I was at the neighborhood store yesterday when I saw two dogs, uhh, getting it on.

Yes, I'm writing about two dogs getting it on. I'm very much aware that this will make me look like a very sick person, especially considering that I've written about the very same subject more than a year ago. But, in my defense, this is a result of stuff I've seen and heard in the past few days.

Anyway, the dogs. While I was waiting for the vendor to get me that bottle of cola, I was looking at the two dogs do the deed. Note, this is in the middle of the day, pretty much the only time we get to see dogs do the deed. Male dog mounts himself behind female dog (I would've used "bitch" but I don't know what the male equivalent is) and starts humping. Humping furiously.

And then the female dog wrests herself away from the male dog. In your mind, you think the dog's saying, "I don't wanna fuck! Stay away!"

In theory, that should be enough to repel the dog, right? I mean, that's what we humans do, unless the guy's such a sex-starved pervert.

It didn't repel the dog. After five seconds of running and sniffing around, the male was behind the female again, frivolously humping. And all throughout, there was no other expression in both dogs' faces. The male was just humping. The female was just taking it.

And to think I just presumed she was saying, "I don't wanna fuck! Stay away!"

The female wrests herself away from the male. Five more seconds of running and sniffing around, and you know what happens next. By then, I got the thing I was buying, and I was walking back home, feeling a little weird because I was observing the two dogs getting it on. Or do we still call it getting it on? I mean, he just gets there and does it, and she just stands there and lets him do it, until she goes away. It's a cycle, broken when the two dogs finally decide to chase each other up another street.

Still, I was a voyeur watching dogs having sex, a moment that's supposedly private. You know, like us humans see it.

I was listening to WireTap a few days ago. Jonathan Goldstein was talking about love, and how we people use that term for anything that resembles a good feeling towards something, or, as we all expect, someone. He pretty much summed up the very things I was thinking about all these years. You know that age-old dilemma. Do you really call it love? Because I can be fond towards someone, infatuated towards someone else and just desperate for a conversation with some bitch in a street. You know the feeling after every time you tell yourself that you're over the person, and you start reassessing what just happen, and you wonder whether it was really love, like you described it just weeks ago, when you were both head over heels, and feeling terrible that something you've known long ago - she has a boyfriend, or she won't have one! - is just starting to creep up on you.

You know, the complete opposite of dogs, who start sniffing each other out and then, a minute later, one's humping the other. None of the rituals. No long criteria, no waiting for marriage, no worrying about satisfaction. Just hit-and-miss procreation, just like we're all supposed to be, all those years ago.

And no, I'm not suggesting all I'm here for is sex. But you know what I mean. Or, you'll end up proving my point.

We humans complicate everything.

See? Point proven.

My mother was flicking through the television early this morning. Seabiscuit was on one channel. Watching a race from the 1930s recreated for the big screen, or what eventually is the small screen, she wondered, "simple siguro yung buhay noong araw, ano?"

"And you are never not sleepy in your lifetime," I told Gwen last night.

Quite simply, she's a night person. She's awake at night, and asleep during the day. She'd text me at four in the morning, and I'd read it at five in the morning, and I'd reply knowing that she won't because she's probably asleep... and then she does.

"I haven't been getting it though," she answered. "Six hours lang."

"All those gigs?" I said. For some reason she entered this gig-going phase in her life.

"Yeah. Nakakauwi na ako ng 3am, considering malapit samin."

"But you're growing up, Gwen."

"I wanna sleep moreee."

"They say adults only get six hours of sleep, so it's a sign of things to come."

I remember reading that little tidbit when I was a kid. Newborn babies, apparently, sleep an average of 21 hours a day. As we grow, the amount of sleep our body needs starts to drop, so a seven-year-old would probably need ten, and a 16-year-old would need eight, and a 36-year-old would need only six. I remember wondering about the elderly. Do they even sleep?

The irony is, they're stereotypically portrayed as people who sleep a lot.

I'm 21, and I'm aware that I sleep an average of seven hours a day. I get home at around eight in the evening, and I end up dozing off at ten. I still try to sleep eight, though, especially over the weekend, the only time when I can sleep without my phone's alarm clock interrupting me.

The problem is, I don't get seven hours of sleep anymore. I still sleep at ten, and I still set my alarm to play Mulder and Scully at five in the morning, but I wake up before my alarm. At four in the morning.

I still fall asleep, but I feel frustrated anyway because my body's fighting itself. I know that I need eight hours, or at the very least, seven hours. I know that I go home tired from all the work and I know that I need all the rest that I can get. And then my body gives me six hours, which isn't enough.

Unless it's enough already. Am I growing old?

"I'll try getting more sleep when school starts," she said.

"You're not doing much anyway," I answered. "I mean, you're waiting lang, right? As you said?"

"Yeah. Pero lately kasi, gigs are keeping me up. And being the awesome fan girl that I am..."

"Ang basa ko 'fat girl'. Sorry."

"Ang supportive ko."

"Wala namang masama dun basta kaya mo, right?"

"Yeah."

"Unless you drop dead in the middle of a gig, sleeping, snoring. Do you snore?"

A few weekends back, Anna flew to Boracay, and observed on Facebook that the girls go there to show off their bikins, while the guys go thee to ogle at the girls.

I would usually agree, but things never really went that way.

Contrary to what I told certain people, I'm not really fond of beaches. Sunsets, yes. Digging in the sand and unleashing the inner engineer in me, yes. Beaches, no. There's something about it that makes me cringe. It's the thing that separates land and sea: a small strip of sediment that keeps dangerous water away from the safety of the mountains, or the plains, whatever's nearer.

And then there's the insecurity that builds up inside as I see boys and girls showing off and having fun. Sure, there's a dozen or so guys with big bellies to every Derek Ramsey, but as much as you want to keep it real, you can't help but despise those big bellies and look at that six-pack. I'll never be like that, I'll eventually, think. What's the point of going here if I'll feel bad about myself anyway?

That's been a struggle of mine. I don't think about it often - it only happens when I'm on a beach - but I'd still refer to it as a struggle. I've been to three beaches in the past calendar year, and I've had difficulty trying to figure out how to enjoy a vacation at the beach without having to swim.

Ironically, just when I learned swimming - when I accidentally took up such classes in college - I decided not to take a dip every time the family heads on a swimming-related vacation. The least I did was stand on the shore and let the waves crash on my lower legs. To me, it always felt like the very point of a beach vacation: an existential escape.

I got just that when the family went to Panglao in Bohol at the end of last year. It's got (fairly) white sand, it's got rows of restaurants, and it's got foreigners, but it doesn't feel frantic. I guess it's because we went in December, but I have the impression that it'd be that peaceful regardless of the time of year. It's a small island that keeps its provincial charm - it worked until I had an asthma attack triggered by the capiz lamp in our room - and it seemed the locals wanted to keep it that way.

One afternoon, a rowdy tourist decided to hire a boat and equip it with large speakers, cranking it up and blaring party tunes. "Happy New Year's Eve!" the guy, presumably drunk, said. I was lying on one of those beach beds, reading a book, and getting annoyed that just when I started enjoying myself - this was before the asthma came in - this guy comes along and forces his idea of fun. Thankfully, he was apprehended, or so I was told, because the tunes just died ten minutes in.

The opposite was true when we went to Boracay last month. Of course, it's Boracay, home of several dance parties and boatload after boatload of beautiful people, the sort that seem to say we're cooler than you because we're being ourselves, and you cannot be like us even if you try. When we went there, a couple of events were going on, both extremely commercialized and catering to the Manila crowd who prefer to party, or show off their beautiful bodies through designer swim wear. Exactly what Anna said.

While my sister and my cousin tried to ogle at Derek Ramsey's six-pack, I was trying to do the same thing I did in Panglao. I bought a travel magazine - it's ironic buying one and reading up about other places when you're in holiday, as if you don't want to be there - and lied down on a beach bed. It wasn't noisy, but it sure was frantic, and everywhere you looked there was someone who looked like she'd kick you out for not looking like the partying kind.

There were two girls who chatted on the beach beds beside me. I sneaked a look. Sexy, I thought. They were the sort that studied in Katipunan, hung out at Eastwood and went to the beach frequently, like that day. And then they stood up and I noticed stomach rolls. Society dictates I shouldn't go for that. I felt queasy thinking of the consequences.

And that's what I saw everywhere I went. In the restaurants, in the hotels, and especially on the beach, there'd always be people who remind me of the people I had small, insignificant crushes on. You know, the sort of people who watch Gossip Girl through illegal downloads and drink cocktails every weekend, the sort who'd wear anything and look cute, the sort who sport bangs and lots of eyeliner. I feel insecure, knowing that I often like people I know I cannot attain, and knowing that I'm surrounded by them. I also feel bad for myself, since my taste in girls are becoming questionably shallow.

I'm not getting that feeling today. I'm blogging from the town of Botolan in Zambales, at the very beach where Regine Velasquez and Piolo Pascual fell in love for the cameras. It's really quiet, but sometimes it doesn't work right: the beach itself looks desolate, with no trees, and the sand is gray, possibly because of volcanic ash from the Pinatubo explosion almost two decades back. But I easily settled in, watching my cousins swim while I stand on the shore and being existentially emo.

There was this group of girls, seven of them, wearing string bikins and not looking like they shouldn't wear one. I had something else to look at, and they're not the sort I'd feel bad looking at. And then they'd leave the beach and head to the showers, and you'd hear them speak in English. A lot of it.

"Dun tayo sa duyan mamaya."

"You mean the hammocks?"

"Let's shower first!"

And one of them, the girl in a white bikini set that's got shoulder-length hair and bangs and that air that she knows her stuff, looks like a man when wet. Must be the eyebrows, which were bushier than I'd prefer. Only then do I finally realize that, for a relatively lonely man, I'm very demanding.

Sunday afternoon. I'm seated in front of the computer like I always do. Four straight hours of reading through Lostpedia to get a leg up on next week's work, followed by some playlist organization, during which I think to myself, maybe I should start reading Pitchfork more often.

Another wasted Sunday afternoon.

Okay. First of all, I'm not complaining about not being out of the house. Honestly, I prefer staying in. You'll probably have the same attitude when you live far away from urban centers - and yes, I'm counting Alabang - and when none of your friends bother to invite you to anything. Also, you can't really afford to go out often at this point in your life. I should often remind myself that this is no longer college, although considering my theory that my development as a person is delayed, then I am still going through that everybody else my age has long passed by.

But I'm seated here, and I feel like I'm wasting my Sunday afternoon away, writing down blog entries and wondering why nobody bothers to talk to me unless I pretty much coerce them. (Right now I'm chatting with Alyssa. Or, technically, I was.) Seeing people talk about doing things that's not sitting in front of the PC and writing down blog entries make me feel bad. And that always happens on Sunday afternoon, as it slowly turns to Sunday evening, and you're told to sleep early to wake up the following day. A Monday. The day it all begins again.

And then I return to work and don't feel that terrible. Well, depending on the circumstances, yes. This Friday should make me feel very terrible.

I found myself turning in eleven-hour workdays again last week. It's finale season. Imagine juggling five big shows in one day. It's inevitable that you end up staying at the office until seven in the evening, cropping photos, not counting the fact that you came in at eight in the morning or earlier, still cropping photos. And then the radio talks about a new study, that people who work up to eleven hours a day have a bigger risk of dying from heart disease. "The key," the news reader said, "is for workers to have a proper work-life balance."

I bet that news reader was talking to me. Or I felt bad for myself again, the same way I felt some pain in my chest, possibly imagined.

But yes, I did feel it. I felt like I was screwing myself over for all the hours I wasted in front of the computer, typing in blog entries when I should be making the most out of my life, preferably by putting it at risk. Apparently conversations in coffee shops don't cut it.

Another wasted Sunday afternoon.

I'd like to think I'm used with dealing with celebrities. I haven't met a lot of them, but I had to deal with some during my college life. Remember, say, that little story with Karylle?

Then again, that was circumstantial (and still fun to look back at). This wasn't. This was something I looked forward to. This was something I pulled heaven and earth for so I can go. I don't care if it sounded right, because surely you get my point. That, and that being this fairly big Allie fan, this guy who shed tears when she got eliminated on American Idol, I should at least get really giddy when I finally get the chance to meet her.

But I told myself to calm down. The concert was over, and everything else that happened after - that'd be a Q&A session and a surprise birthday cake for the recent debutante - was also over. It was a bit chaotic. Valerie and her girls have left for the comfort rooms, which were a floor up. I was just breathing easily, partly because I lost my voice without screaming, and partly because I felt the excitement spiking up inside me. No, you cannot be excited.

Still, the fact that the girls had my meet-and-greet stub had me restless. But maybe not as restless as that Mika girl. She was around 14, I think. She sat a few rows behind us. She was this Allie superfan. She answered one of the Channel V VJ's pre-concert questions - too easy, except for the one about "the Philippines' best music channel", where we got dumb yet amusing answers like "American Idol" and "channel 3" - and she also got to ask a question to Allie herself during the Q&A session. Apparently, when she finally got the chance to meet her, she touched her red hair as the camera's shutter went click.

And then there was this other Allie superfan. "When will your next Twitter party be?" she asked, referring to one of those hours when she sits down in front of a PC and answers any question her followers might have. Valerie's an expert in these things. She's done some of these "twarties" David Cook holds. "It's just a matter of timing," she once told me, only that meant staying up in the wee hours of the morning. Never mind.

The lines were already forming, and they were slightly chaotic. But it could've been worse. "Nung pumunta dito si Jason Castro, the organizers grabbed everything and gave it to him, tapos kukunin nila ulit saka ibibigay sa'yo," Valerie told me. "Yung inlay nalukot. Well, di naman lukot na lukot, but... gets mo?"

The only instruction was to get our inlays out. "Allison will not sign anything else," the VJs were very mindful of saying. So much for those photos Jean had printed.

I was the thirtieth person in line. I watched Valerie just hug her. She'd later admit she had a slight headache and, oddly, didn't know what to do.

I, on the other hand, was rehearsing the scenario in my head. Not something I should've done. The scenario would be too fantastic. I wrote this about you! Too fantardy. Too impossible.

"Number thirty?"

I went up the little platform, pulled out my CD and pretty much felt like someone who's done this before.

"Hey, Allison!"

She signed the CD. I gave my camera to some guy. He pressed the shutter. The flash went on. Yes, the flash went on. And I told myself, never mind the flash, you'll never get another chance at a photo. And then I turned back to Allie and I shook her hand. "Thank you very much!" I said.

Yes, I shook her hand.

This, coming from a guy who admits to preferring hugs more than anything else.

I just shook her hand.

"May sinabi si Cha sa Twitter once," Valerie told me a few hours earlier, on the cab leading to the venue. "Bakit daw palaging nahuhuli yung regrets? Hindi daw ba pwedeng mauna yun?"

I stared at the photo that guy just took. I hated the flash. I didn't smile. She didn't smile either. She looked tired. I understood that. She was probably battling jet lag. In fact, when I almost bumped into her at the Paragon, I literally said she "looks dead". And again, I hated the flash. And I thought, I could've gone a little bit closer to her. That'd be a better crop. And then I saw some little kid - an eleven-year-old boy, I think - grab his camera, point it at both of them, and press the shutter, and I imagined it looked better.

Yup. Regrets always have to come in last.

I got home at around ten in the evening. I don't remember what else Valerie and I discussed on the bus ride to Las Piñas. I'm pretty certain we talked about the elections. I wasn't feeling too crazy. I got home and it didn't feel that much either. I uploaded the photo, and I slowly got used to seeing my face beside Allie's. Nada.

It took two days for everything to sink in. That's when I decided to read MJ's take on the whole event. She's an American Idol blogger, one I read a lot for work. I spotted the videos and went through the comments. There are things I wouldn't have bothered knowing about. Talk of weight loss. Talk of T-rex arms. Talk of our response being more than enthusiastic than the Americans'. And then I realized I was in one of the videos. Or all of them, since I sat in front.

And then I realized she was thanking us profusely. Thanking me, in a way, profusely.

Something happened. I jumped the line - that line I never imagined jumping, not before Tuesday, certainly not after Tuesday, even if it involves Siobhan Magnus in a better venue - and became more than a fairly big fan.

"So I was reading MJ's article on Allie's gig," I texted Valerie. "It finally sinked in."

Jean was one of Valerie's Cookista friends that came along to watch as well. She had, in her bag, a photo of Allie, taken during her birthday, which was just a week before. It was the one with Kris Allen and David Cook - but of course, right?

I was struck by the fact that, it seemed, she had it printed at a photo shop somewhere. I wonder what the staff thought when they found themselves printing a photo of two American Idol winners and somebody with red hair who they vaguely remember, if they even do.

Valerie took one of the photos and put it in her CD inlay. She was hoping to have it signed, along with her CDs, never mind the fact that she already had an autographed copy of Just Like You, one she bought online.

I was probably overwhelmed.

The concert finally began at around half past six. The Channel V hosts already had their chance to shine, although the results were either frantic or wet. I've been waiting for two and a half hours, and I was getting jumpy. Can we just get over it? I thought.

They thankfully did.

Just as I expected, the gig was a bit rushed. We were wondering why they insisted on calling it a "promo tour" when it only amounted to one hastily-organized gig at an unlikely mall. There wasn't a band. Heck, there weren't any instruments either. The idea of Allie singing six songs accompanied by what we all call a minus one is a little iffy to me. That, or she had a lot of ground to cover.

"She's also super awkward," Kira - another David Cook fan, only one who lives in Dallas, who I knew through Valerie - reminded me earlier that day. I wouldn't have suspected. In between thanking the crowd with the obligatory mangled "salamat po" and introductions, she was taking down the mic stand and doing a lot of hand gestures. I swear at one point she was singing to me, probably because I was the only straight guy in the crowd who wasn't anyone's father. Or that's how it felt.

It felt like those U-Break concerts all over again. I had stub number 30, so I was seated at the edge of the third row. For some reason I decided to sit in one of the reserved seats ahead of me - presumably they were for the media, but only two out of ten got filled. After Allie finished Robot Love - it's the "humiliating pop song" I talked about in my review - I decided to leave that spot and seat on the floor, in the middle aisle, so I can have a better look, not to mention better photos, although that didn't happen.

"I haven't performed this song in a while," she said, before dovetailing to Janis Joplin's Cry Baby.

I remember that being performed on American Idol. She was just 16 back then, a surprising standout in what was supposed to be (and actually is) a season of men. Back then I saw her as this young teener with a freaky vocal, because it can take on more mature songs effortlessly. Now I'm watching this 18-year-old do just that, with a painful song at that, and with gestures that I absolutely swear spoke to me. Or I guess it was one of those fudge-it-I'm-the-subject moments. It's never happened to me before.

And then I thought, am I seriously thinking she's being a little sexy with this one?

"She is curvy," Valerie said on our bus ride home later that night. I still can't shake the earlier image off.

She also went down the stage with that song. I remember being surrounded by all these screaming girls with cameras, making me feel a little out of place. But I reached out my hand anyway. Heck, I thought, we'll just do this. Writing this now, I don't know if her fingers actually touched mine, or if it was one of the other fans'.

"Don't wash off where you made contact!" Cha, another one of the Cookistas acting as Twitter support, told me the following day.

There were, as I said, six songs. Scars and Friday I'll Be Over U obviously figured, being the songs that get radio airplay. No One Else was a slightly surprising entry to the set list, although since it's penned by Pink and Kara DioGuardi, it shouldn't have been. Me, I'm just happy Don't Waste the Pretty made it. I don't care if my favorite song off the album is a women empowerment song.

In between complaints of humid Manila summers and endorsements of pork adobo, Allie was really bringing it. She's only been at it for a year - well, less than a year - and she really knew how to work the crowd. It also helped that the crowd was very enthusiastic. Valerie and her row of friends - there was Jean, there was Madel, and there was Joanna - made it a point to scream together, and in the middle of the chaos, and especially after that, they'd yell out a simultaneous, pitch-perfect "we love you Allison!" On the other hand, I wasn't screaming - I made a point not to get giddy at all - but I still lost my voice. It was that strong.

"Did you know that Allison Iraheta won the Spanish talent search Quincanera?" the VJs had to remind us before the gig. Yeah, yeah, we're fans, we know that. I wrote about her. I have to know that.

And then, it was over. I found the whole experience surreal. Even when the VJs went out again for a quick Q&A session - the Cookistas got their obligatory David-related question from someone else in the crowd - I still found it surreal. And I knew it's get surreal, as I pulled out my CD and waited for further instructions.

Three minutes later, Valerie arrived. "Saan siya dumaan?" she went.

"Sa elevator," I said. The very same elevators she just went on.

There are only three elevators leading to the radio studios. I'm actually surprised Allie's entourage didn't use the service elevator. If they did, I wouldn't have been that close to her.

"Sa basement!" Valerie went, thinking about following her. I figured she wouldn't be there because the cars are parked from the eighth floor down to the third. We both went down anyway, to buy envelopes for our CVs for RT.

"May envelope na kami," I told the security guard, the same guy who bluffed his way to clarifying my position hours ago, and the same guy who suggested I buy envelopes for our CVs so that it'd look presentable.

"Nakita mo siya?" he answered, referring to Allie.

"Oo. Nasa telepono nga lang ako."

I wasn't blaming Valerie, though. I was actually still reeling from what happened minutes before. Was I shaking? I don't think so. I guess I just can't believe it.

"Isulat na lang ninyo yung pangalan ninyo sa envelope para madaling malaman," the guard said. I pulled out one of my pens and wrote against the wall.

"Anne with an E, right?" I asked Valerie. "Iniisip ko kasi Ann, di tulad nung isang Anne na kilala ko."

Valerie was a former colleague of mine. When I started working two years ago, she was the mythical sixth member of the team. "Taga La Salle din siya," one of my other colleagues said. "Actually, right now, nagte-thesis siya." I only first saw her four months later, and since at the time I was already feeling animosity towards their indifference, I figured we wouldn't be close. Well, until she started chatting with me on YM, the day before her last day at work.

"Hindi ko rin sila makakasundo," she told me inside the cab going to the mall. "Tayo kasi, we love what we do."

"But considering their encyclopedic knowledge of the American version of The Office... why are we talking about work?"

I haven't been to Robinson's Place Manila. I know it's a couple of train stations away from DLSU, but I never had a reason to go there. While some of my Taft friends killed time there, I was at the library, or probably on the bus, going home. When I needed to buy something, I picked it up on the commute home, provided I remember it.

But knowing where it is made me confident that I won't get lost. I only had to ask my sister about which LRT station I should stop. My original plan was to go there by the trains, and meet up Valerie over there. But she decided to file a whole-day leave instead, and we ended up at Paragon, chasing red-streaked shadows.

Now, I was the one who needed guidance, both because we had to eat lunch - she can't remember where the food court was, if it still existed - and because I haven't been to a mall show before. Sure, I was the one asking questions to the customer service folks at ATC when Cobra Starship went to the country, but it was for my sister and my cousin, the superfans. Now, I had to be navigated through the basics of getting the front seats, the chance to have my CD signed, and just having a good time. All I apparently had to do was to buy CDs to get in.

I ended up with two extra copies. One goes to my cousin. The other, I don't know.

We settled in to our seats at around four in the afternoon. The gig was supposed to begin at five, but the Twitter support gang was saying otherwise. Imogen was talking about a press conference. "There goes the hotel," I told Valerie.

What I didn't like about the wait was the blaring sound system. Channel V was the main sponsor - smart for spotting such talent to send here! - and understandably their plugs were being blared on the speakers. There's this annoying one with the VJs acting as eggs that were threatened with frying. I actually tolerated it when I saw it in Boracay, but play that in a wide, enclosed space, crank the amp up to 11, and repeat it every three minutes, and the frantic screaming becomes blood-curdling. At least I wasn't alone in thinking that. One of the waiting fans covered her ears whenever it goes on.

I'm a fairly big fan, but I never thought there'd be a lot of us. I was surprised to see the venue's 200 seats actually get full. And then there were the people watching from the other floors, cheap enough not to buy a CD, stupid enough not to know what's going on, or to even pronounce Allie's last name correctly.

I guess I just wasn't listening to the radio hard enough. Or, I don't listen to the two sponsors. And I don't have Channel V at home. If I knew better I'd say the event was promoted hard enough. Or was I very cynical about Adam Lambert's overrated tendencies?

"Allison is coming to Manila, and she wants to meet five of her adoring fans," the promos went.

"Don't tell me we're not adoring fans," I told Valerie.

"So if you love her, send us a text telling us why you and a friend should meet Allison live!"

That went on for two hours. It was already six in the evening, and there was no sign that something will happen. My sister knew this would happen. "Yung Cobra Starship, one hour later na nagstart," she said a week before. I was tapping my foot, annoyed at the incessant plugs, and annoyed that the sound system will just drown out whatever I decide to play on my iPod.

"Wala yan dun sa David Cook concert," Valerie said. Apparently there were music videos on repeat. She was talking about how the videos didn't match the songs. I didn't have that big an idea what she was talking about, but I got her.

Things finally happened fifteen minutes after. The people waiting backstage - there were, and I don't know how - have begun to go on a little frenzy. Earlier Valerie somehow mapped out Allie's arrival route, presuming that she'd park at the basement and take the stairs near the stage. I guess she was right, because I didn't sense any commotion happen around me. Or I got too bored.

And her trained eyes are absolutely sharp. She spied the dressing room - a tent, actually, with lots of lights - and saw a figure move from behind it. I didn't.

"Sumisilip siya!"

Valerie, being the superfan, has lots more experience with stalking. Or should we call it stalking? When I hear that word I think of shady characters hiding behind bushes, walking in tip-toes and possessing a pair of binoculars. Anyway, apparently she half-tailed Michael Johns. Apparently she half-tailed Lenka, too.

"Half-tailed" sounds much better. As far as I know she isn't really the sort who goes as far as doing serious research on an artist's itinerary whenever he comes to the country. All she does is go to the official events: in this case, all the mall shows. Pretty much what my cousin did when Cobra Starship came to the country.

"Hindi na kami tumuloy sa hotel ni Kelly Clarkson," she told me as our cab brought us to Robinson's Place Manila.

Okay, maybe I was wrong.

It was no surprise, then, that she floated the plan of following Allie around. She knew there'd be a couple of radio interviews, and she knew that fans would probably be allowed in. The problem was, she hasn't tried that before.

That's where I come in. Of course, I was the radio geek in college - I still am - and I tried many times, unsuccessfully, to join the student DJ programs of several radio stations. And, of course, there were the stupid biters, my only attempt at being a superfan of sorts, ending in a spectacular, terribly confusing backfire. All I'm saying is, I've had some experience with visiting radio studios. I've had experience just hanging out in cold studios, watching DJs fade out songs and not give you much attention. It's the sad anorak in me.

For some reason, we agreed that we would pay a visit to the Paragon Plaza. Imogen told us that Allie'd have an interview on the Magic at midday. Now, there's one reason why I thought of not going to the concert in the first place: I hate the Magic. That, and that time of day means those stupid biters again. I said no on Monday night but Valerie convinced me to go on Tuesday morning. "It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance," she tweeted. And so, I thought, fine, let's go, but let's go together, because I don't wanna be there alone. I navigate. You negotiate.

Valerie woke up late. I actually sent her a text message at six in the morning. She slept shortly after, woke up three hours later, and realized she wouldn't make it to the studios in time. So much for me maneuvering my half-day leave at work, moving my departure time from 13.00 to 12.00. That was the easy part of the whole plan. Now, a new addition to the plan, and I had to do it myself.

We talked many times about our plans to join 99.5 RT's student-and-then-some DJ program. Inka was goading us, but we delayed and delayed until we missed the first batch. There's still a second batch, she said a couple of weeks ago. I thought I'd give myself a different reason for going to Paragon by myself: submit our CVs for the program, and maybe catch a glimpse of Allie along the way. But I still wasn't excited. But I already committed. I had to do it. For a moment, I was the superfan.

"Malalakad ko from our building to Paragon," I said, recalling an event a couple of years ago when I walked from the Magic studios to the far side of Ortigas. Surprisingly, my feet didn't hurt and it wasn't as hot.

But time wasn't on my side. I missed Allie enter the studios. Imogen - and a handful of other people - were acting as my support group on Twitter. "My niece just texted me, Allison's on Showtime," Gerard said. I figured I could make it on time, but I ended up in a convenience store buying a bottle of cola. I was waiting for Valerie to arrive. She said she'd take a cab to get there quickly. She then asked me to go up.

"Pwedeng pumasok sa 907?" I told the guard, referring to the Magic studios' unit number.

"Bakit?"

"May interview daw?"

"Interview kanino?"

"Kay Allison daw?"

"Sa labas ka lang pwedeng maghintay."

"Pwedeng may i-drop ako sa RT?"

"Ano yun?"

"Resumé."

"Para saan?"

"Sa Farm."

"Tapos na yun, di ba?"

"May second batch pa raw."

"Sino nagsabi sa'yo?"

"Si Inka."

"Pano niya sinabi sa'yo? Text? Email?"

"YM."

I haven't been to a radio studio in two years. I completely forgot how the guards will treat random visitors: as people stalking radio DJs. I learned that as a biter. No, I wasn't the stalker. I had privileged information before that unfortunate backfire. People actually stalk DJs. They get low pay and they get stalked. So, to protect them from such people, the security people would interrogate you by pretending to know nothing about what you're talking about. That, and state-of-the-act locks.

I waited on the corridors. Paragon has narrow corridors, maybe four feet wide, five feet wide. I spent the next sixty minutes calling Valerie, asking for her location - she got a slow cab - or pretending to be calling Valerie, not looking like the absolute stranger that I am. I spent ten minutes seated inside a toilet, busy finishing up my soda and nothing else. I pretty much forgot the existence of my Twitter support group, partly because it costs me five bucks to log-in. Apparently Allie switched radio stations - both sponsors have studios across one corridor, and I was in another. If I checked, I would've known.

But the catch is, I'm perhaps the most timid person in the world. In those sixty minutes my stomach kept on turning, and I didn't blame it on the soda. It was jitters. Absolute jitters. You know, the feeling that one of your favorite performers, one that you spent the best part of four months enthusing about, is suddenly within 50 meters of you.

I called Valerie again. She learned of the studio switch, and is worried that she wouldn't make it. Being the Paragon veteran, I told her how to navigate her way through the many elevators: go to the nearest shafts, and when you reach the ninth, turn left, and walk until you reach the very last door. I figured we'd just meet there before heading for the mall.

To my left, a fairly tall woman turned a corner and started walking towards me, or actually, towards the elevators. She was in black, she was an inch shorter than me, and she had red hair.

I was stunned.

I was face-to-face with Allie. I was six inches away. It was pretty much her, a really small entourage, and me, a fan who could've taken an extra photo, like that employee whose phone had a slight hint of red scalp on the display. But I was on the phone.

"She just passed by," I told Valerie, out of breath and terribly jittery.

"So pano ulit ako aakyat diyan?"

"No, Valerie. She just passed by."

Here's something you might already know: I'm a fairly big Allison Iraheta fan.

Yes, I did say fairly. I'm not exactly the cheerleader type. I'm not the kind that obsessively follows people I'm interested in. All I know is, I like the person, period. No need to drill it down too much.

I remember last year, when she was still doing American Idol. I was chatting with Icka a lot back then. "Go follow her on Twitter," she'd tell me, before giving me some URL. I didn't. I didn't want to go giddy when I check the site and notice that she's tweeted.

I don't remember what Valerie said when I said I didn't follow Allison. "Loser," or something. Maybe not that. But it was meant to be a light-hearted yet harsh jibe.

I eventually followed her. It was a full year, definitely more than that, after I first heard of her name. I, of course, wrote about American Idol for work, and her name was coming out of the spoiler lists. Many figured that she wouldn't last long because we haven't heard of her at all during the audition episodes. Oddly, that's what made me remember her.

And then she sang Alone.

And then I went, oh shit, she's so going to be my bet this year.

It somehow helped that I was having this little crush on her. "She's distracting me from the shit happening at work," I told someone. I'm not sure if it's Icka, but I'm pretty sure it's her. It must be the red hair. I know, it's shallow. And then there's this part of me that's going, she really sings like that? And to think we pretty much wrote her off because of a lack of pre-audition exposure. She ended up finishing in fourth place. I was wearing a red shirt at the time, well knowing it'd be her time to go. I actually held back tears in the office.

Just a fairly big fan? I'm starting to doubt myself.

"Objectivity runs through my veins," I told Imogen last Tuesday. She's a David Cook fan. A really big one, apparently. Thanks to Valerie I've kept touch with a segment of the Cook fan community in the country, and somehow I got exposed to the ways of the obsessed fans. Well, obsessed in varying degrees, although I find something amusing whenever they start fawning over whatever photo comes out. I told myself I didn't want to be like that, simply because one thing would lead to another, and eventually it would lead to disappointment. My oft-cited example: those stupid biters.

But I was already there, it turns out. I mean, why else would I refer to her as Allie on my articles about her? I may not read up as much but, to use a term I only used lately, watching her makes me smile silly. And that, unfortunately, makes me more than a fairly big fan.

I knew I'd be disappointed. Valerie is also a big Allie fan, and she - along with the rest of the Cookistas' top brass - would talk to me about how the red-haired rocker was underappreciated. Well, she came during the year of Adam Lambert. They did a cool Slow Ride but the world loved him more than her. So you can imagine my surprise when I first heard that she was coming here.

And we thought, really, she's coming here?

For one, the news came from out of the blue. Usually the first reports of these gigs come out months before, but this one popped up just three weeks before. Maybe two weeks before. I remember wondering if I'll ever go, because it fell on a Tuesday. And it was in an unlikely venue.

"Bakit sa Robinson's?" Valerie would ask. "Hindi Ayala o SM?"

Also, there was only one date. I was expecting a mall tour. "Sana meron sa Galleria," I said back then, naturally because I work in Ortigas, and I thought I'd sacrifice walking the whole kilometer and a half or so just to be able to watch. Turns out there was just only one date, at Robinson's Place Manila, best known as the spot where many Lasallians hang out. Well, many except for me and a handful of others.

It took me a whole week to think about it. Actually I didn't. I actually planned not to go, simply because it fell on a Tuesday. Or maybe because I wasn't prepared to jump in, head first, into all-out fangirlism. I guess I was a fan in denial. Or I guess I had problems defining what a fan is. But then, I thought, whatever, this only happens once. I'm going.