Fairly Fair

Ah, the Garnier School yearly school fair. Ah, the chaos. Ah, the ridiculously expensive prices. Ah, the rigged arcade games. Ah, the convincing Max to come instead of seeing John Kerry speak. Ah, the walking aimlessly around with Ben talking about. . .well. . .talking about. . .

Er. Never mind that.

And, just to torture you guys, ah, the hanging out with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. But enough of this. Allow me to tell you how the day went. Well, I got up. At nine o' clock. From a dream that the up key on my keyboard was working. It doesn't now, it thinks it's the H key. Something wrong already - I'm late for my shift, considering how long it takes me to dress, eat, dry my Goddessdamned hair, etc., etc.. I dash downstairs, scream incoherently at my mom that we have to go, find I have forgotten my towel, which I ended up not needing, ran back up to get it, grabbed an apple, ate it, ran into the car, yawned, ran for Interim-President of Iraq, braided my hair into cornrows, sang every song from PotO several times, hurt my voice, bashed my head against the window by accident, unbraided my hair, attempted to rap like Ceaser from the Boondocks, did not succeed, grinned, laughed, saw my mother, screamed that we had to go, cast PotO in my head, thought about how much I hated Julian Sands, killed Paris Hilton, stalked several chorus girls, dropped a chandelier, and maniacally laughed.

This confused my mother. A bit.

Well, to make a long story short, I lost the election for Interim President, and we left for the fair. When we arrived, I was greeted by the usual onslaught of girls in too short skirts, one of whom I did not know, as she was from another school. In fact, I didn't know a lot of them, but that's beside the point. Point is that I was wearing a very thick coat, and well, my hair is shorter than most girl's hair, and I think she thought I was male, considering she came onto me. This was vaguely traumatizing. I swallowed, then said in my best evil Erik voice, "Mademoiselle, do I look like a boy to you?" I think the French scared her off. Max and Ben, you two have no idea how much I wanted to tell you this at the fair, but I was saving it for the blog. Sorry.

We had a cabana at the fair, which was quite nice. It was a little overkilly, and since we had so much bottled soda the lack of a bottle opener was a little offputting, but on the whole it was nice. I saw Max, who was, of course, wearing a Richard Nixon shirt that said Dick on it and a Villaraigosa pen. I refrained from Punjabbing him. Barely. It was at this point that I met the fourth reader of this blog, who only reads it occasionally and doesn't understand a word of it. If she's reading this, I'll have her know that's not a bad thing. It may even be a good thing. Hey, I don't even fully understand it. You'd have to ask Erika and Ely. Who is this person? You may well ask. Ben's mother. And, Ben, she has given me damning evidence that Punjab is a word! You use it around the house! You use it! Don't be hypocritical. And do not try the hypocrite hypothesis on me again. I'll go completely crazy.

Is the parachute drop and ferris wheel at the fair getting slower, or am I getting faster?

Ben: The room's getting smaller!

Max: No it's not, she's getting bigger!

Kat: (Plays PotO overture on convenient mini keyboard which pops out of conveniently zebra print wall) Ah, the musical lock. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the chocolate room.

Ben and Max: . . .

Ely: Whee! Choccies! (Jumps into room.) Yaha!

Ben: None of those are words.

Max: No, but there's chocolate to be had! (Follows Ely.)

Ben: . . .Willy Wonka moment?

Kat: Yeah.

Anyway. I went on quite a few rides this year, it was a little odd for me, and I didn't go on the Gravitron even once. That's pretty amazing for me. Not even once. Last time I went on it five times. Five very long, fascinating, centrigual force-ifying times. Ah, the joy. I've lost the innocence that allowed me to be so easily entertained.

Later on I actually succeeded in finding Max and Ben, not just their mothers. What I find very entertaining about this is that when I did find him, Max was being very indignant about his sister having hacked his computer. Oddly enough, I knew before him. It seems as if everyone did, from Micheala to me. I find this so infinitely entertaining. I know, I know, I'm a terrible person, Punjab me now. But you've got to admit that this is pretty funny. Ben, if you scold me then I will merely point out the way you tortured Max with that hat.

I have, by the way, discovered that all Maxs share one common denominator. They all wear baseball caps sometimes, and almost all of them really do not like it when confusing people named Ben steal said caps. Terribly annoys them. I'm not sure if all of them have oral fixations like our Max and chew pens, etc., but we shall have to ask Maximillian. And I don't care what he said, I still say that Maximillian is a terrible name to waste. I love that name!

Party on!
Say that you remember
Party on!
Lyric I don't remember!

I'm so sorry. I have had that song stuck in my head all day. It's driving me absolutely mad. I don't even like the song! Let me try another song.

And I'm here
To remind you
Of the mess you left when you went away
It's not fair
To deny me
Something Alanis doesn't enunciate
What you did to me
You, you, you, oughta know!

Too angsty. Sorry. Let's try something in a lighter vein.

The sleepless nights
The daily fights
The quick toboggan when you reach the heights
I miss the kisses and I miss the bites
I wish I were in love again
The broken dates
The endless waits
The lovely loving and the hateful hates
The oh-so-American-Beauty-esque conversation with the flying plates
I wish I were in love again. . .

Oh lord. I can be quite tangenty, can't I? It must be the Monty Python. Yes, I stayed up way too late watching Python last night.

Kat: (Walks through chocolate river to sit down at desk.) And now for something completely different.

Eric Idle as Chef: What is this, you. . .evil. . .evil. . .girl? You have written this long, terrible blog, forced everyone to sit through it, read it, and ponder it, including the Sinatra lyrics? Ohhhh, it makes me maaaad! Maaaad! Maaaad. . . (Begins twisting neck a little disturbingly.)

Max: (Stares openly.)

Erika: Don't mind it. Just ignore it. I promise, it will go away.

Ben: We will take your arguably sane word for it.

Erika: Unwise.

Kat: Probably.

Chef: (Attacks Oompa Loompa with large meat cleaver.)

Max: Should we. . .do something?

Kat: Why?

Ben: Because a member of Monty Python is attacking an Oompa Loompa with a large meat cleaver.

Kat: Yes, I know.

Max: You truly frighten me.

Erika: We pride ourselves on it.

Ben: I'm sure you do.

Er, right, weren't we talking about the fair?

I walked around, either following Ben or having Ben follow me, either talking about something intangible or talking about what we were talking about or talking about nothing at all. Or, alternatively, talking to myselves about why I was talking to Ben about whatever we were talking about.

The only other notable thing was the rather random gum we recieved. I mean, it was clove flavored. Where do you find clove flavored gum? Really. I mean, really.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

I've Broken A Vow And Shall Be Eternally Damned

Okay, so I'm being a drama queen. Well, here was my vow. Never to do something for the sole reason of making fun of it after it was done. And it's pretty much in smithereens, though I've broken it so many times before that it doesn't really matter. Well, here's what I did. I went completely crazy with online quizzes, just so I could blog about how stupid/inaccurate the results were. And here is my first test. The question here was "What Kind of Teenager are you?" I sort of could have answered that myself, and possibly better, but here is their idea of me, anyway.


You are the bad boy / girl of your school. You
have little faith in yourself and usually find
escape in some sort of addicting substance or
yourself. You would rather torture others
above anything else. You regularly skip
school and when you go, always tend to ditch a
certain class. Some classmates can fear you
while others pity you...and your family. (No
offense) Your cruel behavior and abject
personality tends to single you out from the
crowd...and you prefer life this way at times.
However, lonliness can rear its ugly head and
force you seek a way to silence it. But be
warned, your path is dangerous... but only a
strong person can walk this road.

Some
ideal occupations for you can be a Police
officer, Celebrity (who doesn't love the
badasses?), Wrestler, Polotician, or some sort
of leader. Either way, your destined to be
known by many.


What type of teenager are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Oh. Really? See, I was looking into that wrestling thing, but y'know, it just isn't violent enough for me. Now the really really funny irony is that the guy pictured here is from Paradise Kiss, the manga I mentioned earlier. His name is George and he is a twistedly cruel, if quite likable. . .fashion designer. Er, yes, bares an extreme resemblance to me, right? Actually, the creepy thing is that he does, but more to the point. . .

Now for what I'd look like if I was an anime character. Now, before proceeding just resign yourself to the fact that my legs will probably lengthen and I'll inexplicably look. . .older. . .and possibly be wearing knee socks and a stylish school uniform.


You are the depressed/dreamer anime girl.You either
lost somebody you love or somebody broke you
heart so bad that you can't pick up the
shattered pieces without hurting yourself.You
think nobody can heal your wounds but don't
stop looking because you never know who loves
you enough to try hell the one special guy
could be right infront of your eyes and you
don't even know it.You also love to day dream
because it seems like the only place that makes
you happy.BBut little do you know that people
all around you are trying to make you happy and
you won't let them in fearing you'll get
another heartbreak or get hurt worse.But just
try and if things go wrong just brush it off
and try again.It never hurts to try.One more
thing never let that lost love one leave you
heart keep them in forever and keep their
memory alive.


If You Were An Anime Character What Would You Look Like?(Girls Only)
brought to you by Quizilla

Or I could be a very innocent sweet looking type of blonde goth angel.

Erika, Ely, Ben, and Max: Or that.

But seriously, my friends. Wow. Just. . .wow. And now for which book of the Bible I would be! No, I’m not kidding, I’m really not kidding.


You are Revelation.


Which book of the Bible are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

So, I’m a prophet. Good to know. Will keep information about pending end of world in mind. All though am out of mind.

And now for what element I am. Should be amusing.


Your element is Water: Understanding, intelligent,
quiet and calm. You know who you are and no one
can change that. Usually quiet but only because
your listening, don't let anyone think you
haven't got an opinion! Your not quiet because
your shy or sad, your usually quiet because
your thinking. Your answers are well planned
and helpful so people generally seek your
advice. Your the perfect balance between
solitary and outgoing. But sometimes you need a
little time to yourself to sort out your
emotions and figure things out. You understand
the phrase 'sticks and stone' and rarely let
things get to you, whats that important for you
to have to get so upset over? You know what you
want out of life but are simply taking your
time and enjoying things. To you your life is
fine as it is, you can always change things
later if your not happy.


.:-|What is your true element?|-:. -With Anime Pictures and detailed answers-
brought to you by Quizilla

Wait, WHAT?! I mean, what? I like to swim, sure, but. . .

Ben: Kat, it makes sense.

Max: It does?

Moving on. What obsolete skill would I be?


You are 'regularly metric verse'. This can take
many forms, including heroic couplets, blank
verse, and other iambic pentameters, for
example. It has not been used much since the
nineteenth century; modern poets tend to prefer
rhyme without meter, or even poetry with
neither rhyme nor meter.

You appreciate the beautiful things in life--the
joy of music, the color of leaves falling, the
rhythm of a heartbeat. You see life itself as
a series of little poems. The result (or is it
the cause?) is that you are pensive and often
melancholy. You enjoy the company of other
people, but they find you unexcitable and
depressing. Your problem is that regularly
metric verse has been obsolete for a long time.


What obsolete skill are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Oh, really? I thought that I had more problems than that. But, okay, that’s my problem. Does anyone write metric verse?


Congratulations! You could give the Phantom a run
for his money in the obsession department! You
are over the top obsessed knowing all there is
to know!! Be proud of your obsession. After
all, obsession is just flattery to the extreme!
So show off your phantom loving status, cause
your impressive obsession makes you a true
phantom Phan!!!


How Phantom of the Opera obsessed are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

All right, we could have guessed on that one. Now for which character I am. . .


You are Raoul!


What Phantom of the Opera Character are you? *Movie Version*
brought to you by Quizilla

. . .

WHAT!!!????

I’m WHO?

I’m…I’m who? I’m…him?

All but Kat: (Snicker.)

Oh my God, this is humiliating.

Before I get myself into even deeper trouble.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

NOT RAOUL!

The Morning Report

Salve and namarie for the second time today. This is the J.G. with your regular Kat update. Well then, let's turn it over to Erik for the weather.

Erik: (Walks onstage, looking sharp in business suit and pointer.) Ah then, the weather, messieurs.

Fred Weasley: There's a stage? I didn't know that was here.

Kat: I didn't know you were here. Hush, let Erik get on with it.

Erik: (Ahem.) We're expecting highs in Persia, specifically near the opium stalls. In Boston we'll be having a rather unexpected rain of Diet Coke, so bring an umbrella, and - (Throws down script.) Who the hell wrote this?

Foaly: Well, I made the predictions, but he wrote it down. (Jerks thumb at Artemis Fowl.)

Artemis: (Splutters incoherently.) Butler!

Butler: (Muffled shrieks.)

Erika: Hmm, fascinating, mechanics of the Punjab lasso. . .

Erik: You can't kill the Eurasian, we're in the middle of the weather and he's supposed to handle sport reporting.

Ben: "Can't" would not appear to be the operative word. Nor would Punjab, is it isn't a word.

Max: Please, don't start that again. I'll go on and on about Tort Reform if you do. Heck, I'll finish my debate club speech. Plus the one on Universal Health Care. Go on about the Diet Coke rain in Boston.

Erik: (Ahem.) Getting back to the matter at hand. In the Imagination quadrant of Kat's mind we're unfortunately having a drought, and in the Fan Fiction account we're having a technical problem, which isn't really weather, and that damnable centaur has it wro - (Glances at Artemis.) You really did write this.

Artemis: Er, yes.

Kat: All right, you people. Since you just can't let Erik finish up, we're simply going to print the transcript. And that's what you get.

The Randomness quadrant and Blog county are still fruitful, fortunately, although there would appear to be a few clouds in the Comments city. We're expecting an all time high of three storms in the Blog county today, and one with graphics, so keep yourself updated and do your part as a citizen by commenting. Also, the storm we're having at the moment would appear to be going on for a rather long time. The Original Fiction region should enjoy a slight revival, as Kat's gotten inspiration as far as her Jame's Cafe story goes. Since she's been writing phan fiction, it's been having a bit of a lack of sun, but it should warm up there soon. Her Les Mis fiction county hasn't had any sun in two years, but there's hope for it's citizens yet, though most of them are just so despondent that it doesn't really need rain anyway.

The Friends and Social Region is way up in sun, because He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, AKA A Certain Boy Whose Name Will Not Be Mentioned, was caught looking at Kat. You hear me? Looking at her! HA! Though the cities of Ninja has been having a problem with the Confusion region. The Confusion Region is rather cold at the moment, as for some reason Ben and Max have started to make sense to her. As a result, the Mental Health region is getting a bit barren. The Getting Away With Things county is way up in rain, as Kat has been getting away with quite a lot recently, especially where a rather dimwitted choir T.A. is concerned.

The Bizarre Theories city is seeing quite a lot of hail, actually, because of Spencer's theory that one should dance while playing dodgeball and one will not get out. The Confusion region is consequently up a bit, especially because this particular Bizarre Theory seems to actually work.

Also, the order of the universe was severely disturbed by Kat's team winning at dodgeball twice, and Kat staying in until the very end twice. Odd. Highly odd, because she really has less hand eye coordination than. . .well. . .Ely. And that's saying a lot.

Kat: Fred! FRED! Put down the Punja - FRED!

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

And How Was Your Day?

Well, I couldn't think of a title to sum this one up, but it promises to be amusing. I mean, sure, I thought of a title, but it was this:

In which Kat Argues With Nearly Everyone, Demonstrates Just How Hard It Is To Pick Up A Softball, Breaks A Vow, And Is Happy About Something

And that somehow seems cumbersome. Now then. To tell you of my day. I woke up at six o' clock, and promptly fell back to sleep. Upon finally waking about fifteen seconds before I had to go, I took the opportunity to turn my foot long earrings into a strange sort of belt, pull on some arm socks, and force/choke down a plate of extremely watery fried eggs. Morning did not go well, as I then proceeded to go online at and discover no new reviews for my fan fiction. It is a disgrace, it truly is. Then, of course, just to top it off, I discovered some very. . .interesting posters that featured the features of Abe, a student at my school with a terrible afro and John Lennon glasses, and some other members of the band Facial Fax. The reason these posters were so frightening was because all those in them had scanned their faces onto a copy machine, making for quite a disconserting image. Thankfully, no one asked me if I had a case of the Mondays. Probably because it was Wednesday.

Yes, I am quite whiny and self pitying this posting. I'm not sure where that came from. Oh, well, at least in my fits of whiny-ness and self pity I don't kill people. You have a relatively tamed Phantom on your hands, unlike my dear Erik.

The day carried on in basically the same vein. I tried quite hard to fall asleep in Latin, I really tried my best, but I was unsuccessful and ended up having to tolerate the terrible singing of Greg and our lone senior, Robert, serenading us with their rendition of the fourth conjugation in song. I will never, ever, forget that conjugation again. Especially what with Jake's air guitar. The irony about my Latin class is that the lone senior, Robert, communicates perfectly with the rest of the boys. They all speak the same language, with certain reasonable exceptions. All males, with certain reasonable exceptions, ever do is point, grunt, and/or occasionally swear/say dude/say anything ending in -izzle for no discernable reason. Then there's the strange male habit to randomly beatbox, which Ben and Max, thank Leroux, do not possess, as it will annoy me for all of eternity. Though Max's habit of gavel-banging and screaming and Ben's tendency to run away midsentence can be a bit confusing and, on occasion, aggravating.

E Period came. Now, as you know, I detest most sports beyond all measure, though I will make an exception for any sport that has to do with swimming, as I love to swim beyond all measure, and am quite a terror at man to man - man to ghost? Girl to man? Ghost to man? Girl to boy? - defense in water basketball. In fact, I'm just a terror at water basketball. Quite frightening, or so I'm told. But this day, we were, unfortunately, competing in, oh boy, whiffle ball. I had to ask three times if I'd heard that one right. However, we did not play with a whiffle ball, but with a softball. Logic. And just to top it off, I'd forgotten my PE shirt, so I was wearing a navy sweatshirt fully zipped up and becoming very very very uncomfortable over my school shirt, not to mention that I was looking like. . .oh dear Susan Kay, I now realize I must have looked a bit like Ben. Frightening. Unbelievably frightening. Next thing it'll be a Red Sox cap on a bad hair day.

Kat Playing A Sport That Is Not In The Water And Would Rather Prefer To Be Reading Or Writing A Story She's Had In Her Head Lately + Max In The Background Playing Catch So We Need To Duck Every So Often + Ben Who Apparently Has Hidden Depths Of Skill Where Whiffleball Is Concerned + Coach Who Is Ignorant About Tony Awards + Musical Play By Plays By A Boy Inexplicably Nicknamed Battery = A Rather Disturbing Situation

You know, I could have gone on further, but I think you get the gist.

My team was slaughtered. We were annihilated. I was surprised that no dolphins left before the game began, telling us so long and thanks for all the fish. In fact, we were killed so completely, there is only one word for it. We were Punjabbed. My sharing this observation with Ben caused a long argument as to whether or not Punjab is a word. Here's my new arguement - If I can Punjab someone, than it's a word. And who better to test my abilities on then the two boys who keep saying it's not a word? Hand at the level of your eyes, respective Giry and Nadir.

It's a word, and that's that. You should be glad I don't substitute all the Fs for Phs when I write. I know a few phans who'll do that. Yes, quite scary, quite.

I also had a cameo in a fan fiction today. Guess what as? A firework. One that produced black bats of smoke. Odd, but somehow fitting. Erika enjoyed it. Ely liked the pretty colors, but unfortunately we were black and smokey. They started fighting again. There were casualties.

I stayed much too late after school for my own good. Mostly because of detention, which was, in turn, because of uniform violations. I wonder how I got those. In this time I taught some small boys how to sculpt clay, explained to them that no, they do not want their pieces to catch fire in the kiln and then explode, debated the merits of Neil Diamond's "I Dreamed A Dream," and pondered the advantages of a Guide to Buckley Advertising. I swear, it should be illegal for a male to sing "I Dreamed A Dream." When my parents were late, I was utterly bored for the duration of twenty minutes. Hell, I say, 'twas hell.

By now you're probably wondering what the "Happy About Something" bit of the title was. Well, I suppose I ought to tell you.

I got the PotO original novel on CD!

Doesn't sound enthusiastic enough.

I got the PotO original novel on CD!

Still not right.

I got the PotO original novel on CD!

Oh, whatever. But really, I mean, OAYe! That makes me so extremely happy. Because Leroux, as brilliant as ALW, Kay, and all the rest are, Leroux, is the master of us all.

Even better, now he's got a recording. Joy.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Kat's Version of Jack's Lament Using Erik

Wow, that was a lot of proper nouns in one title. Anyway. I'll try to keep my commentary on this piece shorts so I don't break my own record for length (180 lines, you say?) but I must demand that Max start commenting again! And not only to tell me who writes Star Wars books. Or else I will make you wear Victorian lace too.

Angst. Angst, angst. It's Erik, what do you want from the poor dear?

Oh, and I've quite butchered Danny Elfman's lyrics in places. They just didn't fit, so I changed them.

Nothing But a Ghost
By Kat Kire

Disclaimer
I do not own PotO, or Nightmare Before Christmas, though I am currently in negotiations for Lock, Shock, and Barrel’s tree house.

Claimer
I do own the prose and plot. Fun.

Summary
Erik is struck by the horror of what he has done, but then comes to an odd realization. Song fic to “Jack’s Lament” from Nightmare Before Christmas.

Author’s Note
Oddly for me, based on the ALW musical. I think I’ve managed quite well, though I still have a vendetta against him for leaving out Nadir.
<<<<<>>>>>

“All alone,” he murmured to himself. “All alone.” There was no one. There was nothing. There was a music box in front of him, but it was nothing. It played a song that had once meant the world to him, but now it was nothing. There was nothing. He was nothing.

He lay there suspended in a moment, on the floor, staring quietly at the flicker of the candles on the shards of broken mirror. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought stirred. The thought whispered softly, but inexorably.

What have I done?
What have I done?

Nothing had happened, because nothing could happen to nothing. Nothing can come from nothing. King Lear…like King Lear, betrayed by his daughter. Who yet was not his daughter…such a miasma, such a quagmire and chaos of confusion, only thrown into sharp relief against the gaudy backdrop of the Opera that was his world. Full of gold and color and jewels…

An irony. He, he, who told himself that nothing could ever matter to him less that looks, had been coolly defeated by his own philosophy, his own refusal to look at the facts…

The candlelight guttered and went out.

How could he explain, even to himself…

He remembered the manager’s cry. “Ruined, Andre, ruined!” Right in more ways then they knew. Than anyone would ever know. The last mistake, the last hurrah of the lurking leech like ghost of the opera, his last attempt at ever being alive, and it was a miserable failure…

Ruined, ruined for good, and now he was nothing. It was over, finished, done. Erik was done…Erik. In a million years, who will care about the sufferings about a rat from underneath the earth who fell in love with a perfect white rose?

How could I be so blind?
All is lost, where was I?
Spoiled all, spoiled all
Everything's gone all wrong

And finally, nothing would have to face what nothing had done. Evil. He was evil. Never before had he been evil. He remembered the shriek of the diva, of Carlotta, when it was over, when the chandelier had fell. She had not shrieked for herself, as he had been so disdainfully sure she would. Instead, she shrieked for that man, that obese blob of an overdone off-key tenor…but she saw something beautiful in him. Something beautiful.

The man with the noose around his neck, the man dangling from the rafters, the tenor sprawled backstage. The casualties of a broken love affair, as broken as the mirror.

For the first time, his face did not matter. But the only reason that it did not matter was because the distorted, murderous, beastial creature he was was the only thing in all of God’s earth that could possibly be worse.

A long, shaky breath came out of the nothing in his chest, where firey archangels were stabbing at his black and decayed heart. That heart had only died a moment ago, when the tiny star in the shape of a woman had left him, but somehow it felt as if it had been dead a long time.

His candle guttered, flickered, danced, and went out.

What have I done?
What have I done?
Find a deep cave to hide in

In the flash of lurid fluorescence the flame had left behind, he saw his future. Found, a skeleton, beneath the Opera, wearing a single gold ring. Only, perhaps, twenty or ten years dead. But they would find the heart, the distorted and grotesque heart, and they would know that that alone had been dead for a long time.

In a million years they'll find me
Only dust and a plaque
That reads, "Here Lies Poor Old Erik"

They would go home, home to their families and their lighted windows the color of honey, and embrace their children, who had missed them after their long day out. And they would tell their children the strange story of the skeleton man who lived under the Opera and loved the beautiful princess that he could never have, and the story of the handsome prince who found her and brought her back from the goblin caves, where the demon skeleton kept his grotesquerie of evil creatures and secret tendernesses.

But then he was the child, and he was panicked. Mother will think I disobeyed. Mother will think I was naughty. I was not, I swear, I swear. It wasn’t my fault, Mother, it’s not fair to scold me…it’s not fair. It’s not fair, and no one but the crying child understands, a paragon of justice, although to the rest of the world a teary mess and full of folly.

But I never intended all this madness, never
And nobody really understood, how could they?
That all I ever wanted was to be like all the rest
Why does nothing ever turn out like it should?

And then it was there, glinting and white, a half of a face, a perfect face. And it did not mean that he was perfect. And he was nothing, so perfect didn’t matter. The evil floated away as he reached for the mask, said a goodbye. He knew that it was bound to come again, but for the moment it didn’t matter. When it came, he alone would face it down. He was alone, and he would be victorious. Alone.

There are worse things then alone.

The only thing worse than not having her would be to have her. When it was over, and there was no music to cloud his eyes, he could see that. He would always want to have more and more of her, and finally, in the end, she would be nothing too, when she had given him all, and he would be nothing but a bloated fool, creeping towards his death, alone nevertheless, alone once more.

Just for a moment, he had had her.

A moment that was also another life he had lived once. As another man, a handsome man, a strong, good man. Another life, when he had been an angel…


Well, what the heck, I went and did my best
And, by God, I really tasted something swell
And for a moment, why, I even touched the sky
And at least I left some stories they can tell, I did

As the old comfortable mask slid coolly over his hot and bloody face, his mishappen twisted lips curved into what might have been a smile. But, he was all alone, and who was there to tell?

He was remembering the look on the face of one man in the audience, the half shocked, half amused look, as the chandelier went up into a fateful spray of light and beauty. The beauty one trades for a life. That man would go home, and he would tell this story. And unless there had been something bad, there would have been no story.

Somehow that mattered.

And for the first time since I don't remember when
I felt just like my old bony self again
And I, Erik, the Opera Ghost -
That's right, I am the Opera Ghost. HA!

He stood up suddenly, scattering the broken mirrors. One cracked and dissolved under his feet, into a fine gleaming kind of fairy dust. For a moment he gazed at it, entranced suddenly by its pure beauty, then kicked it away, into the lake, and watched it fall into the murky water like concentrated light.

New managers were bound to come along. And after all, weren’t they bound to need a ghost? Every Opera ought to have a ghost. One can always put an advertisement in the Rue de Theatrical, but then how would you find someone experienced, who knew what they were doing, who understood the subtle nuances of ventriloquism and making ballet rats scream?

You did what you knew. This was what he knew.

And I just can't wait until next Masquerade
'Cause I've got some new ideas
That will really make them pay
And, by God I'm really gonna give it all my might
I hope there's still time to set things right

The ghost, Erik, stopped smiling. Instead, he threw his head back and laughed, and no one heard him, because deep down in the dark, there is nothing, nothing at all, for miles and miles, and anyone can belong, because there is nothing, nothing, nothing, for forever and always, and nothing collides into more nothing, and dark slides under, and all that there is is beautiful, beautiful, empty space.

Keeping Current With Kat, Again

Have you people any idea at all how hard it is to resist making the C in current into a K? Any at all? No, obviously not. Fools. Fools, I tell you. Absolute utter fools.

Oh, right, blog to do. Well, you'll be happy to know that I've finished Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrel, and so have, of course, started a fic of it. It's a reflex by now. This one is the tale of Childermass, who is servant to the magician Norrel, and of his love, who is basically an OC but does get one mention in the novel. Here's what I've done so far on that one. Dinna worry about the length, 'tis quite short.

“Don’t give me ‘I do what I please,’ John Childermass! You’re coming back, make no mistake of that. And when you do, it will be to right here, directly. With no detours or suchlike. Do you understand?”

He simply looked at her for a moment, at her, glaring at him with those little hazel eyes of hers, standing up in that full mammoth stature with her beautiful rose petal mouth driven into a thin little hard line. Then he laughed, a quick, almost painful laugh, blinked twice, tipped his hat, bowed, and walked away.

The dust settled slowly into his deep, deliberate footprints on the town road. The lady watched as he walked away. There were times when she thought her feet would burst off of her sturdy ankles and run after him, onto whatever strange paths a man like Childermass tread, and away from this hellishly routine existence of her housewifery.

His life must be like a complex dance, she thought pensively, but my life is like a plodding walk. Over and over, one plodding step after another.

End of story. So far.

And that's IT thus far. I just started it, as in, just started it. Indeed. I finished the Jack's Lament story, which is a song fic about Erik after Christine and Raoul leave the lair, set to Jack's Lament from Nightmare Before Christmas, and it turned out quite well. The title is. . .er. . .the title is. . .that's the only problem. It's not titled yet. But it's good. I'll post it soon. Enough. It's quite abstract and a little odd, but I really did enjoy writing it and it gave Erik a good ending. It's almost as good as Flicker. Maybe even as good. And I generally consider Flicker to be the best thing I've written Phantom wise.

I also was thinking about how different characters from different stories would react to Erik, what he would have to teach them, and what they would have to teach him, both emotionally and practically. So I'm doing something eccentric, big surprise, and doing a fantasy story. In this tale, the Powers that Be have decided Erik needs an emotional and spiritual lesson, so they send different people to him, all of which have something to teach him. And of course, these people are being educated too, and also have something to learn. . .on the whole, very philosophical and cross-overish. If there are any characters anyone would like to request, please, do so. I've already got Mark of Rent, Samwise or another hobbit from LotR, Hamlet of Hamlet, Puck from Midsummer, and various others. Please, requests? Luke Skywalker, or Hahn Solo? Maybe Anakin? (Pondreth.)

I've discovered a new manga. Dear God, that makes me absurdly happy. It's titled "Paradise Kiss," and before you have a fit like certain people did, allow me to explain that it is not what the title appears to imply. Shudder. It's the tale of a group of Bohemian type kids who manage a fledgling clothing label. George is their eccentric, egotistical, cynical designer. And he has blue hair. Always a good thing. Oh, and just as a side note, he's bi. Arashi is an apparently British gutter punk with extremely. . .punky. . .character design and a mouth on him that really ought to be washed. His hair is spiked and he wears safety pins as piercings. With chains dangling from them. Fun. Miwako is Arashi's girlfriend, tiny for her age. Her hair is bright pink and falls in ringlets. She dresses like a pixie. And finally, Isabella, the resident transvestite, who dresses like she is from the nineteenth century. The only normal one is Yukari, George's girlfriend and their model, who is a notorious student overachiever and really needs to get out more. Chaos and interesting clothes ensue. Look at the illustrations, look at the way I dress, and you'll begin to see the rhyme and reason to my style. Well, maybe the rhyme. There is no reason.

Yet another new story has also begun. This one is called When Persians Get Hiccups.

Nadir and Ben: It's called WHAT??!

Kat: Are you going to get all sensitive about this because I dubbed you the Persian last blog, Ben? Nadir, that I can understand.

Ben: Er. Well. Yes!

Kat: Too bad.

Max: Ha, glad I'm not the Persian.

Ben: You should talk, you're the ballet mistress.

Meg: (Bounces by) Maman! (Hugs Max.)

Kat: Ah, so that's who he should date. I knew it was someone. Other than someone else.

Nadir: Er, yes, wouldn't it have to be?

Ben: That made sense to me.

Nadir: Probably why it doesn't make sense to me.

Max: Mmmph. (A bit squashed.)

Kat: Oh dear. Ah, well. Here's the beginning to When Persians Get Hiccups.

Nadir Khan smacked the wall of Erik’s lair in frustration. “Erik, I tell you, I give up. How many chorus girls will there be? Really, if it’s not the innocent blonde one it’s the other genius singer one with the deformity of her own, or the blind one. Or the gypsy. Or Christine’s daughter or relative in some way, shape, or form. I’m tired of it. This makes…fifty rivals I’ve had to escort here in the past week! And most of them just as sniveling as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

They were arguing, as per usual. How these two were friends when all they ever seemed to do was fight about one thing or another was hard to tell, and when one had almost killed the other at least once, but somehow they were. Only this time they were arguing about the recent influx of Mary Sues Erik had been obligated to fall for.

“Come, come, daroga,” Erik laughed derisively, not looking up from his organ. “You can’t tell me they were all as bad as the fop?”

“Yes, I can.”

“How so?”

“One of them was named Phillipe. But he wasn’t the fop’s brother.”

“Kopit and Yeston again?”

“You guessed.”

Erik went back to his Don Juan. Nadir winced as the music flowed upleasantly over him. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Erik went into a prolonged rant about how Don Juan was his underappreciated masterpiece. Nadir didn’t listen. As the daroga of Manderzan, who was the world’s most neglected personage, he thought gloomily, he should know a thing or too about being underappreciated. He spent a few moments feeling sorry for himself and waiting for Erik to shut up.

Erik did not shut up. And he was starting in on the third person. This could not bode well. He’d probably go on for hours by now. Nadir groaned unhappily. If he’d been Jewish, or if he’d spoke Yiddish, he would have said, “Oy.” But not being Jewish and not speaking Yiddish, he didn’t.

Instead he glanced over at a table of potions Erik appeared to have been concocting. He checked to see if Erik was stil ranting. He was. Nadir picked up a bottle and examined it. It was a pearly white, with pleasant hints of gold running through it. It looked quite fragile, so he handled it gingerly as he popped off the cork and sniffed deeply.

The Persian’s head bobbed for a moment and fell onto his chest. Laudanum, he thought, and began a desperate search for something to wake himself up. He hit upon a large red bottle in the shape of a…what was it? It appeared to be a very tight pair of men’s pants. He shrugged and opened the bottle, taking a large whiff.
“Paaaast the point of nooooo return!” Sang someone in a baritone. Nadir hastily clapped the lid back on. “What on earth…” he muttered. “That was dreadful. But it woke me up.”

Shivering a little from the trauma, he toyed with a few bottles, but the labels looked too dangerous to open. Siren’s Song, bottled, do not use except in extreme circumstances and must be properly diluted, for example, or Slash Lotion, not for liberal use, do not give to any close acquaintance/pony tailed rival of the same gender. And some of the labels looked as if Erik had been hanging out with Shakespeare’s characters and that Snape fellow again. One bottle announced itself to be Bubbles, bubbles, toil, and stress, while another proudly proclaimed, Veritaserum, trusted by the best of Hogwarts teachers.

“Creepy fellow…” Nadir muttered. “Severus, now that name just isn’t normal.” He appeared to be lost on the fact that he himself was named Nadir, which isn’t even really Persian, but the English word for emotional abyss. “And he looks like Alan Rickman, which I find unsettling,” he remarked to the bottle of bubbles, bubbles, toil, and stress.

Unfortunately, the bottled Gerry’s Point of No Return had taken effect, and Nadir fell to the ground in a very unmanly swoon. Erik looked up, mildly interested. “Oh. Er, daroga, are you all right? Have you been playing with scorpions again?”

End of story. So far.

The scorpions line is an allusion to Susan Kay's Phantom, in which Nadir opens a box with a scorpion in it that Erik was keeping for research. I really hate my keyboard. For some reason it's gotten into its demonic little brain that the up arrow key means H, ever since I spilled boba tea on it. Which is my fault, but I'm in denial. And happy with it.

I made some earrings. Out of gold hoops and old hairbands. Trust me, Max and Ben, you'll love 'em. Just don't pull them. They're only so stretchy, and when they're fully extended each one is about a foot long.

No, I am not exaggerating.

Oh yes! My dear, dear sister, Allie, who was formerly known as Kizzy but now likes Allie, has a blog! Visit her at www.americanoutcasts.blogspot.com and enjoy. She has the title of official Phantom's Cat, or in other words, Ayesha. Or Allie Ayesha, as I tend to call her.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Artemis, Among Other Things

There's a new Artemis Fowl book out, which I thought for about eighteen seconds was a good thing. Then I picked it up. This new book, titled, "The Opal Deception," although it's about one of the more intriguing characters, Opal Koboi, is quite a removal from the unconventional wit Eoin Colfer has used to sustain the series thus far. Each installment before this one, from the first to the last, had been quite a pleasurable if not earthshaking read, mainly because of Colfer's tendency to insert comical comments (Alliteration! Fifty points and a muffin!) into his writing on what the characters are doing.

Goodness, that wasn't very monosyllabic. Have we lost Max again? Did we find him since losing him last time?

In this new book, the memory wiped Arty seems a tad bit flat. To have him playing the one note villian again is a bit of a let-down, especially after he had seemed to have reformed so well last time around. Ah, well. Also, this plot choice would appear to have removed his love/hate relationship with Captain Short effectively. Allow me to inform you that the Holly-Artemis friendship is one of my favorites. Right after Nadir-Erik and Childermass-Norrel, etc., etc.. Without that, what I've read so far is just not worth it. Though if Arty's memories come back, things may get better. My dear friend Hannah is all about an ArtemisHolly pairing. I think that's cute, but somehow Arty would be better off with a nice, human, cynical, female-doggish girl who could make him really really mad. And that he could waltz with. It is my strange opinion that everyone should waltz. A lot. Yes, Max, that is true, I do think that, but at parties, I generally prefer to just dance. Easiest thing in the world.

But I'm getting off topic. Now that I'm done with Artemis, now for "among other things." We have another reader! OAYe! Mizamour, welcome to the strange world of non-alternate reality, as Ben said. Please leave your sanity at the front desk, and do not bring in any conservative propaganda or Jimmy Hahn supporting fliers, as Max would say. And I now have an intensely random idea - each of my readers shall be given titles! Do as the Random-Battlecry does. But here is my twist to it. I shall bestow upon you a position in my Opera. And I demand that all my readers suggest a name for the Opera. Hm.

Ben, you are already the Nosy Nadir Like Figure. Max was too, but I've decided one is enough. Max, you therefore shall be. Um. Er. Not Raoul. Raoul's got to be someone I despise.

Max shall be - aha! There is one other Nosy Nadir Like Figure! Aaand that is. . .Madame Giry! Max, dear, you are now the ballet mistress. Er. Yes. Before you kill me, moving on. . .the tough one is Mizamour. Who shall you be? I know you like Erik, so we could go all tangenty and decide you were the apprentice to the Phantom of the Junior High. . .well, comment and tell me!

Oh, yes indeed.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Max, the Poetic Dog, Or, Kat's Strange Childhood Influences

You may ask yourself, when did Kat become so completely mad? Well, here are the books that were my favorites as a little kid. They are the “Max” books by Maira Kalman. Who is a genius. They’re these fantastically zany picture books with messily painted illustrations. About a dog named Max. Go figure. No, not that Max. This Max is a dreamy, crazy, eccentric, poet, instead of a dreamy, crazy, eccentric, politician. Max the dog is quite abstract and a bit…gentler and less…volatile than Max the Liberal Kid.

This Dog was born in New York, otherwise known as Heaven, and has traveled to France, Japan, and other places the world knows nothing of. These words of wisdom hail from his time in Hollywood, directing and writing a movie. They remind me of myself, and other things.

Random Words Of Wisdom Courtesy of Max

“Leon, anyone can be normal. But to be an idiot, that’s something.”

- Max

“Have you no brains? Have you no eyes? No talent of any kind? I am going mad. Simply mad.”

- Max

Now that one sounds like me.

“Life is full of surprrreeezes, no?”

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

“I don’t agree.”

“What do you mean, you don’t agree?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? I’m not sure that in the big picture life is full of surprises. Perhaps everything is foretold.”

“Are you saying fate or some omniscient being controls our lives? That’s ridiculous.”

“No it’s not. I would refer you to Shopenhauer and his treatise ‘The World as Will and Representation,’ in which he clearly –“

“Not the Shopenhauer again, you’re giving me a headache. If I’m wrong, you have to be wrong. Wrong, wrong, and forever wrong.”

“You are wrong to infinity.”

“You are wrong to the utmost extension of pi.”

“You are wronger than the outfit my Aunt Edith wore to Hilda’s engagement party.”

“I can’t top that.”

- Bernie, Ferrrrnando Extra Debonaire, and Diddo

This was the literature of five year old Kat. Fear me.

“When the script is written, you search the globe for a star. That is called casting. When you have found the absolute perfect person in every way you have to change them over completely.”

- Max

“Watch your step in this town. There are some power hungry, status seeking vegetarians here.”

- Ferrrnando Extra Debonaire

Hm. Power hungry vegetarians…hey, Ben, do we know any of those?

“Max, be careful. Of the big banana peel, of the cream pie in your face. Beware.”

- Crepes Suzette

I could just as well apply this one to our Max and myself.

Now do you understand why I’m so completely off my head? It’s all Max and Maira Kalman’s faults.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

The Poetry I Spout Sometimes

I do that once in a while, just spout utterly random poetry for your enjoyment. One is from my POV, the other is from the POV of some girl who's been cheated on. Who is not me. She's much less tolerant and more Christine-ish than me. Now, let me explain. The girl is NOT Christine, and the guy she references is NOT Raoul, because that would be Raoul-bashing and blatant EC-ishness. And I don't do that. Right?

Ely and Erika: (Cross fingers behind Kat's back)

Anyway. Here's the poem, for your dubious enjoyment.

Scent

I could smell
Mildew and silence
On the coat you always wore
I could sense a furtive air
As you're walking out the door
But I never complained
No I'd never complain
So despite the therapy sessions
I guess I'm feeling the consequences
I never minded the smell of your sweat
Or when you left me with no money
But groceries to get
But mister, this is the end of the line.
I've smelled a perfume.
That perfume isn't mine.

Ok, so that was a Raoul bashing, EC rant. I swear to God, Erika made me do it.

Ely: I helped!

Oy. Anyway, next poem. This one is from my own POV. 'Tis about my Aunt, Billiana Bening, who recently passed away from cancer. Condolences not accepted under any circumstances, do not be sorry for my loss, I haven't lost anything, she is still with me and will be for the rest of my life.

For Billiana

Why doesn't the world take notice?
How can they let it pass by?
You're all silent and I must be dreaming
And I cannot wake up, though I try.

Someone fell off of the face of the earth
And the world doesn't spin off it's axis
Something tells me that this is ordinary
To survive I know I'll have to practice.

Somebody died to-day, good morning
How are the eggs? Like my new shoes?
The obvious is now the oppressed
In grief there is nothing to lose.

The moon isn't darkened or flaming
The stars have not rearranged
Am I the only one in the world
Who finds that a little bit strange?

Poetry is one of those things that is just a great, great thing. The only thing better is PotO inspired poetry, hence this little poem from Erik's POV from after he let Christine go. Angst is good. This can also be sang to the tune of "The Lost Boy's Lament" from the Peter Pan adapted musical "Peter and Wendy." Not the Mary Martin one, this one is more serious, plus it's done with very interesting marionettes. The music's gorgeous, very Pictish goodness, so it's in my blood.

Fly Away Child

Fly away child
Fly away
The angel behind you
Is letting you go

What fools we were
Have been
Will be

Fly away child
Away from me

What’s found is lost
What’s lost is found
What we have gained is gone
What’s truth is lies
What’s lies is truth
So carve your heart of stone

Fly away child
Fly away
The grass is dead
But growing
Now leave me alone
My dreams are all going

Fly away child
Fly away
Forget what you know
What you’ve seen
What you are

Fly away child
Ever more
Fly away evermore.

Ah, poetry. Now that you've read mine, read Musique et Amour's. He's from FFN, and he's quite good. In a more professional vein, I reccomend Poe, Dickonson, Yeats, and so many others. "The Second Coming" is one of the best poems ever written. Go find it!

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer
Things fall apart, the center cannot hold
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. . .

I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant,

J.G.

If Our Lives Were A Sitcom. . .

You guys just had to put the thought into my head. So, of course, I wrote it. I haven't wrote an episode yet, but here's the intro, full and complete, if a little confusing. I've given us a Lair, for no discernable reason. It is in a basement, for a discernible reason. The reason for the basement I'd like if someone would guess, but I can't offer any muffins because I'm flat broke on muffins. And PotO plushies. I've also dubbed us the Trio of Three, stealing the name blatantly from Carl and Tina.

Darkness on the screen. Slowly, white letters begin to appear, accompanied by keyboard clacking, saying this:

Elymas says. . .Friends, let's face it. Life is weird. Not Lizzie Maguire weird. Not Full House weird. I mean, it's not even Monty Python weird. But life, my friends, is weird. Life. Is. Random.

Like computer pop ups, new computer style windows appear on the blacks screen. The first says, "The Ghost Host says. . .Indeed." The second says, "Liberalkid says. . .Yup." More windows appear, at increasing speeds. The clacking of the keyboards becomes deafening, text changes colors, flashes, windows change colors, etc.. Chaos.

All this suddenly explodes as the PotO overture begins to play and we are taken to a quick montage of all the characters, but Kat, Max, and Ben, recorded by an old home video camera, complete with the time and PLAY signal at the bottom and frame about it. Finally, we move to the Lair, the colorful and chaotically decorated Lair.

Kat and Max pass through the camera's view, talking and laughing. Kat's reading. Max is doing campaign work for Villaraigosa. The camera is apparently thrown down onto a table by Ben, who's apparently been managing it, and the three kids move to pose for a picture. Except Kat pushes her hand into the camera. Written on it in smudged ballpoint are the words, "We are the Trio of Three."

Blackout, but the letters stay for a moment. They disappear.

Ben (V.O.) - FEAR US. (Maniacal laughter.)

Max - Oy.

(Sounds as if he's somehow, but not exactly easily, being shut up. Muffled yells, a squeak from Max and a yell of "Get the Punjab!" from Kat.)

Max, Kat, and Ben (V.O.) - (Maniacal laugher. It trails off after a minute.)

Everything fades into darkness. . .darkness. If I get any money off this sitcom and you get the lyric reference about darkness, I will buy you a muffin. A blueberry strawberry-ish sort of muffin. I like those sorts of muffins.

Ben: What about the subject?

Ely: What about it?

Erika: Speaking of which, Ben, I need to talk to you.

Ben: Er, uh, why, whyever would that be?

Erika: I do not haaate Max. I hate everyone. Except Erik, and some nosy Nadir-like figures.

Max: I'm a nosy Nadir-like figure.

Kat: Technicalities, technicalities.

Ely: This is entertaining. (Munches popcorn that has rather inexplicably appeared.)

Nadir: Who is what? Comparing me to which? Why? Pop Tarts?

Kat: NO! NO POP TARTS!

Ely: I like Pop Tarts.

Max: Me too.

Erika: I hate Pop Tarts. . .

Erik: Do not mention Pop Tarts in my presence!

Ben: What is this? Why are you all talking about Pop Tarts?

All But Erik and Nadir: We've no idea.

Erik and Nadir: (Bad acting) Aaaand. . .neither do we.

Kat: Let's talk about Micheal Crawford. Almost as good as Pop Tarts.

Erika: Better.

Kat: Er. . .

Erika: (Menaces with fish, reminiscent of Monty Python sketch)

Kat: Right. Better than Pop Tarts.

Ben: (Despairingly shakes head) Max, do you understand any of this?

Max: Are you kidding? Of course!

Ely: Who wouldn't?

Nadir and Erik: (Have been very quiet this whole time, now they walk away discreetly)

Next on random conversations. . .what is the mystery of the Pop Tarts? What do Erik and Nadir have to hide? Don't touch your browser tool bar, ladies and gentlemen, we'll be right back!

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

The World's Absolute Strangest Friendship

Why in the name of God are we all friends with each other? This is a question I’ve had to ask myself countless times in regard to myself, Max, and Ben. Why are we friends? Well, we could write it off to the fact that we’re all in our school’s debate club. You might say that it’s because of certain. . .previous relations between myself and Max. With a stretch, you might even say that it’s because Ben designed a – surprise - logo for a play I was in last year. (Midsummer Night’s Dream. I was Puck. The show was brilliant.) But previous relations of the sort Max and I had rarely spawn friendships, and actors hardly strike up friendships with those who design logos for their performances. So the only explanation is Debate Club. Debate Club, ah, Debate Club. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day – sorry, Shakespearean sonnet tangent there. My sincerest Phantomy apologies. Right.

Moving on. More about DC later. DC – wow…DC needs a new name. From this point on it shall be called. Um. The Point of No Return. Because once you start going, there’s no going back. The madness pulls you in. So more about the Point of No Return later. For now, let’s decide why I’m friends with you people.

Also, I’ve noticed some weird things about all my friends. Other than their just general…weirdness. They all remind me of Nadir in some way shape or form. Why? Because all of a Phantom’s friends must be like Nadir.

Ben: Also from the PotO rulebook, which you haven’t written yet.

Kat: (Glare) When did you become my conscience?

Max: As Nadir is to Erik, Max and Ben are to Kat.

Kat: I have TWO Nadirs? Does this mean you’ll start following me around with a black notebook and taking notes on my movements?

Max: Er. . .not that I haven’t already. . .

Ben: (Extremely uncharacteristicly whistles)

Kat: So that’s how you found the blog!

Anyway. Back to the point.

Reasons I’m Friends With Max

This guy is a good guy. This is an unavoidable fact. Max is a great guy and he’s quite nice to have around. He’s sweet and he’s just good. I’m his friend because he’s liberal. Because he’s crazy. Because he has no common sense and I’ve no idea what he’d do without me. Because he’s funny. Because he’s fun. Because he agreed to read Susan Kay’s “Phantom” if I would read Timothy Somebody-or-other’s Star Wars novels. Because he’s brining a lightsaber to the Star Wars movie. He tolerates the PotO obsession and reminds me of Nadir for no discernible reason whatsoever. And he read the Gaston Leroux PotO novel!! Even if he likes Raoul, this is forgivable so long as he read the darn thing.

Reasons I’m Friends With Ben

He can recognize Rhapsody in Blue played on an accordion. Don’t ask me why this is a qualification for a friend. It just is. He is as mad as I am. He tolerates the PotO obsession and reminds me of Nadir for no discernible reason whatsoever. He at least plans to read the PotO novel. He has the uncanny ability to comment on a blog within two minutes of the posting, and wrote random dialogues in the blog comments. He will jump at me from behind a bus, scare me half to death, and then run away laughing maniacally. During a conversation, he will do something totally unexpected, like stand up and bounce on his backpack. And of course, he’s always in context.

This hopefully didn’t make too much sense to you.

If it did, I’m losing my touch.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

The Disadvantages of Being a Girl and Having Mostly Male Friends

Don't get me wrong here. The guys I hang out with are wonderful, but really. Most girls my age are idiotic flittery fluttery stick thin shallow fools, but really. A person has to have people of their own gender around. Other than Ely and Erika, I have practically no girl friends, unless, of course, you count Jazz, who is terminally girly, but who I don't have the chance to see too much. Basically, every person I hang around with on a daily basis is a guy. Even my imaginary friends are guys! I mean, Nadir, Erik, and so on. This is obviously indicative of some serious dislike for the female mentality. Which is also odd, because I am an example of the female mentality. Sort of. Ok, so not really. What exactly I am an example of the mentality of has yet to be established. Not quite phangirl, as I am beginning to like Raoul. Not quite Raoul admirer, because I believe him to be a fop. But enough about that.

Here's why it's troublesome to have mostly male friends, be they imaginary or otherwise.

Every so often every female on this earth feels the need to utter the phrase, "I haaate boys!" Please note the number of As. Now, this does not mean we hate boys. It actually means we like boys, but are frustrated by them. So as opposed to hatred, it's haaatred.

Haaatred: When a girl likes a boy but can't get up the nerve to make a move on them, haaatred is what they tend to feel. It has nothing to do with actual hatred. It's actually a compliment. Confused? So are we.

The problem with having male friends is that you have to say, "I haaate boys with certain reasonable exceptions!" Because they tend to not understand that haaatred and hatred are two different things. This is an example of the male mentality.

Another problem is that awkward moment when you're walking to PE and you have to go into your respective locker room. Painful, especially if someone makes a snide remark.

Erik: When have I ever made a snide remark? Who, me?

Kat: NOT NOW! I can't have our random conversations cluttering up the blog, I've only got a minute more to write it!

Ben: May I point out that -

Max: (Still being in character) EricEricEricEric -

Kat: No, Ben, you may not! Max, it's with a K!

(Chaos ensues)

(Chaos continues to ensue)

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

When Did I Forget How To Cry?

And now, ladies and gentlemen, for some angst. Because angst is part of being Kat Kire. You're an Erik, you're an Erik, with all the hell and high water that comes with it. Fun, right?

When did I forget how to cry? I can't cry any more. There are just no tears left in me. I didn't love crying, you understand, but still, it was nice, once, to be able to let out all of the hurt and conflict and just noisily bawl in the most deliciously immature way. I sometimes wonder how PotO would have turned out if Erik and Co. had just been able to really have a good cry sometimes. The only ones I can see doing that would be Christine and Reza. I'd like to say Raoul, but I'm currently coming to terms with his coolness. I feel guilty for loving him, but it's true that he is at least tolerable to me right now. And I'd certainly love to say Nadir, as he is my current person to fangirl, but unfortunately he's too reserved. Which is, incidentally, one of the reasons I love him. Ah, the irony.

I'd like to remember how to cry. I guess I could start with remembering how to be properly sad. It's just that some days I just feel so permanently sad that there isn't any more room for sadness, just fear and this weird apathy, like I don't care what happens. Because in the end I just don't. My teachers are always onto me about what will happen if I don't do my work, or if I fall behind, or if, if, if. What they don't realize is that I don't really give a fop what they do or say. No one's opinion matters to me but mine. And the reviewers of my fan fiction. And a certain boy whose name will not be mentioned.

I think people think that I'm constantly trying to con them. Well, most of the time I actually am, but it would be nice to be considered sincere for once. I'm a little lonely with everyone thinking that all I'm trying to do with my feelings is manipulate people.

Erik: A little lonely? Silly girl, you should have expected it when you modeled yourself after me. All Phantoms are lonely. It is our nature, take it or leave it.

Max: Lonely? What about the nosy Nadir-like figures?

Erika: (Disdainful glare) What about them?

Ben: Erika, we have a thing on earth -

Ford Prefect: HAD!

Ben: HAD a thing on earth, called tact.

Nadir: I don't mind, really.

Kat: Which is exactly the problem with you! You let everyone and their Siren walk all over you!

Nadir: Wait -

Erik: She's right, you know.

Max: It's true.

Ford: What he said.

Ben: (Sheepish glance) I wouldn't know. I haven't read Leroux.

Kat: (Throws copy of PotO at him)

Max: I know you'll agree that Raoul is really okay.

Ford: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has this to say about Raoul. (Ahem) He is a fop.

Kat: Internationally accepted definition. Raoul is roughly synonymous with fop, as is fop with Raoul.

Ben: (Picks up book, then says absently as he begins to read) Carry on.

Kat: How can you deny this would be a great TV show?

Max: What?!

Ben: Kat. Remember, you were writing angsty stuff?

Kat: Er, it. . .left.

Max: (In order to be In Character) Eric. EricEricEricEricEric. Eric.

Kat, Ely, Erik, and Erika: (All attack, agreeing for possibly the first time in their lives)

Nadir and Ben: (Walk quietly away)

Right. Before I get even more hopelessly off topic, we better close here. Has anyone else forgotten how to cry? Do they give crying lessons? Tutorials? Tell me, or a disaster beyond your collective imagination will occur.

Behold, she is blogging to bring down the chandelier!

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

An Extremely Awkward Situation Involving Cross-Casting

There are some definite disadvantages to identifying with a male character when you're a girl. See, I am a female, and I can be slightly girly. Okay, very girly. You should see me with my little sixth grader friend Jazz. But more to the point.

I am in a Shakespeare class. We are learning monolouges and writing a play, which we will be performing. I have Julia's monolouge from Two Gentlemen of Verona, and I am convinced she is physcotic, because I like physcotic people, and in the play I play Elmer Fudd. Yes, Elmer Fudd. Do not rub it in, or I will punjab you.

So we're chatting, me and the rest of the kids in the class, while the other kids do some of their scenes. And I, as is inevitable, made a reference to PotO, which is entirely unavoidable. I remarked to the new girl, "Don't mind me, I'm just a Phantom of the Opera geek." Her next words almost had me singing the Hallelujah Chorus.

"Really? So am I."

"Eeee!" Well, at least that's sort of what I said. It's hard to write down a squeal of inordinate joy. Needless to say, I was happy. "So, which character do you identify with?" I was so idiotic as to ask.

Erika: Of course she said what she said, genius, she's a girl and she's reasonably young, who else would she identify with?

Ely: Carlotta?

Erika: Ely, shut UP.

Max: Don't shut up.

Kat: How did you show up in the blog?

Ben: This seems to be a tangent. Get back to the blog.

Kat: Who do you think you are, you two?

Max: Every Erik must have at least one nosy, Nadir-esque figure around. It's in the PotO rulebook.

Ben: Carry on.

Er. Anyway. I bet you've guessed her response by now. She said cheerfully, "Oh, I identify with Christine."

Oh, damnit. "Er. I identify with Erik. He's kind of my role model." Most of the time that scares people, so I didn't expect anything less. Instead, she replied oddly.

"We could do a production!" She obviously had about as much common sense as Christine herself. My friend Josh (see Kat's Roster) took this opportunity to flirt with her. I gave him the Erik-eye, an expression known only to Eriks, and glanced sardonically at the girl. Who I will now refer to as Ingenue, which is kind of a stupid name, but makes sense to me.

"Definitely Raoul for you, Josh." We said in unison, which was highly creepy. "Well, don't you want to kill him anyway?" Ingenue asked.

"It works for me. Josh?"

Josh was grinning his head off. "Sounds good to me, babe." He was, for the record, talking to Ingenue, not me. I think he realized he'd get to kiss her and get the girl in the end.

This entire exchange put into my mind a very strange image of myself playing Erik.

And the question of the day IS: Was that kid serious? Does she really want to do a production?

Well, why not?

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Pairings: The Bane Of My Existence.

Well, as you know, I am a rabid phan to an almost disturbing degree. And now, no matter where on the phandom I go, the same question reverberates through the hallowed halls: RC, EC, or EOW?

So. I must choose my pairing allegiance. RC means Raoul and Christine romance. EC means Erik and Christine. EOW is so called because it is painful to read. Well, really it's because it's Erik and a female other character, but who's keeping track?I have run into only two stories EOW that I liked. Only two. Of course, EC is classic but most of the time it is implausible. RC is sickeningly sweet, and besides, we all know Raoul is a fop. And EOW is almost invariably a Mary Sue. Blind and gorgeous, they're all the same.

And then of course you have the slightly mad people who are ER shippers. Now that is just strange. Erik and Raoul? Can you see that? I cannot. I mean, not that a Patrick/Gerry love scene in the movie wouldn't have been. . .interesting. . .but really. I mean, really. Really. The Phantom and the Fop? Please. The Phop couple. Odd. So odd.

I have found a solution to my pairing dilemma. Well, I think to myself, who are the two greatest PotO characters? Erik, naturally, and who? Who?

Nadir.

I am now the world's second EN shipper. The first is Midasgirl from FFN. I feel lonely, not only because most people hate slash, but because no one supports ErikNadir. Well. I think they're darling, so there! And I will write an EN phic soon. It's my current fetish. Erik and Nadir, now that is too cute.

And the new pairings I can't tolerate aaaare: DodgerFagin, DodgerOliver, and Rodger Rabbit. Wait, scratch the Rodger Rabbit. Never mind me. Sorry about all the Dickens. I had an Oliver moment yesterday and still don't have it out of my system.

I remain, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Viva La Vie Christine!

I have decided that I shall desecrate two great shows by writing one random song parody. Fun. I now present to you, fresh from the prison of my mind, darkness deep as hell, all that good stuff, my PotO version of La Vie Boheme from Rent! I love this song, so I thought this might be enjoyable. Not quite finished yet, though.

Andre:
(To Erik)
No please no
Not tonight please no
Monsieur - can't you go
Not tonight - can't have a scene

Erik:
What?

Firmin:
Go please go,
You - (to Raoul) Hello sir!
(To Erik) I said no
Important customers

Erik:
What am I - just a blur?

Andre;
If you're displeased, someone will die!

Erik:
That's a lie - that's a lie
I'm moody that's all that I'll say -

Firmin:
And of Bouquet?

Erik:
Oh yeah. . .

Raoul:
The ghost of the Paris Opera here?

Andre:
There goes the -

All:
Chandelier!

Christine:
The enemy of the peaceful way -
We'll stay.

Raoul:
Oy vey!
What brings the man out of his mind to the show today?
I would like to propose a toast
To Erik's noble try (Points at Christine)
It went well -

Erik:
Go to hell!
They all know you're a fop!
Even without my Punjab
If we fought you'd get stomped!

Christine:
Why did Muffy -

Piangi:
Carlotta!

Christine:
Miss the show?

Erik:
(Evil grin)
There was a death in the family,
If you must know.

Christine:
Who died?

Piangi:
Um.
She did.

Andre:
(To Erik)
Dang, that's cold.

Erik:
(To Christine)
Christine - I'm surprised
A bright and charming girl like you
Hangs out with this slacker
His fate I'll have to seal
He makes fun - yet I am the one
Who taught you how to sing.
Or do you really like "Milkshake" on his cell ring?
I've heard it, and it's there.
(To the managers)
Carlotta, Carlotta's
A fallacy in your head.
This is Christine's World. . .
The toad diva is dead.

Managers:
Dearly beloved
We gather here to say our goodbyes

All:
Dies Irae dies illa
Kyrie eleison
Yitgadal v' yitkadash (etc.)

Erik:
Here she lies
Here's all she's worth (Spits)
The late great daughter of mother earth
On this night when we celebrate the birth
In this little Opera Populaire
We raise out glass - down to the last - to -
La vie Christine.

All:
La vie Christine.
La vie Christine.
La vie Christine.
La vie Christine.

Christine:
Angels of inspiration
Playing music, making something out of nothing

Raoul:
The need for a dress -

Andre:
And for safety pins.

Firmin:
Walk backwards against the grain

Erik:
Going insane
Going mad

All But Erik:
To murders we could mention
Which called up our attention
Ghosts without retention
For polite convention who bear a mention

Erik:
Not to mention of course
Thinking Raoul is a cad
To wearing a mask

Managers:
To francs which the ghost must loot
Box Five - and we're still alive -

Bouquet:
To Absolut -drink's choice

Christine:
To my angel's voice

Raoul:
And I am not a cad!

Erik:
To being with her for once
Despite what she's seen

All:
La vie Christine
La vie Christine

Christine:
Remember your anger management

Erik:
Yes, Christine.
The diva doesn't have a case.

Raoul:
Don't give me that. . .(Pause to giggle) Face. (Giggles.)

Ayesha:
Ahem.

Christine:
Cool it sister
He's my mister.

Managers:
So that's one Opera Ghost, two jealous lovers
Two are brilliant singers, two harried managers
Damn, why must we take all the falls?

Erik:
You think I'M happy?

Christine:
If you close your eyes.

Managers:
And now we're gonna die!
Is that it here?

Piangi:
What of the

All:
Chandelier!

Christine and Raoul:
To Opera Populaire, despite it's rivalries
To patrons, to divas, to hitting notes with ease
To tickets, to gossip, admiring the cue
To Faustus the doctor and the pink slip - adieu!

Giry:
Box keepers with notions
Ghosts causing a commotion
Creation, narration

Managers:
The pride of all the nation!

Erik:
To barrels, rat catchers, to torture and to -

Piangi:
Carlotta!

All:
To Christine!

Erik:
(To Piangi)
A curse and noose on you.

Managers:
To vocal conversions, Hannibal onstage

Phillipe:
Sorelli's loose!

Sorelli:
Worn pointe shoes!

Managers:
To the stage!

Nadir:
To Persia
To Allah
And Manderzan's Sultana too,

Erik:
Why Christine and Raoul
Went over Apollo
In happiness serene!

All:
La vie Christine!

A far as I've gotten. Part Two coming up sometime in the next century!

Bossanova, Eh?

And here I thought that Erik and I had discovered all the ways to kill a person. Punjab, poison, scorpion bite, exploding grasshoppers, broken hearts, drowning, pistol, neck breaking, decapitation, lethal injection, hanging, repeated blows to the head. . .

Death by Bossanova? That's right, Bossanova rythym. Don't know what it is? Neither did I. Well, you know when you're searching the radio for 102.7 or 98.7 because your brother wants to listen to Kelly Clarkson. (Yes, Luke listens to Kelly Clarkson. And Sarah Brightman.) Well, maybe you don't know. Let's say your searching because you listen to Kelly Clarkson. Okay. Well, you know that annoying Mexican music station that pops up when you search for it because Kelly is going all staticky and popping her Ps? Bossanova music is like that, except perkier and techno-er. Now for something random: If I were to paint this music, I would use bright colors, short straight lines, and polka dots. Yes. If Erik were to hear this music, he would stand on the spot, terrified and disgusted, for a few moments before waking up to punjab whoever wrote it. Because, damn it, ladies and gentlemen, this music is just against the order of nature. It's perky and cute and -excuse me, I need to vomit.

This was not helped by the fact that two girls who shall remain nameless were choreographing another bit that we would add to the dance, and were doing so with my dubious assistance. These girls are both popular, and both perky, and both cute. Actually, a lot like the song. I mean, nothing against them, but really. Really.

The dance begins with a little tune that reminds me of nothing so much as the Six Flags jingle, from the commercial with the mutated old fellow. Then a young woman who either cannot enunciate or is speaking Spanish begins to speak in a bubbly voice that rather reminds me of Barbie commercials. As if that weren't enough, then a Bob Marley-style man's voice comes on and declares, "Bossanova, eh!" And we start dancing. Now, being a Hot Box doll that one time was bad enough, but this is really mortifying. After this we proceed to do some ridiculously unoriginal moves, then move into some even less original moves, culminating in a combo we stole from Footloose with Kevin Bacon, therefore proving we are stuck in the eighties.

We then repeat these combos. Not once, not twice, but three times. Let me assure you, I've nothing against the number three. In fact, it's quite nice. There are three main PotO characters, three incarnations of the God and Goddess, three wishes, three siblings I have, and all of these things I love but am slightly annoyed by the fop/love/am slightly maddened by. But once you've repeated all these moves three times, you've got to go back and do the dance again because you missed the ballchangermabobberthingythatgirywouldn'tcareabout and it's hell.

Not to mention the line dance we're doing for the culture concert. Talk about monotony. Over and over, same damned thing. You know, we're teaching it to all of you and we might be able to bring people up onstage. I have half a mind to get Max and Ben, just because I know it would be hysterical, if mortifying to certain people. Guys, can you line dance? It's basically just the Electric Slide. Can you do the Elect - oh, never mind. As if.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

I Have A Dream

I had a very strange dream a few nights ago. This dream involved werewolves, unsurprising considering I was reading "The Wereling," which is a terrible book that I will hit you in a shin with Max's baseball bat very hard if you read. It is unoriginal, boring, badly written, predictably plotted, etc., etc., etc..

In this dream there was a conspiracy of werewolves for world domination. As logically follows, they were beginning at my Junior High School, which, just for the hell of it, I am calling Garnier Junior High. (Find the reference, get a muffin, same old prize.) Why they chose to begin here, Erik knows, but they did. Live with it.

So. Here I am in art class, when I come to the realization that (a) I don't take an art class and (b) Mrs. S doesn't teach art, she teaches English. That was when I realized something was off. Naturally, I came to the realization that they were all werewolves. So I ran out of the classroom to find Max, who might know what was going on.

On the way out, I saw my cousin's boat sitting in the harbor next to the library, with the flag of the Jester family atop it.

Erika: We don't have cousins named the Jesters, they don't have a boat, and they don't fly a flag. Also, why is there a harbor at school?

Ely: What she said, only perkier with squealing involved.

Ahem! As I was saying! My cousins worked as clowns, for some reason, and one of them was a baton with a jester hat on it. Why I am related to a baton has yet to be determined. There is no family resemblance. So I see them and I wave, and then move on to find Max.

I found him sitting on a bench, apparently cutting class. He has a notebook in his hand, and appeared to be drawing up a political agenda. This would have been okay, except he was fanged and slavering, a little like a werewolf. He, in fact, was a werewolf. Not good. Ben was sitting next to him, and was, as we can only expect from Ben, designing a logo for the werewolf conspiracy.

Instead of just attacking me like proper werewolves, they decided to talk very rationally to me. Now, since Ben has more sense than Max and I put together, except for when he starts in on the maniacal laughter, I was thinking about joining them. Then I saw the Diet Coke bottle sitting by Max, came to the completely irrational conclusion that Ben had been brainwashed with a bottle of Diet Coke, and ran away screaming.

Mrs. S burst from around a corner, slavering, as a werewolf, and began to chase me. I ran. She chased. Ben and Max got up to help her. Max wouldn't drop the political agenda or Diet Coke, though, and that gave me an advantage. I jumped onto the Jester family boat, and attempted to convince them that the werewolves were evil. They - er - didn't listen, and the baton one went over to the other side. I, shreiking, was dragged off the boat. It is hard to be Kat.

I actually forget how it all ended, because then I woke up, only to have another dream. I was in a dark room in the dream. This is quite ordinary for me. I often dream of dark rooms. Then Micheal Crawford walked in. This is where I should have realized I was dreaming, because I did not (a) attack him in a fit of fangirlyness (b) attempted to steal the fedora that he was, of course, wearing, or (c) squeal and faint. But I didn't.

"'Twas brillig," said Micheal Crawford, "and the slithy toves, did gyre and gimble in the wabe, all mimsy were the borogroves, and the mome raths outgrabe."

"What?!?" I spluttered, dropping a lemon that I had not been holding until then and was now holding for, I suppose, the purpose of having something to drop.

"It 'TWAS brillig! The slithy toves did -"

"But what do you mean?"

"I've no idea. I'm merely a fig of your imagination."

"A fig?" I asked, blanching. I hate figs passionately. Especially the mozzarella stuffed sort.

"Yes." Micheal said, an echo effect began, and he disappeared in a swirl of color.
I went back to the notebook, and wrote a poem that topped Poe for literary devices and Dickonson for eloquence. When I woke up, I'd completely forgotten it. So I wrote another one and said it was that one.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Keeping Current With Kat

Merry meet, my friends! I just felt the need to inform me of obsessions that have grown and died, etc., etc., keeping current and updated with your phriendly neighborhood Phantom. Why? Because I am. . .bored. And this is my logic. I shall annoy you, because I am bored. I am bored, so I shall annoy you. Okay? Actually, I don't care. I'm just going to begin.

My Current Book: Johnathan Strange and Mr Norrel. Read this book. Read this book. Read this book! It is a completely remarkable work. It's kind of like Tolkien, a lot like Jane Austen, a lot like Rowling, and in the style of maybe. . .Susan Cooper. This book is so brilliant. It's an alternative history of England, in which magicians figure prominently. The two most famous are Johnathan Strange, a dashing young fellow who battles Napoleon's army alongside the Duke of Wellington, and Mr Norrel, an eccentric, older man who keeps most magic for his own and stifles some of Strange's more innovative works. Combine this with the mysterious figure of John Uskglass, the Raven King, and Strange's obsession with him, and you have the makings of one of the best books I have ever had the pleasure to read. I know it is long, but as yet I have not been bored for one minute, and I'm four hundred fifty something pages in. It does not let go of you for a moment, partly due to Susanna Clarke (the author)'s witty narrative, which includes a great amount of Austen-esque social commentary. It also reminds me vaguely of Oscar Wilde at points.

But I can't just tell you about the book. I feel the need to do more. Read on:

Character Most Comparable to Erik: John Childermass, Mr. Norrel's Man of Business. A dark, dodgy fellow who is courteous, but always appears rather dangerous and wild. "Childermass knew the world. Childermass knew what games the children on street corners were playing - games that all other grown ups had long since forgotten. Childermass knew what old people by firesides are thinking of, though no one had asked him in years. Childermass knew what young men hear in the rattling of drums and the tooting of pipes that makes them leave their homes to be soldiers - and he knew of the half-eggcupful of glory and the barrelful of misery that awaited them. Childermass could look at a smart attorney in the street and tell you what he had in his coat-tail pockets. And all that Childermass knew made him smile, and some of what he knew made him laugh out loud, and none of what he knew wrung from him so much as a ha'pennyworth of pity." It rather reminds me of the way Erik spends a paragraph in Susan Kay talking about how in genius he is, then points out that no one will ever love him. Also, you know, dark smart people.

Kat's Muses: The ones most likely to appear in future stories? I'm pondering stories about, well, almost all of the guys from Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrel, but top on my list would be a love story about Childermass. Perhaps an OC, or perhaps an existing character, or perhaps. . .oh no, I might write a slash story. Don't let me do it! I only write MercutioRomeo and BorachioConrade slash! (If you understood that, you are a Shakespeare geek, and a fiction writer.) Oh no, now I have an idea for a story. . .I have to shut up!

Status of My Stories: "The Night Club" is on Chapter Seven and going strong. We're presently celebrating Easter. Max is mad at me because I am serving martinis that are red, the color of the Republican party. Erik is mad at Ben because he is hiding Easter eggs in his organ pipes. We are all mad at Ely because she talked for two full Word pages without a paragraph break last chapter. Phillip Quast has gotten involved somehow, and who is coordinating the Easter egg hunt but Johnathan Strange and a certain totally random fairy with thistledown hair from the same book!
"Requiem" my tale about the aftermath of Erik's death and the tasks he sets for the others in his will is on it's fourth chapter, but I have writer's block. What task would Erik set for Raoul? Why would Raoul accept, anyway.
"Clouded Eyes" my story about Erik's meeting with Adrien, a bitter blind boy, is FINISHED! YEAH! *Confetti falls*
"Guardian" my story about Erik's protection of Raoul, is on it's second chapter and zipping right along. Wait, I'm not sure those who haven't read Leroux understand. See, Raoul is in the Navy in Leroux, and therefore is going on an expedition to the North Pole. No joke. Erik realizes Christine can't live without Raoul, and goes along to protect him.
"Hello Neighbor!" the tale of Max and Erik living near eachother refuses to get off the ground. Argh.
"This Next Encore" the story of Nadir, Erik, Ayesha, Raoul, and Christine's being reincarnated as junior high school kids is coming along well. Raoul has just appeared. To those who haven't read Kay, Ayesha is Erik's Siamese cat. But she was reincarnated as his cousin. Nadir is now a dog. Yeah, I know. . .quite odd, but actually serious, and going well.
"Cirque de Sancte" is on hiatus. I might restart it, though. A story about Erik's time at a traveling circus, post Christine.
"A World In Twilight" my what if story about Christine and Erik's family, I have writer's block on. Ay.

Current Web Residences: This blog, and www.fanfiction.net/~simplyelymas/. Or, if the link doesn't work, search for SimplyElymas with Phantom of the Opera as a filter.

Favorite Quotes: "Can a man kill a man by magic?"
"I suppose a man might, but a gentleman never could."
-Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrel.
"I am adorably strange."
-Max
"For each and every thing in life, there is a matching font."
-Ben

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

And Now For Something Completely Different

Now for pointless comedy. Very, very, pointless comedy. You see, once upon a time I found a phic by Random Battlecry, and I laughed, causing all of the Beverly Hills Public Library to look at me strangely. Very, very, strangely. This phic had to do with, well, pointless comedy. Very, very, pointless comedy. Ok, I'll stop with the verys. But anyway, Random's phic has a lot to do with muffins. Muffins of all kinds, as a metaphor for life. Poppy seed, blueberry, all kinds. You see, Leroux!Erik has a book on the history of muffins, and Emmy!Christine is able to fit whole muffins into her mouths, don'tcha know.

So my mind naturally progressed to. . .How did Raoul propose?

Raoul: Christine. . .
Christine: Yes?
Raoul: (Gets on one knee) I have a very important question to ask you.
Christine: (Breathless joy)
Raoul: Christine. . .do you know the muffin man?
Christine: The MUFFIN MAN?
Raoul: THE MUFFIN MAN!
Erik: I am the muffin man!
Raoul: Er. What?
Christine: I like muffins. Wanna go to Jerry's Deli, Erik?
Erik: But of course, darling.
(They walk into the sunset, Raoul jumping up and down behind them, screaming, "What about meeee?")
Erika: Shut up, fool, it's an EC ending.
Ely and Kat: (Sob) It's just so beautiful. . .

Wait, that seemed funny at first. Eh. I acted it out about five times with Luke, and we were in stitches, I tell you, stitches. Fun. We were also a bit slaphappy at the time. The badoink monster was also born, then. What is the monster of badoink? That would be Kizzy, piggybacking on Luke, and them both waving their arms in unison and repeating over and over, in unison, "Badoink. Badoink. Badoink." This was fun until the badoink monster wanted food, and then I lost all my good bath towels. I'd rather not discuss this further. And they were nice towels, too.

Also. The dog. He's evil. I am here, informing you, that Obi the newfoundland puppy is evil. Got it? Great. As we speak, or rather, type, I have a painful bite mark on my ankle, a bite mark on my forearm, and a severe emotional bite mark in my soul, for this if the demonic puppy of doom.

And I got the soundtrack to the Phantom original London cast on my iPod. Can't tolerate bits of it, but I was refreshed by the things that were so lacking in the movie. For example, the second Notes scene. I love Christine's little outburst at Carlotta. I barely governed my absurd impulse to cheer. A muffin to anyone who figures out what quote that was. But my absolute favorite Erik moment has to be the All I Ask Of You Reprise. Always. Always. I went into hysterics during the aftermath of the All I Ask Of You Reprise, both when I saw the show and when I heard it on my iPod. Wasn't sure if I was laughing or crying. Cathartic experience. Erm, and I was maniacally laughing too. . .

Maniacal laughter. God, it's a great thing.

I reenacted the whole show in front of the mirror. Fun. . .obsession. Oddness. Joy.

You will curse the day
You did not do
All that the J.G.
Asked of you!

Which probably involved Phantom tickets.

I remain, gentleman, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.