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That’s a safe assumption given the fact that save for bombarding every dwelling place I have online with updates regarding the Fab Four—news, pictures, YouTube links, etc.—I myself am a walking advertisement that announces, hey, look at me, I’m a Beatles fan.

Yes, I have a Facebook photo album solely dedicated to me wearing Beatles shirts, and, much to your chagrin, I update it quite religiously. Also, I do sport the moptop and, if my mood (and girlfriend) permits, a long and frizzy mane same as John’s. Just recently, I juxtaposed portraits of myself and John, trying to underline this certain likeness we have, purposely ramming a bitter vanity pill down your throats, confirming that I’ve imbibed what Yoko Ono once said: that to become John Lennon one must become John Lennon. (Some might say growing hair and wearing round-rimmed glasses are a bit too superficial an attempt to exude the persona of a man who has changed the world, but that discussion is better shelved for another day.)

Of course, I have copies of their discography. Songs from Revolver, Abbey Road, Let It Be, you name it. And the books! Quite a lot of books about The Beatles littering my room at the moment: some in my cabinet, some on my bed, others on the floor.

Now since that is the foundation I have built all the years of my life, it’s logical for people to think that I, too, besides being a fan, am an immaculate wellspring when it comes to everything Beatles. Say, for instance, if you’re dangling on the question “Who was the Indian musician George Harrison famously teamed up with for a couple of gigs?” on your way to becoming a huge victor on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?, I would be the best Call-A-Friend option you’ll ever have. Well, sorry to break it to you but I know not the answer to that question.

This is the part where you raise your eyebrow. So all the while what we have here isn’t a fan but a poser? You call yourself a fan and you don’t know these bits and pieces of trivia regarding the band you put highly on a much publicized pedestal? How in the world could you claim you’re a legit follower if all you got are T-shirts, books, and whatever memento you might have? Hey. Hold up. You might want to hush down on your assumptions. I can hear you from here.

You know what, that has actually been my problem. I have all these biographies, magazines, coffee table books, and the like but till now, I can’t have a full grasp on these trivialities a Beatles fan usually pride himself upon knowing. Relaying the simple history of the group? Yeah, count me out on that: There were once four lads from Liverpool and…whatever happened next? Yes, I know. It’s downright disappointing not just for the fellow fans but for myself as well. Blame my memory, or my chronic disinterest to leaf through the pages of my readers.

But then I have recently discovered an odd sense of fulfillment from this flaw. Sure, I may not be able to give you the date when Rubber Soul was released or the story behind Dig a Pony or the exact locations of John’s gunshot wounds. I may or may not know or remember these things before or after I’ve exhausted every page of related literature I have on hand but that’s exactly it—there’s magic in not knowing these things, then after reading, knowing them, then not knowing them again; that every time I open a book about The Beatles, it’s like I’m knowing them for the very first time, my eyes wide in awe upon the triumphs and travails and of great men.

The proud Beatles fan may say, Screw you, I know this, I know that. Sure, man. Go eat your details. Munch on them bit by bit till all that’s left are crumbs for the bewildered fan to consume. My appreciation lies lastly on these hard facts and, first and foremost, on the music that have come to inspire me for years.

No, sorry, I can’t enumerate all the wives John, Paul, George, and Ringo had. Neither can I recite the chronology of their birthdays. Or give you the sizes of their feet. But what I can share with you, perhaps over coffee, even if I don’t drink coffee, is my recollection of a little boy fixated on the TV screen, his eyes mirroring vivid colors as he watched for the first time the video of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, that same boy having his small heart heavy with longing, somehow, at his tender age, relating to a song titled I Need You, then automatically bobbing up and down when She Loves You played.

Also, that boy, now a man, sometimes cry because the sky is blue.

Now let me ask you: What kind of fan are you? Could be a millionaire, actually—that is, if you did play on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? and dropped me a line. It’s Ravi Shankar, people. That Indian dude George once jammed with. Pardon me for momentarily lying. Sometimes, like John, I can’t really tell what is real and what is imagined.

Look who recently splurged on Beatles hardbacks.

We went on to push for whatever plans we could think of to accommodate my caprice. We had some good ideas; not really that grand but still interesting nonetheless. However, these arrangements would go down to dishearten me as my birthday neared. Plans of going on an out-of-town escapade with either friends or family were postponed, weekend session with the band, which I thought could double as a special alcohol-free bonding moment, was foiled, and, at the time of this writing, I’m still unsure if the Nirvana DVD I’ve been raring to own would finally be out in stores later.

And so I’ve given up on having a birthday for the books. I was receiving advance greetings and, for me, that was it. Too, there won’t be a flood of greetings on Facebook since I didn’t make my birthday public (those who will greet shall be the ones who remembered and, well, those who care after reading this).

But then maybe I was being hasty leaping to conclusions.

Hours before my birthday, I fell asleep watching House with Camz. Moments later, I was waking up to her coming through my room’s door carrying a platter of three cupcakes each topped with a small cutesy candle. Yes, my makeshift birthday cake. The next logical thing to do now would be to hand me my present. Turns out a little adventure is a prerequisite to that.

After taking a picture of me with her cupcake concoction, she handed me a note, which was, in fact, a clue just like what they use in The Amazing Race, a show I do not watch. And like in that show I do not watch, the clue led to another. And another. And another till I found myself following a trail of glow-in-the-dark stars (one of her note reads “When you get lost along the way, listen to what the blue STARS say”) all the way from our sala to the kitchen. It eventually led me to a small envelope taped on the mircrowave. Inside it was a coupon from a discount shopping site. She bought me my very own Paper Jamz toy drums, something she said I could use to draft drum parts I could lay out on actual songs. Ten points for the girl who truly values my passion.

The gift itself is pretty much awesome, but the procedure with which she informed me I was getting it is what strikes me more. Here’s a secret: Camz sucks at surprises. If there’s someone in this relationship good at sweeping the other off his or her feet sans the hints, that would be me. But this time, I’d give it to her. So give that girl 90 more points for catching me off guard, smiling no less, like a giddy seven-year-old boy celebrating his birthday.

In conclusion I say that despite the previous hang-ups, my 27th birthday was meant to be memorable. It was, after all, written in the stars.

*Written on 7 November 2011, at around 1 a.m.

At least, that’s how it turned out after people misconstrued a tease I was trying to get across when I posted an entry on Pupil’s Yahoo! Group several years ago. You see, I had these portentous analogies about Ely and myself (one of which is that we both found dancing a worthwhile hobby before we fully got into bands) which I thought would be swell to share among Ely fanatics. I can’t precisely remember how I ended up stating a stupid joke about gunning down the country’s most beloved frontman but apparently, I did. Perhaps it has something to do with Mark Chapman and John Lennon. Or maybe I was trying too hard to make an impression. I can’t really recall. But, anyway…this misbehavior led to the scrutiny of fellow fans. The last thing I knew I was being booted from the group. I tried to clarify I was just jesting but my defense was to no avail. Neither offense nor blame was taken there. I guess fandom can sometimes take you to great heights of stupidity.

Yan ‘yun!
Before the mishap, I had a brief yet memorable experience as a member of the group. Prior to the infamous Ely post, I shared lyrics I’ve written with the other listers. I secretly hoped some of them would appreciate my work. Immature and self-important as I was back in college (maybe up to now, I still am), I even got close to expecting someone to point out how compelling my lyrics were and that my piece had great potential to become a full-blown song. I didn’t get that reaction from any member. Instead, I got it from one of the moderators.

Yan Yuzon, The Mongols’ then bassist and now guitarist for Pupil who, too, has a knack for fleshing out brilliant lyrics, replied to the thread and said, “Ayos ‘to! Gawin mong kanta tapos i-jam natin!” Or something to that effect. After reading, I felt myself bouncing off the walls of the room even if I was actually inside our university’s library, timidly smiling. I didn’t care if the man was being honest, modest, or sarcastic. That’s fuckin’ Yan Yuzon! I mean, c’mon, he could’ve just ignored the post. He took time to notice, then replied. And for me that was enough. Did I go and hug trees, kiss babies, and ace my quantum physics exam after that? I have a strange feeling I did.

Who cares about the fedora?
The second time I saw Pupil live was during their performance for a Sony event in Megamall. The band was at the lead of promoting their third album. I and my girlfriend arrived at the venue early so we were able to secure good seats. During the performance, we took a lot of pictures and danced in our heads to the tune of “disco-nnection no-tice” and the latest tracks from the foursome.

After the show, I got the chance to meet Wendell Garcia. The guy’s really accommodating, which came as a surprise since I thought he was the type who, for one, would pose for a photo and beam a half-baked smile, then leave the scene as if he wasn’t ever there.

So what did I get from him? A snapshot of us, yes, and a seemingly endless thanks for the support I have for the band. He also invited me to watch them again, which I did some days after, this time in TriNoma. Too, I got him to sign the night’s setlist, which I nicked from the stage after the smoke has cleared.

Wendell is known to wear a fedora hat most of the time. I was with some other fans when I met him and one of them asked if he could have the fedora Wendell was wearing. He smiled and courteously declined. He said he had to go (and he did since, as we’ve kept him long to pose for pictures and sign autographs, he’s been left behind by all other members of the Pupil crew, who have already gone to the quickest exit made available). “Maybe next time,” he said. “Maraming salamat uli sa inyo.” Then he walked away waving, his footsteps seemingly in sync with the beats of a fanboy’s heart racing, now slowing down as the icon disappears from sight—ah, a drummer who, even in his gait, has full understanding of timing!

What’s up, Dok?
I’m the guy who’s a sucker for shirts, especially band tees. Also, unless your comprehension is as dim as a jaundiced light bulb, you should know by now that I’m a huge fan of Pupil. To listen to their music is just as blissful as it is for a baby to suck on his pretty little thumb. Not really the best metaphor I can think of right now, but you get the point.

Now getting a Pupil band tee no less from one of the members of the band would definitely be an experience incapable of sucking. Like Aga Muhlach’s face incompetent of aging. Again, not the metaphor I was looking for but since I’m excited to get to the crux of the matter, I’ll let it pass.

Pupil bassist Dok Sergio, in case you didn’t know, is into printing T-shirts. Just recently, I had this random thought of scouring the Net for Pinoy band tees and I chanced upon a blog post of his which markets his self-designed Pupil shirts. They were easily available online. Problem, though, was that Dok’s entry was dated more than a year ago. It was a long shot but I took my chances.

I e-mailed him directly with little to no expectation of getting a reply, especially since I know for a fact that celebrities usually don’t have time to nurture an online presence. Hours later, I received an update in my e-mail coming from a certain Andrew Sergio that says:

“hi, i have an xs and small. last pieces.. if that’s your size, you can purchase through me..payment can be through bank, gcash, LBC. let me know…”

Missing piece
Apparently, Andrew was Dok’s real name. So much for the self-professed big fan, huh?

After shooting e-mails, we had some more exchanges. He gave me his cellphone number. Like Wendell, he was very accommodating. His messages even came with the occasional smileys. I asked questions, he answered. For a rock star, connecting with the hoi polloi is something. And, from that brief encounter, I can tell connecting with the hoi polloi is something Dok is good at.

Now I don’t know if he had a middleman doing all the transactions for him. I wouldn’t want to know. I’m resigned that it was Dok whom I communicated with and the story shall remain that way even in the recollection of my grandchildren.

So who’s the missing piece in this picture? The man I “wanted” to kill. Seriously, I still want to shoot Ely Buendia. The shooting, however, should entail a camera. With me standing/sitting beside him, doing the mano cornuto, the peace sign, or whatever pretentious gesture that shall suit my fancy. Classic fanboy-ism.

I’d confirm, too, if he’s really using Bench Fix for his hair.

As a kid, I had quite a sizeable collection of WWF action figures. My most favorite was Shawn Michaels since I’m a fan. When the time came that I had to hand down my collection to a younger cousin, I intended to save Shawn for myself, but for some reason, wasn’t able to do so, a misdoing I resent until now. So when I chanced upon this cheap imitation of a more modern version of the toy, I knew I had to bag it. It’s the closest I can get to appeasing that lost opportunity.

(Yeah, now you know why I teared up a little after watching Toy Story 3.)