Terri Schiavo Is Dead

The J.G. was never sure what she thought about this case, but she does think that it was a terrible thing such a terrible matter was so publicized. She sees both sides, and doesn't think that this matter should be further discussed, as it was a terribly private matter, to be discussed purely by the Schiavo and Schindler families. She wishes to offer her sincere condolences and will say no more regarding this particular case out of respect for the privacy of these families, who have been unfairly exploited.

But it does raise a question for anyone who thinks deeply about anything. Life and death. What are they, really? Are we reincarnated, or do we go to somewhere like Heaven, the Summerland, or Paradise? As a Wiccan, I believe in reincarnation, then the Summerland, or Heaven, but I'm not sure how one defines life. What is a life worth living? Can a "persistent vegatative state" be classified as, indeed, a life?

Erik lead a life that, by some, would not have been classified as worth living, and yet he lived it. He may not have enjoyed himself, but I do think that if one of us walked up to him and demanded, "Erik, would you rather not have lived, or would you rather have died at some point, speaking in retrospect?" That he would answer that he would rather have lived it. He had Nadir, Christine, Giovanni, Reza, Ayesha. . .and parts of his life were, if not perfect, things that he would rather have gone with than without.

But Erik was able to move, to laugh, to cry, to speak. What is a life worth living? A life where one is able to take action, does that define a life worth living? Can one have a life that is not worth living, where one still retains one's full physical ability? A life worth living is, I have come to a conclusion, a personal choice.

For myself, a life worth living would be a life in which I could do things for myself or others. I have to be able to take action. The only reasons I have ever feared death would be for the pain that might come before it, and for being bored afterwards. The only life not worth living for me would be a totally passive life that I could do nothing in, but would still be concious. Pure torture for me, torture.

The only solution in any of these cases is to write a living will, in my opinion, and that is that.

(Yes, of course I'm deep, just don't tell anyone.)

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

In Which We Pondereth X-Box Live, Describe More People, And Pondereth On Ponderething

First order of business: Ponderething On X-Box Live. Like so many, my dear brother Luke lives on X-Box Live. For any of the uninitiated, I will inform you that X-Box Live is like playing video games with friends, only it's that on steriods. Online, you play with other gamers, who range in age from milennia to minutes, and speak with them through a headset. This strange feature is referred to by the iniates of this strange cult as VoiceChat. Little is known of their sinister rituals. And there isn't a PotO video game, which annoys me for purely personal reasons. Now then, what brings me to this subject? What else but strange utterances. Here are a few oddish little gems offered to his friends on VoiceChat by my the DLF (Dear Little Friend) Luke.

1) Where the hell are the floating rocks?
2) You're on fire? What do you mean you're on fire?
3) So explain the Superstring Theory.
4) When someone throws a thermal detonator at you you burn up, slowly incinerated by the demonic fires of HELL!
5) You are all communists! Filthy, filthy, communists!

You know, whoever invented the words strange, odd, bizarre, whacky, wierd, and outré may have done so purely because their little brother was saying very strange things while playing X-Box Live. In any case, my friends, approach the X-Boxites with caution, as they will attack vicously, especially if you trip over their controller cord.

Now, on to a few people I was unable to describe/forgot to describe. Beginning at the beginning, with:

Ben - a.k.a. The Ghost Host or the Blue Faerie, who has been so kind as to describe himself: Computer Geek. (You said it, not me.) Enjoys using big words for no particular reason. Favorite word: Outré. Goodness knows why. Is occasionaly prone to manaical laughter. Is friends with Kat and Max for reasons none of them know. Is a frustrated artist in his spare time. Feels the need to design a logo for everything, even his lunchbox.

Tina/The Ardent Animal Rights Activist: Tina, Tina, Tina. Liberal, anti Bush, big on animal rights, big on drama. Excellent monolougist. A member of the strange group known as the Trio of Three. Kat is unsuccessfully attempting to set her up with Max, which Max knows and she doesn't. Shakespearean.

Carl/The Bandit: Carl's a little mad, granted, but he is lovable as long as you do not attempt to steal his precious hat. He is still in mourning for his former hat, a hat that was once his baseball cap for his precious and beloved team The Bandits. The second member of the feared and renowned Trio of Three. Another Shakespearean.

Mashed Potatoes: No real name need apply. She is Mashed Potatoes. Well, her mom does call her Rosie, but then, eh. A Shakespearean and dramatist with a talent for improv and granny voices.

Josh/Bob Marley: My pretend son. This developed from Tina and Carl, who aren't married, having a marriage spat because Tina was apparently having extramarital relations with Josh, who barely knew her at the time, and I stepped in as a marriage counselor, at which point Josh asserted, "You're not a marriage counselor, you're my mother!" Confused? So are we. Otherwise known as Bob Marley, newspaper reporter.

You may have noticed the word pondereth in the title and wondered what it meant. The answer: I'm not really sure. Max knows, and will gladly tell us, hopefully. I think it's some kind of derivative of ponder, so I used it. Hopefully I'm right, and it doesn't mean anything too strange. Now, this is why Max needs me as Jiminy Cricket. He actually used the verb form ponderething. And if that's not horrid descreation of the English language, ponderethinged. If you can even decode that, hats off to you. The real irony of the matter is that I've probably spelled desecration wrong.

I remain, gentleman, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Yesterday And A Pool

I recieved this email from Max, just after reading Ben's little rant on my blog. This was a very strange day for emails, my readers.

by the way, if ben tells you anything about yesterday and a pool dont belive him

Well, aside from Max's dredfil, as he'd say, spelling, this is a rather outré, as certain people would say, little email. It makes me wonder about yesterday and a pool. And Ben. And Max. And the future of civilization. Among other things. But then, so do so many things these days. Rambling, wonderful rambling. Yesterday and a pool, hmm. Whose pool? When? Why? What happened? I mean, I've been exposed to the painful experience of having one's string bikini top come off, but I don't think Max wears a string bikini. So. . .now for another one of my famous lists!

1) Max does wear a string bikini, despite my guesses.
2) Another person, possibly female, wears a string bikini, and there was a water slide involved.
3) Max drowned someone in a fit of fury directed towards Anne Coulter, and he began hallucinating that the someone was Anne Coulter.
4) Max himself drowned and is emailing from beyond the grave.
5) Ben drowned. Why Max wouldn't want me to know this, I'm not sure.
6) The Little Mermaid made an appearance, complete with fork in hair, and demanded the return of her pet seagull.
7) Max attacked Dory in a fit of frustration at her constant advice to "Just keep swimming, swimming, just keep swimming. . ." and doesn't want me to know because of my worship of Ellen Degeneres.
8) I was there and did something very embarrasing to myself. Hopefully this did not include a string bikini. Max and Ben clonked me on the head and I now have amnesia, and Max doesn't want me to know.

Max, Ben, enlighten me? (You can now make anonymous postings, you know, as I feel the need to assert that again. I'm proud of myself.)

I remain, gentleman, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

A Roster

It just occured to me that you may be a tad confused as to who is who in my little circle of mad acquaintances. So, what to do but give you a roster?

Max/Pinocchio: Resident knee jerk liberal. Do not mention Anne Coulter if he is near by. No common sense. I function as his common sense, which is an arguably bad idea. Otherwise known as Pinocchio. Frustrated politician. Ex-socialist. Paranoid, much? Oral fixation, or in other words, chews stuff. Diet Coke addiction.

Ben/The Blue Faerie: You know, Ben, I still am utterly unable to describe you. Er. He's Ben. Possibly the most sensible of my friends, Tina excluded. Why he is the Blue Faerie in Pinocchio terms is unknown. Frustrated sweatshirt designer, still a bit bitter. (I'm allowing anonymous comments now!) AKA The Ghost Host.

Mickey/Cleo: She needed a Pinocchio name, so I named her after the goldfish. Joy, ah, joy. But anyway. Mickey. A quite accomplished horseback rider, highly funny, quite nice. Ex-hippie. Secretary of debate club, prone to coups and power grabs. Unfrustrated sweatshirt designer.

Luke: No Pinocchio nickname. My brother. I really think that all you need to know is the dialouges I've posted between us. Does not. . .think. Star Wars nerd.

Kizzy: Little sister. Has unfailing belief that I am, in fact, the actual Erik. Quite strange, but I'd rather be Erik than Raoul. Prodigious, read Susan Kay's Phantom faster than I did. My little Lotte.

Tessa: Littler sister. Very annoying. Cries a lot. Cute anyway. My personal Luciana. Also oddly convinced that I am Erik.

Yes, indeed. This is my crew. The wrong crowd? Possibly. Strange people? Definitely. My beloveds? Occasionally. Depending on the person and the time of the day. And how many Diet Cokes said person has had. And how many Diet Cokes I've had. And what kind of situation my character in the Fan Fiction Cafe is in. And many, many, other things. Many, many, other things. Before I become too repetitive, I'm out, methinks.

And that's the news.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

That Is A Very Strange Thing To Find In An Easter Egg, Luke

I'm sure you're familiar with my dear, dear brother, Luke Bea - excuse me, Luke Valerik. Or is it Luke Kire? Or Luke Tak? I'm still in limbo about the name, as you can see. Kire is Erik spelt backwards, a suggestion of the Ghost Host, and Tak is Kat spelled backwards. Many thanks to Ben, and you shall recieve an honorary set of Phantom of the Opera plushies if I use Kire. Well, that is, if they ever come out with Phantom plushies.

But anyway. I'm sure you're familiar with my dear, dear brother, Luke Valerik/Tak/Kire. That would be the Luke we discussed in Strange Conversations. The one with the Native American chants, who does not. . .think. Well, like many of you, I spent Easter (Ostara, Beltaine) with my family, which, like it or lump it, contains Luke. We went to a rather. . .strange party. When I say strange, I mean not strange like me, Max, Ben, or even Oscar Wilde. Strange like Whitney Huston, or Hugh Heffner. Why like Hugh Heffner? Because of the two pastel clad Playboy bunnies running around the party. Would I joke with you? Pastel clad Playboy bunnies, I tell you. Disturbing. My childhood is very over. In fact, my life as a civilized person may be over. My life in general may be over, because at any moment the authors of the books I distort in my fan fiction may find me and kill me brutally, with those things which are either sporks or foons, which I think Max and I are still fighting about. (It's a foon. Trust me.) But that's not the point. The point is that my childhood is over. And then there was the fellow dressed as the Easter bunny, but wearing some serious gold bling.

Now, are you wondering about the title yet? Just what, are you wondering, did Luke find in the Easter egg? It was not candy. It was not a life chick. It was not those chocolate centered eggs that you can use as lipstick if you lick them and they're red and you're really hard pressed for lipstick. It was not jellybeans. It was not the toy that he later recieved that gave rise to the following interesting exchange:

Kat: Luke, I think you mutated that bunny one too many times.
Luke: Damnit, it's leaking!

No. It was none of these. Instead it was something really and truly mad. Not mad like me and Ely and Erika, mad like Joel Schumacher. It was something so utterly bizarre that I really don't know what to say. It's like the bowl of shamrocks that Irish fellow gave Bush, just too strange to comment on. It was, of all things, of all modern world insane objects. . .

A thong. My ten year old brother found a thong in his easter egg. A piece of lady's underwear. A thong. A thong, my friends. A thong. Or have I mentioned that already? Am I frightening you? Don't be frightened by me, be frightened by the strange, strange people who stuffed these easter eggs.

That isn't to mention the enormous cake, which I thought was a flower arrangement until they started cutting it.

But really. Really. It was a piece, for God's sake, of underwear. Lady's underwear. Sexually suggestive, pink, cherry patterned, lady's underwear.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Autobiography of a Face

We all know that the Phantom of the Opera was a hideously deformed man. If you don't, I wonder why you're here, but more to the point, we know that the Phantom of the Opera was a hideously deformed man. But he was a fictional character, and of course, in the modern world, the life of a deformed person would be different, better, maybe. Of course, Erik was Erik, with a remarkable genius and the strange power of his voice, but as he says in Susan Kat, "I am just like everybody else inside, does no one understand that?" So if we could find out about a real person who is currently deformed, it would be a great insight into the character and complicated, delicate physce of a man.

Thank God for Lucy Grealy and her hugely wonderful book. Lucy Grealy is a poet, and she is a great poet. Lucy Grealy also had cancer in her jaw, and therefore had part of her jaw removed. She is disfigured, as one might put it, and there are some bizarre similarities between Erik and Ms. Grealy. They are both artists. They both have or have had at some point in life, an aversion to mirrors, which is totally understandable. They are both witty, intelligent, and extremely insightful. Of course, there are some obvious differences. For example, Ms. Grealy was not born with her deformity, as opposed to Erik's ingrained face. Ms. Grealy was quite obviously nowhere near as isolated as Erik, as she lived a veritably normal life. It is their inner conflicts that are strikingly similiar.

And for Heaven's sakes, this book is a godsend for a phan fic author. To write for Erik is to attempt an impossible task, to understand the understandable. And this book helps hugely. To actually know about the differentiation between the face and the self - oh, just read it, it will make your life easier. And you will stay up at night wondering about this enormously complicated woman.

In all seriousness, Phantom related or not, this is a simply remarkable, fascinating, intelligent book. I reccomend this to anyone and everyone, especially phans who are interested in understanding Erik as a real and tangible person.

Wow, a serious, short, blog. Something's wrong with me.

I remain, gentleman, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Identity Crisis

There is a problem. My father wants me to change my online alias. Well. Excuse me. Kat Beat, now just what is wrong with that? I'm a sorry excuse for a Phantom, changing my name every time someone like him comes along. Well, huh. But then, he controls my internet access, so eh.

The question is, what to name myself? I'm keeping Kat, (how could I not) but then there's the problem of the surname. What to name myself? See, Erik didn't have this problem? He was just Erik, and that's the end of it. In the silent movie, he was named Claudin, but then his first name was bloody Enrique and they got absolutely nothing right in that movie. Worse than Joel Schumacher, I tell you, far, far worse. Suffice it to say there were TWO Raoul type characters. I died halfway through. Repeatedly. But back to the point. I could be Claudin, I suppose. A little implausible, as I couldn't possibly be less French, but hey. As if anyone would buy that my parents actually named me Rana, which was my old alias. Plus, that one means frog in Latin, so, it got a little confusing in Latin class, as I kept turning around at inopertune times.

Valerik. I'm sure there was a random phic where Erik's last name was Valerik. Almost sure. Oh yes, LesMisLoony's "The New Production." Hey, I could be Kat Valjean! Ok, now that's just silly. Never mind. I could do some serious wishful thinking and be Kat Depp, or Kat Crawford, but then, that's just not my style. I vomit when I see those "Mrs. Kutcher" purses. So Kat Valerik is an option, most definitely. Kat Valerik. It rolls off the tongue most nicely.

Ely's last name is Baily. Yes, I know it hasn't got an E. Ely is weird that way. But it calls to mind buckets, for some indetermined reason. So I can't be Baily. Erika's last name's Imichi, I've no idea why, because she is certainly not Japanese.

Valerik. Claudin. Baily. Imichi. Or I could always make life easy and just be Kat. But would Kat do this? Are you kidding? My common sense flys out the window the minute I start typing this blog, trust me. Which is why, Max, you should not call me if I appear to be blog updating, because you will probably talk me into storming the capital or starting a socialist revolution, or something.

I think I'll be Kat Valerik for now. This'll probably change by next blog update, so keep reading!

I remain, gentleman, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

In Which We Touch On Strange Conversations, Among Other Things

Luke: Do I think, or do I. . .not think?
Kat: You do not think.
Luke: (Runs off doing Native American chant)

Well, yes. What more can I say. I have the most concentratedly strange conversations, oh indeed. Oh yes, there can be no doubt. Luke is pretty bad, but then you get to Max and Ben. And dear God, are those conversations an auditory input for ears sore from hearing Gerard Butler trying to hit the note "soar" in Music of the Night, especially for a strange little amateur Phantom. Read on, as Dear Abby says:

Kat: You see, the question is, if I am Jiminy Cricket, and Max is Pinocchio, who is Ben?
Ben: The Blue Fairy.
Max: Ah.

Frankly, there's enough said there, no? Enough for you too to be seriously questioning my mental stability. Join the club. But then, when I've got two split personalities, as I admitted to you two posts ago, and so you really ought to have been questioning it two posts ago. Everyone else was, you know. You are utterly out of the loop.

And here is something truly disturbing. I, Kat Beat (the Omnipotent Queen of Rolzag) have developed Valley Girl Tendencies. (VGT) This fills me with utterly irrational terror. Symtoms of VGT involve hair flipping, limp wristing, and excessive use of the word like.

And now for some true madness. I was just watching CNN, and I swear to you by Micheal Crawford that one of the reporters electric shocked himself with a tazer in order to demonstrate the usage of stun gun technology by the police. His professional determination: It hurts. Really, Bob. It does? If I may make a terribly corny pun, shocking. You just shot your self full of 50000 volts of electriciy in order to provide us with the diagnosis that it hurts. That isn't to mention the highly amusing fact that on the Daily Show they slowed down the clip and the reporter sounded like Chewbacca, but what I'm talking about is not that. It is the pure absurdity of this world. Speaking of absurdities, how about the porcelain bowl of shamrocks given to Pres. Bush by the leader of Ireland. You know, as a Phantom, I'm usually supposed to have something clever to say, but this time all I have to say is wow. Just. Wow. A porcelain bowl. Of shamrocks. To do what with? Eat? "Oh, thank you Mr. Prime Minister, I've been needing this to feed my pet bunny Gandalf, and his friends Frodo, Sam, and Legolas?" Now this, my friends, is one of the few great questions of life that cannot merely be answered by saying, 42.

And just when I thought I'd exhausted my capacity of idiotic random news reports. Here I am, watching the Tivo of Good Morning America, and here is something just so purely odd that I have to write about it. They found a finger in Wendy's chili. A finger. As in a, a digit found on the human hand. As in, something you are not supposed to point, because it is rude. As in, the extremities Peter Karrie uses to such wonderful effect in his rendition of Music of the Night. A finger. I am now repeating to myself a mantra. "I will never eat at Wendy's again. I will never eat at Wendy's again. Never ever ever ever." But I know next time I'm starving to death and there's no home in sight. . .Now, this makes me debate upon why oh why there was a finger in Wendy's chili. Here's my list of possibilities.

1) Raoul and Erik went to Wendy's. Christine remarked on how sexy Erik's hands were. We're presuming this would be the Susan Kay incarnation of Erik, then. Raoul, of course, acted accordingly, and Erik is now minus a finger. Why they were back in the kitchen I haven't figured out yet.
2) I finally snapped on Max and that idiotic gavel, causing me to remove one of his digits and then get amnesia. Anything is possible where the Phantom of the Junior High is concerned. Why I was in Wendy's kitchen is undetermined. Ask Erika, I think, would be the best answer.
3) Someone, anyone, just blew up at Kevin Federline. Did I mention he's another one of the Raoul types I'd like to kill?

The point of this post is undetermined. Perhaps I simply have too much time on my hands.

I remain, gentleman, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

In Which We Detest Computers, Wonder About Casting Purely In General, and Speculate Upon What Those Four Comments Were About

Here I am, back again with the daily posting from the mind of your friendly neighborhood Phantom. My daily Erik-esque thoughts, etc., shall be duly noted. Now. One very important part of being a ghost, of an opera or otherwise, I believe, is murderous impulses. I have actually been feeling more of these than usual, but I somewhat wonder if they count, as they are all directed toward the same object -my highly demonic computer. I detest this computer. I hate this computer. I loathe this computer. I - hang on, I need to find the thesaurus - abhor, can't stand, find insufferable, be repulsed by, and can't bear this hunk of apathetic, spiteful, evil hardware.

Why do I detest, hate, abhor, loathe, can't stand, find insufferable, be repulsed by, and can't bear this hunk of apathetic, spiteful, evil hardware? Because it will not allow me to post my fan fiction. My fan fiction is good. I know my fan fiction is good! At least, I'm fairly sure, but that's beside the point. If I can't post it, how shall I ever know, as no one around me understands the bizarre and implausible plot nuances of the Phantom of the Opera. Well, I'm sure with some work some of my debate club cronies could, but that would merely spark debates over RC versus EC and whether or not ER slash should be legal, not to mention the good old OW or no OW arguement, which in our current "political turmoil," as Max put it, we do not need. Trust me, Phantom pairing debates are brutal, brutal things. But back to hating the computer. I've exhausted the thesaurus, so what more is there to say? Oh yes. It will not allow me to access my blog comments, so I am forced to guess what they were. Here are my guesses:

First comment was undoubtedly from a Justin Timberlake fan, begging me to spare their idol. Who knew one of my readers was a Justin fan? Who knew Justin fans could read? Second comment. . .perhaps the ghost host or liberalkid? Speaking of which, how did the ghost host find my blog? Did I tell him and get amnesia? I need to stop using so many question marks, this post is starting to look ridiculous. Now then, if one of you two are commenting, it is probably to inform me of some new debate club oddity (the secretary staging an assassination attempt on the advisor, Andy found examining a pair of my jeans with a microscope to make sure they aren't low rise) or to comfort me upon my realization that none other than Mos Def is playing the great Ford Prefect. Third comment was probably Erik telling me to stop impersonating him, or he would kill Nadir. After all, Erik knows killing me is impossible, as I, being a fan fiction authoress, control him, so the only solution would be to kill my other favorite character. Nadir. . .Goddess, what a wonderful, underappreciated, saintly fellow he is. Everyone, pause to worship Nadir Khan. Great, moving on. The question is, to what?

Now, on to casting! Why am I currently so purely weirded out by casting? Because I was just recently cast in a show, as - I suggest you stop reading now if you value your sanity - an adrogynous, assexual violinist named - of all things - Ezekiel. Wow. Pretty strange, no? Zeke for short. No nicknames, please. Whilst Ely finds this infinitely funny (big surprise) Erika is decidedly not amused. Not that I blame her. I'm not really too amused myself, especially as Zeke's best friend is, of all people, Elmer Fudd. Despite the fact that one can search on Google in Elmer's language, as I recently learned from the ghost host, I still find this a tad bit. . .well. . .disconcerting. As well as the fact that Elmer is accused of the murder of Carl the Dead Guy, and that's not to mention the lady who's husband might be unfaithful. Or not. Plus the wannabe detective and the dramatic jazz music. Actually, remind me why I'm in this play? I did, admittedly, start this whole problem in an improv game that gave them the idea, but really, they didn't have to take it to such extremes. Or add the dramatic jazz music. I offered them the Phantom overture, but would they listen? No.

In the vein of strange castings, they considered - seriously considered - Antonio Banderas as Erik in the 2004 Phantom of the Opera movie. "Chris-teen, help me make the Music of the Night, and do you have any tequila? Let us do zee Macarena of zee Night!" Really, him singing at the Oscars was bad enough. Gerard Butler, what with the questionable vocal prowess, Scottish accent and unfortunate nasal discharge after All I Ask Of You was truely cringe worthy, but Antonio. . .I wouldn't even have gone to see it, I swear. Actually, I would have, probably six or seven times, but I am a captive phan so I don't count. Antonio, going from Puss In Boots to Ghost In Mask, is, trust me, a bad idea. Though Raoul does kind of remind me of that Prince Charming character in Shrek 2. Kind of. Loosely. Okay, so now I'm Raoul bashing. And I don't like to bash Raoul. May I remind you that Erik gave Christine to Raoul in the end? Well, he did. Sorry, I must salvage the dignity of the Phantom. I have a reputation to keep for my phellows, you know. Erm, was that a tangent? Erika says yes. She's right. Ely says yes, but who cares. Right. Well, moving on. . .

May I beg whatever readers I have, shamelessly, to please try and find me on fanfiction.net? With the search tool? My pen name is SimplyElymas, or you can find me by checking out the poetry category in the books category in the PotO category. Good luck decoding that sentence. Or you could just try this: fanfiction.net/~simplyelymas/. That works too.

I remain, gentleman, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Fondest Greetings To You All

Why so silent, good messieurs? Did you think that I had left you for good? Have you missed me, good messieurs? I have written you a new blog!

And just when you thought you were safe, the younger, more feminine version of O.G. strikes again! Here I am, back from Ranting for Wiccan Rights and my old hiatus, and I promise to be three times as sardonic, annoying, Erik-like, and generally mad.

Did any of this make sense to you? Well then, you're probably either Luke, Kizzy, Tessa, liberalkid, the ghost host, or a phan. What, you ask, is a phan? A phan is a fan, only with a ph. Obviously. But beyond this, a phan is also a fan of Phantom. Specifically, Phantom of the Opera. I am a phan. In other words, I am obsessed with PotO. Insult Phantom, and I growl. Bad mouth Micheal Crawford, and I pounce. Spell Erik with a C, and I explode. (Who is Erik? Erik is the Phantom's real name.) So really, it's best just to deal with me gently and not insult Micheal Crawford, or mention Micheal Crawford's role as Cornelius Hackel in the Hello, Dolly! movie.

Now that we've gotten that over with. Who am I? See, with me, that's a complicated question. Basically, I'm Kat Beat, a thirteen year old with a PotO fixation, a sardonic mind, and a love of books and theatre. But really, I have two split personalites. Before you back away, allow me to introduce them.

This is Erika. Any guesses as to who she's named after? She is the most gothic of the Kats. Very sullen, very cynical. Quite funny, if you don't mind being constantly insulted.

And the one bouncing off the walls would be Ely. Pronounce it Ellie, not Eli. She is the hyper, joyous Kat. Very sweet. Very gullible. Makes a great gift. Or at least would, if she wasn't so highly annoying.

Now, why am I the Phantom of the Junior High? I'm a junior high school student (seventh grade, to be exact) who identifies with Erik, the Phantom of the Opera. Therefore, I am the Phantom of the Junior High. But, please, Erik and I aren't exactly alike. I do leave threatening notes. I am not disfigured, and I do not wear a half a white mask. I live in a house, not under the ground in a lake. I do love Opera and Broadway musicals. I do wear a lot of black, especially my infamous trenchcoat. (Max, are you reading this?) I do not have a fixation with a beautiful soprano chorus girl, but I can think of several Raoul type people I would like to kill. (Ex. Justin Timberlake, Ashton Kutcher. . .) I do have a huge preference for dark over light, and night over day. Consider it an endearing eccentricity.

And that's me in a nutshell.

I remain, gentleman, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.