’s Jaime Daez, and was generally milling around not knowing what to do when I felt a tug on my arm, and the next thing I knew—I was beside Neil, who said, “Here’s your hug,” before enveloping me in his arms. Then, he said, “Here’s your kiss,” and placed his cheek next to mine. “I really liked your story,” he said, smiling, as he pulled away. Suddenly, I was in high school again, saving my allowance so that I could buy the month’s issue of Sandman (no one I knew read it—so I couldn’t borrow from anyone), and it’s all I can do not to faint.

This is the second time Neil Gaiman has come to the Philippines, the first being two years ago when he came to promote Anansi Boys and ended up signing so many books his hand almost fell off. This time, he was in the country as a speaker in the Ad Congress as well as to present at the 2nd Philippine Graphic/Lit Awards. There was no book signing, so the crowd that had gathered to see him was much smaller—but it was a crowd nonetheless.

When he set up the Philippine Graphic/Literature Awards with Fully Booked, it was with the intention of inspiring talent among the many creative minds he felt could be found in the country. In a way, it’s funny how it always takes a white guy to convince us that we are worth anything.

As any fan who has been within two feet of Neil will tell you, it’s hard to write about him without gushing. To use local terms, guys are nababakla over him (as evidenced by 2nd place Comic Category winner, Andrew Drilon, who couldn’t resist planting a big wet kiss on Neil’s cheek) and girls get hulog-panty in an un-erotic way. All because Neil is a nice guy. In fact, he’s so nice that he’s decided to champion what he calls “Filipino Unrealism” or every work of fiction that doesn’t have to do with “real” life. “You have the coolest folklore in the world,” he told us. When he set up the Philippine Graphic/ Literature Awards with Fully Booked, it was with the intention of inspiring talent among the many, many creative minds he felt could be found in the country. In a way, it’s funny how it always takes a white guy to convince us that we are worth anything.

As one of the winners, I was invited to the after-party which was held in Jaime Daez’s secret lair on the 5th floor of Fully Booked Bonifacio High Street. It was the only time in my life that I was faced with a buffet that I didn’t demolish. Not that the food was bad, mind you. It’s just that there were so many people to talk to. I got to meet Tony Perez, one of the judges for the prose category, who gave me a jade amulet “for wealth”; Dean Alfar, another prose judge (Peque Gallaga, the third one, was in the province); as well as the judges for the comics category—Arnold Arre, Ramon de Veyra, and Jaime Daez. Karen Kunawicz and Gabe Mercado, who hosted the event, were there, and, of course, the other winners, past and present, who were all excited to be dining with Neil.

During the course of the dinner, Neil went around each table to chat with the winners. When he came to our table, there was a reverent hush, as if we were in the presence of a god. You could cut the awe in the air with a knife. “Hello,” he said. And like a class, we said “Hello” back. He was, as I’ve said, very nice. He graciously answered all the questions about him and his work, and I had to restrain myself from asking about his Josh Hartnett-look-a-like son, Michael, who was with him on the trip (if he had looked like Heath Ledger, I wouldn’t have been so shy). He talked to us about how circus elephants are trained, how they are chained at a young age so that when they grow strong enough to break those chains, they don’t bother because they think that they won’t be able to do it—and how it related to the creative atmosphere here in the Philippines. Basically, he told us that we were great and that it was a loss to the world if we didn’t make ourselves known. Now I can, in all honesty, say that “Tinable namin si Neil Gaiman.” Sorry, bad joke. I couldn’t resist.

The funny thing about the whole thing is that I wasn’t supposed to join. I had a story lined up but wasn’t able to finish it on time, so I had consigned myself to not entering. It was my boyfriend who suggested that I send this particular story which I had sent to an anthology and wasn’t published yet. It’s my version of an urban legend that I had heard growing up. It’s also my homage to the ‘70s, the decade I was born in, and to Imelda Marcos, the icon who my mother has a love-hate relationship with. (During Martial Law, the Marcos government “invited” my lolo to Camp Crame and detained him until his family coughed up enough dough to have him released—but which didn’t stop my mother, decades later, from having her picture taken with the former first lady and MMS-ing it to everyone and their dentist.)

I’ve always thought myself immune to the glamour that surrounds famous people. I’ve never been one of those people who run up to celebrities and ask to have my picture taken with them. I spent five years in the entertainment industry and never really asked anyone to pose with me (except for Janice Jurado—but that was a moment of weakness). Yet, I found myself asking Mr. Gaiman if I could have my picture taken with him, and he said yes. Because my camera had run out of batteries earlier, I was forced to use my phone. Fully Booked’s photographer took the picture for me, and I have to say, it’s one of the best pictures I have. Afterwards, Neil shook my hand and said again, “I really liked your story.”  And, this time, I did faint. Just kidding.