The Titleless Post Made To Appease The Wrath Of The Legendary Monster Of Aargh

This will be short. I'm sorry. Somewhere, Gabe is very happy and Liana is frightened at his whoops of joy. And now for something completely different. I am, according to www.similiarminds.com :

Messy, outgoing, open, self revealing, ambivalent about chaos, unpredictable, not good at saving money, social, likes large parties, likes to stand out, risk taker, quick to make friends, does not like to be alone, rash, fame seeking, sarcastic, craves attention, social chameleon, low self control, food lover, not rule conscious, weird, assertive, not a perfectionist, anti-authority, thrill seeker, vain, likes to fit in, reckless, emotionally sensitive, leisurely, and last but not least, trusting.

I took their personality quiz. Amazing how much they got right, but positively mindblowing the few they got wrong. For example, according to them I both like to stand out and like to fit in, and I hate being alone. In fact, I adore being alone, and hate to fit in. I'm over my "I'm Getting Tired, whine whine, oh, I'm so angsty, poor me," stage, and I apologize for it. A low point in my career.

Omnipotent Gerbil!

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

The Return of the Father, Baking, and Other Matters

He's back. Oh, boy. Fun. 'Tis a bit awkward, and I am making a point to randomly throw the word "candle" into conversations to see you he reacts, but otherwise, life has returned to being not-very-normal. The not-very part comes mostly from my attempt at baking. Yes, I attempted a domestic task. I ask you all, who doesn't love cookies? Cookies are a very good thing in this life, and it's never too early for them, as Emmett says. Unfortunately, when they were handing out skills, I got the spelling skills and Max got the cooking skills. This explains how he can misspell "spider" and I can burn a salad.

Only I wasn't making salad. I was making peanut butter cookies. For my advisory, and for the choir party. And to my great despair, Erika took a vacation, so she's off being murderous somewhere and I'm left with Ely. Chaos promptly ensused.

I dropped the spoon into the electric mixer. It cracked in half. I will not be held responsible for any splinters in the cookies. Blame Ely. I also allowed the cookies to burn a bit on the bottoms because I was - what else? - blogging. The result was a meager batch of peanut butter cookies that I wouldn't force Raoul to eat. Though he's not the brightest bulb on the tree, so he might actually eat them. You see, this is why Leroux!Erik lived on music. Because phantoms, whether they be of junior highs or of operas, can't cook.

Also. Why does everyone criss-cross with a fork on peanut butter cookies? Why is this not done with any other cookie? Have any of my readers ever recieved a criss-crossed chocolate chip cookies?

I thought not.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

The Life And Times Of Physical Education

I really loathe PE. To an extent none of you will ever understand in any way, shape, or form. Max, you won't understand it because you actually - I cannot fathom why - like sports. Ben, you won't understand it because for some terribly unfair reason, you appear to be credibly good at sports. Sane Personage, you won't understand it because you are long out of junior high school. Spencer - hey, you might actually understand it! Gabe, you like volleyball and swimming, so you won't get it. I, however, detest all sports in all their forms, with the exception of water basketball, which isn't even a sport, but a brutal ritual which people may die in and in which murders are acceptable.

Some Ways To Make Sure Kat Will Miss A Frisbee

1. Point out a butterfly nearby. She dislikes butterflies, and prefers moths, so will jump away.
2. Suggest that this is a crucial game point.
3. Throw her a frisbee.

Some Creative Ways Coaches Pronounce Ben's Surname

1. Whistlehoofen
2. Wontona
3. Blamek, for some unfathomable reason.

Possible Reasons We Are Playing Capture The Flag

1. It's an arcane ritual to summon Rasputin from the dead
2. Covert military training, Bush conspiracy
3. To keep us childishly innocent, and therefore keep us from the obvious conclusion that Santa is a member of the Illuminati.

Various Things Max And Gabe Might Be Doing While We Are In Regular PE

1. Photo shoots for J14
2. Rendevous with Meg Giry
3. They might actually be playing baseball/volleyball, but that's too farfetched.

Rabbit

1. Flammable liquids
2. Whirligig
3. Spencer

And thus I leave you.

Ben: Wait! Wait!

Max: As the resident common sense monitors -

Sane Personage: We would like to -

Ben: - point out -

Max: - that that last list -

Gabe: - made no sense!

Spencer: It made perfect sense to me.

Ben: WHAT?!

Kat: (Mysterious grin.) Mwahahaa!

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

In Which Kat Really Really Tries To Keep The Angst To A Minimum And Does Not Succeed

My father just left the family. Er, yes, good morning. This new developement is not exactly appealing, but I do think I will live. It takes more than that to mess up a diehard PotO nut, since we can always keep our cases in perspective. We're not deformed and in an unrequited love affair, like Erik. Well, some of us are, but I'm not, so that's all right. I may as well tell you what happened, seeing as this blog is about me. I'm afraid my Erik-ish tendencies have gotten me in trouble once again.

Our story begins with me in the bathroom. I was, however, not using any plumbing facility. In fact, I was completing a Wiccan ritual.

All Readers: . . .Er. . .

Ay. I do all my rituals in the bathroom, mainly because some of them involve candles and the bathroom has the least amount of flammable objects. Unfortunately, the ritual I was doing today (which was a simple healing charm for a cough I've had lately) involved candles. And curse my scent of aesthetics, I used scented ones. Soon dad came into the room, demanding why he smelled burning. At first I provided him with the idea that perhaps Luke was burning my school books again. To make a long story short, he wasn't. I was caught red handed. Or blue handed, considering some of my blue wax had drizzled on to my hands.

"Give me those candles." Well, that's eventually where he arrived at, after a while of ranting.

"No."

"Why not?"

"That would be a violation of my first amendment rights, and, if we think about this as my room being my property, my eighth amendment rights too." My father's other children do not tell these sort of things to him. When my father was a child, he didn't tell these things to his parents. He doesn't like the fact that I'm a bit different than other people. I creep him out. Which I do to most people, so that's all right, most of the time.

"Er." Hark to his words of wisdom. "Give me those candles!" I wasn't about to lecture him on the Bill of Rights again. "Give me those candles or I will force you to!"

"Try it." This is my turning into Erika. My voice goes all Micheal Crawford-esque and I put on a rather disconcerting poker face. I also have the tendency, in this state, to react as my instincts require, and my instincts are stubbornness, not backing down, and being really, really, evil. "Just try it."

I think I ought to explain something to you all. Part of being me, Kat, the J.G., the PotJH, Elymas, is that I do not back down. I do not give up. I do not give in. I stick out whatever I'm in until the end, because that way eventually your opponent will forget about and go and have a cup of tea.

Unfortunately, my father doesn't like tea. He tried it. I didn't back down, to make a long story short, and Les Miz style bathroom barricades later, my mother got involved. But such is life.

They proceeded to have quite the shouting match directly in front of my (still poker) face. "This is a bad idea, fighting in front of her!"

"No it's not!"

"Is too!"

"Is not!"

And so it went. This all ended with me sitting in a chair in the kitchen waiting for my father to come home.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

In Which Kat Gets In Touch With Her Feminine Side, With Disastrous Results

Kat can't sleep, so you're recieving this update from a yellow pad. Now then. Seeing as I am, in fact, a girl - what do you mean you didn't know!? Don't tell me you missed my Johnny Depp outburst in the Point of No Return, and then there's my Erik fixation, but enough about my obsessions. Seeing as yes it's true, I'm female, I recently came into contact with a magazine entitled ELLEgirl. Apparently its editors have capitalization issues.

The lucky, chipper, and joyous presenter of this magazine to me was Jazz, one of my sole female friends. "Oooh! Kitty! This is the perfect magazine to get you in touch with your feminine side!"

Note: The only person who are allowed to call me Kitty are Jazz and Laurelann. Anyone else will be punjabbed.

"Oh, really?" Well, what would you have said?

"Yes, ooh, yes. So, let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start. . ."

After a speedy reactment of the "Sound of Music," Jazz demanded as to what my horoscope sign was.

"Er. Capricorn." I had been informed of this by my Aunt, after which she went on to tell me of her past lives, both in Atlantis and as an Egyptian Princess. I, of course, hung on her every word.

"Ooh, goody." As you may have noticed, Jazz says ooh a lot. "Okay, here's your horoscope!" As is it's wont, chaos insued. It's becoming quite good at that, you know, especially in the confines of this blog. Not to mention Capture the Flag, and all that.

I reproduce the horoscope here, in all its glory, and with my commentary. Warning, terrible attempts at poetic language ahead.

"Love is about to blossom like a rose in the morning dew." Oh dear. "But don't drop your friends. Spread your love evenly, like butter on toast." Toast, buttered toast. Got it.

Luke: Buttered toast!

Kat: . . .

"Or, for Australians, vegimite." Oh, good, I was getting worried for all those poor Australians who apparently don't know what butter is.

Thus I leave you with these gems from ELLEgirl. "Jesse McCartney Is The Ideal Man." That was for you, Geer. "Where to Shop In Scandinavia?" The Order of the Silk Lavender Punjab Lasso will be bestowed upon whosoever figures out which PotO character is Scandinavian. "How Do You Dump A German Boy When You Don't Speak German?" It, unfortunately, did not explain how you were dating a German boy when you don't speak German in the first place.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Chicago, Chicago!

You remember "Bossanova, Eh?" I've got another gem for you all from deep within the bowel's of Bam's dance class. You're familiar with the Sinatra song, "Chicago?" I am, unfortunately, dancing to it. With your sister, Gabe. Me and Liana are a bad match in every way.

I'm an artist. I can say that with complete conviction. I am an artist. I am a theatrical artist. And I just don't like to leave any piece of art, be it a painting, skit, play, musical or poem unfinished or mediocre. Liana, I'm afraid, has no such scruples.

Time and time again I've had to explain to her the simplest of moves because she doesn't care to concentrate. "No, Li-li. It's hands clasped, next to your cheek. Not hands splayed aboth your head." I know I'm complaining, but I feel like Mme. Giry here! Next I'll be speaking in a pronounced French accent and carrying a gold tipped cane.

As I said, I am an artist, and I consider this dance a piece of art. I'm like Erik in that respect. I cannot stand to have a piece of art done that is less than my absolute best, and I do not accept the concept of impossibility. I'm not like one of those ridiculous people who say "I can do anything if I just believe in myself!" I simply have looked at the facts, thought about it, and rejected the concept of impossibility.

Now, let me tell you about this dance. I think I may have been a bit miscast. I play a - oh my Phantom. Wait. Hold everything! A black lady just passed by in the most amazing hat I've every seen.

I love hats. They're far too underrated nowadays, and hers is simply sublime. Black gauze, in a sort of lovely pillbox pattern, with a pink rose at the top. Granted, it could do without the rose, but -

(Stares at readers, which are dominantly male.) Right. Moving on.

I play a very street-wise, savvy showgirl. Think Velma Kelly.

He had it coming!
He had it coming!
He had it coming all along or something like that!
Et cetera, et cetera,
And they abused us!
It was a murder,
But not a crime!

Now that my Cell Block Tango moment is over, we can contemplate the absolute absurdity of casting me thus. The Hot Box doll in Guys and Dolls was bad enough, I tell you, bad enough. I'll never forget the look on Ben, Gabe and Max's faces when I told them that. Max stared at me a little like Christine stares at Erik during the First Unmasking, Ben screamed "What?!" in that way we know so well, and Gabe opened and shut his mouth, totally in denial. I'm also supposed to be showing Liana's character, a complete hick, around town. (For Liana's character, think Milly the Thoroughly Modern.)

The irony of this is that Liana is a quite popular accepted girl - of the lipgloss miniskirt variety - whereas I am the social equivalent of one of the Untouchables from India.

Oh well. At least this time around I don't have to wear a yellow tutu. . .

Not to say I wore one in Guys and Dolls.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

A Very Quick Update In Which People Given Titles And We Promise There Will Be No Whining

First order of business! (Ahem.) Ely! Erika! Nadir! Erik! Diego! Luke! Max! Ben! Ben's Mother! My Mother! My Father! Aunt Shirley! Her Dog! Spencer! Clara Stone! Mizamour! Er. . .I can't really list all my reader's anymore. Sorry, I was just trying to get your attention.

First order of business, because I forgot it last post, is giving Spencer a title. Come forward! All right. I have consulted with Erika, Ely, Erik, Nadir, Christine, and Ayesha, and they have declared that you shall be titled. . .Official Opera Patron in Charge of Philosophy, Alaskan Baseball, and Accent Inconsistencies. Why the Patrons are head of my Opera's philosophy and Alaskan baseball is yet to be discovered. The accent inconsistencies. . .well, someone's got to handle them. (GIRY IS THE ONLY ONE WITH AN ACCENT IN THE MOVIE! GAAAH! And why is Erik Scottish?)

Diego, you're next. We hereby declare you the Lord High Elvis or John Lennon Lookalike of the Opera. So I suppose you can sign your letters O.L.H.E.O.J.L.L.. Or not. Oh my God, Luke doesn't have a title. That's an easy one. You shall be Darth Luke of the Opera, because I'm a bit lost on inspiration. Help me out? Next random person to be titled.

Clara Stone is the Opera's Writer of Erik, Christine, and Nadir's Dialouge, because she writes brilliant dialouge. Go read her fic, Holy Darkness. No, I mean it. Go read it, and you will read one of the best PotO related things ever written. Mizamour, as the other FFN personage, you're next. You shall be the Mizzie of the Opera, because, well, every Opera needs a Mizzie.

The parents. . .Haha. (Evil grin.) Dad? Dad! Put down that cell phone and come here! No, don't trip over the dog - oh, dear. I guess we can title him without his presence. You lucky man, you may be the Lord High Provider of Comfortable Jackets for When the Air Conditioning is Too High Like It Always Is In Theatres And Operas Are No Exception. And Mother, you are to be the Official Worrier That You Will Put Someone's Eye Out With That Punjab Lasso. Ben's Mom shall be the Sane Personage In Charge of Whatever Sane People Do, Which Kat Knows Nothing About. (Why do I capitalize the M in mom/mother?)

Nadir: I protest! Who is this. . .Clara Stone? She can't write my dialouge! I write my dialouge!

Kat: Oh, yes, she can. Read her fic.

Erik: I agree with Kat.

Now that's critical acclaim, my friends.

I shall now whine a bit. It was too hot today and I wore wool. And I heard the lamest excuse ever not to dance. Thankfully, it was not I who asked the guy in question to dance, considering it was Alex, who is an idiot. Here is the excuse: "I can't dance. My face hurts." Oh, really, now. I then proceeded to beat Alex in a slightly bizarre game having to do with bungee jumping. That is the extent of my whining.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

I'm Getting Tired

And now for a bit of angst.

I'm tired. I'm tired of fighting the system, tired of this endless cycle where I fight, they retaliate. I'm tired of playing against a team I can't win against. In short, I'm pondering finding a miniskirt and some lipgloss and going with the popular girls. I know, I know, you're about to faint.

Trust me, I hate them. But it looks like there's no alternative. I've been alone since fourth grade, when these bloody factions started forming, and I'm tired of it. I'm human, like anyone else. I'm getting lonely, getting tired. I feel ridiculous trying to beat a system that I can never fight against. I'm worn out.

Erik says in Susan Kay that he was never meant to be with people, that he banged his head against the wall for too long. Then he descends under the Opera House, never to see the light of day - or at least society - again. Well, Erik, I don't have an Opera House. I only have one alternative to this, and that's conformity.

When all else fails, turn to Oscar. In "The Importance of Being Earnest," Lady Bracknell says "Don't mock society, Algernon. That's only done by people who can't get into it." Or something to that affect.

I do not want to go with them. But I don't want to stay where I am. I have friends - Max, of course, Mac, Ben, Gabe, Brossy, Diego. . .but you're all boys. Even though most girls give me headaches, I am a girl, and I need female companionship.

Christine: You have me!

Kat: Don't remind me.

Everybody wants a place to rest
Everybody wants to have a home
It makes no difference what the people say
Nobody really wants to be alone. . .

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

We Apologize For Any Inconvenience

I think I've beaten my record for insanity, I really do. That last blog was just off the wall madness. Blame Diego. No, blame Diego. Blame him and bash him over the head with a -

Emily: Rubber chicken.

Sorry about the intrusion. I'm afraid a few members of my math class have decided to assert themselves. But, the matter at hand. Bash him over the head with a large piece of styrofoam. Moving on. I have decided to WRITE

Kat: Quit with the caps lock, Brossy!

(After a short period of time in which Brossy was attacking the keyboard, we're getting back to the matter at hand. . .Which is. . .)

The Quite Epic Tale.

Max: Of what?

Kat: I'm not sure yet.

Ben: . . .

The Quite Epic Tale involves all my commentors. If you comment, you could be included! Fifty percent off now! Ben and Max, you're in here whether you like it or not, so to heck with your protestations, but as for the rest of the known world, you folks will have to comment. And comment you shall, or be Punjabbed. We shall be embarking upon an Quite Epic Quest, or QEQ, to get a Quite Holy Object, or QHQ. Where the Quest is to, who the Questers are besides me, the PotO folks, Erika and Ely, and Max and Ben, and what the QHQ is remains to be seen.

But I've decided on a name for our Quite Epic Questing People, or QEQP. We shall be called the Fellowship of the Small Round Object, and thus we shall quest for. . .something. Like I said, I'm not sure what yet. Comment and become involved! Assert yourself! Help Kat decide where on earth the Fellowship of the Small Round Object is going!

The Fellowship of the Small Round Object Thus Far: Mr. S., my math teacher, the advisor for the Point of No Return, and the Lefevre-ish Personage, Max, the resident Monsieur Giry, Ben, the resident Nosy Nadir Like Figure, Diego, the Elvis Lookalike Stagehand, and Mercutio from Romeo and Juliet, who is here for reasons no one really fully understands. Not to mention me, Erika, Ely, and Luke.

So it begins. A Quite Epic Questing Person, you will become.

And please, don't sue me.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Good Morrow, Friends.

Wow, long time no blog, right? Terribly unfathomably dreadfully sorry. I've been as busy and Erik and Nadir are nattering about Pop Tarts again and Erika and Ely want health insurance and Max is writing PotO parodies and Ben is being Ben and they removed the Diet Coke from the vending machine at school so Max is having a hernia and (Deep breath.) it's making life so very complicated. Okay, I hope you commiserate. On to the good stuff.

Allow me inform you all. Diego is standing and reading over my shoulder so I'm afraid he may feel the need to assert his bawdy and absurd comments at various points in the blog.

Diego: You're such a confusing and random person! Anyone who reads this blog is going to think you're totally high. Hey, Darth Vader's sitting next to me!

Kat: Quit playing with the pencil sharpener. And I follow Erik's example on everything but the opium, hashish, and morphine. Dear me, this makes Erik look a bit bad.

I hate ERBs. For all thou fools, they're the Educational Record's Bureau tests. Not to mention brilliant excercises in just how amazingly pointless academics can be. They have been referred to, in a decent pun, as the "true bitter ERBs of Passover," and so they are. Or they were, last year, when they were taken during Passover. As I have so oft remarked, the bubble method of test taking is really quite silly, as people always tell you, "Please fill in the bubble fully. Do not make a check mark or other sort of mark. Fill in the bubble. Fully. With a pencil. Use a 2B pencil. Or we'll Punjab you. Do not bring any flammable materials into the testing room. And do not eat the test. And do not dye it purple. And do not bash it furiously with your fists. And do not attempt to take it to Mt. Doom and throw it into the fires of hell." And so on. As Ben put it, "If you can't figure out how to fill in the bubble, you're probably not going to do well on a test."

Wow, I've ranted far too much about this.

Anyway. Far more to the point. Diego, quit. reading over my shoulder. It's really quite annoying. See, you're doing it again. Oy. Prying Pandora. Hey, the insult fits. Strange, as I'm usually hopelessly random when I do that and people look at me oddly. More oddly than usual. Oddlier? Oddier? Odder? Help me out here, people.

Diego: Odder is an animal.

Erik: Do you mean oTTer?

Diego: No.

Kat: Ay. Erika, where's the Punjab?

Erika: Funny you should mention that. . .

Ely: Now, I did not use it for frivolous purposes. I used to to obtain Pop Tarts -

Diego: A purpose is an animal!

Erik: Do you mean a porpoise?

Diego: No.

Ely: And I figured Pop Tart obtaining was a noble cause, so I Punjabbed the Pop Tart delivery person.

Kat: Who was it?

Ely: It was Elvis.

Diego: My brother!

Luke: He does so look like you.

Kat: They do not look alike. Diego looks like John Lennon, if anyone. He does not look like Elvis. I repeat, he does not look like Elvis. Or Micheal Crawford.

Ely: Oh, that reminds me, the Pop Tarts salesman was Micheal Crawford. . .

Kat: (Appears violent.)

(This has been cut short, due to the fact that the violence was simply too graphic, and it involved burnt Toaster Strudel.)

Now, I need to apologize to you all, but especially Ben and his mother. See, I owe you guys a lot of muffins. Diego, you're taking this the wrong way. Stop it. No, I said stop it.

Diego: Hey, since Kat has seized a moment when I'm not looking over her shoulder to write this, I'd like to assert that she apologizes for the high amount of Diego content in this blog. It couldn't be helped.

Nadir: And the question of the day is - does Diego look like John Lennon, or Elvis?

Kat: Why do you want to know?

Nadir: To be honest, I'm not sure. As your collective common sense -

Kat: Your job's taken. You're no longer our collective common sense. Now our common sense is Ben and Max.

Diego: God help you.

Ben and Max: As your collective common sense, we demand you finish the blog now. It's getting a bit long, and you have to leave in two minutes.

All right, that's enough for one day. More when your friendly neighborhood J.G. gets home. Or when she finds the time, or when Nadir quits dashing about taking over Luke's job and asking about Pop Tarts, or. . .

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Les Miserables de L'Katness, Old Acquaintances, And A Spanish Prancing Horse Who Resembles No One In Particular

First of all, pardon my truly disastrous French.

Nadir: You'll need to learn it sometime to be a proper Phantom.

I know that Nadir, hush up. Well, why is Kat miserable? Have you ever had a really really dreadful sore throat, the kind that almost makes it hurt to breathe? Kat has, and does. Misery. And Luke's stolen my laptop for school so I can't work on my stories that are on it, although I'm finally getting to the good bits in This Next Encore, which is my current favorite story I'm writing. Allow me to repeat myself: Misery.

Dear Gaston, I sound whiny. Sorry. But Kat is thoroughly depressed by this. Though I may seem irrepressible at times, I am merely a human sort of Phantom, and something as simple as anything can bring me down several miles.

Er, right. Last Saturday I attended m'dear friend Mickey's Bat Mitzvah, which was quite the enjoyable thing. At least there were no squirrel butterfly dancers with pom poms for head like there were at Ori's Bar Mitzvah. Outside, because it was at the Equestrian center, there was the Fiesta of the Spanish Horse going on. No, I am not kidding.

The Fiesta of the Spanish Horse. I watched for a bit, with Max, sort of crashing the party and peering over a wall. Then they brought out a dancing horse, or a prancing horse, as Max saw it, and it began to prance.

There was something disgusting about this enormous, beautiful animal being forced to do a silly dance for the benefit of cretinous people who think they're being ethnic and fascinating. I began to understand why Erik stole Cesar from the Opera stables in the Leroux novel. Gods, it was a gorgeous animal, and it's idiotic trainer made me rather want to smack him.

So I'm one of Les Miserables for today. Probably Eponine. I feel tragic and heroinic. That is absolutely not a word. Actually, I'm probably quite a bit more like Gavroche.

But the point is that I'm miserable.

I'm not getting you down at all, am I?

Life. Don't talk to me about life.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

The Elephants Cometh

I saw my grandfather's stomach before I saw my grandfather. It protruded like a leech on his body and it was all I could see through the window. It's gotten rather large since the last time I saw him. Scary. He greets me with, "Well hello Kathlyn, and how are you today?" Sorry about the italics, but that's the inflection my grandfather uses. My grandmother isn't as bad, and greets me with, "Oh, dear, did you enjoy the tic-tac-toe set?"

I think that rather needs an explanation. My grandmother is notorious for giving very strange gifts. For example, baby blankets for everyone, and I mean everyone. And not just any baby blankets - furry ones with a dog's head on one end and a dog's rear on the other. I got a chocolate lab. Fortunately, my Aunt Billiana liked them. We all gave them to her. And then there were the bunny slippers. . .and triceratops slippers, and wildebeeste slippers. . .but enough of that. For Christmas last year, I recieved from my grandmother; a neck warmer in the shape of a stocking, a slinky in the shape of a standing zebra, and a crystal cast tic-tac-toe set. If you doubt me, I'll take digital pictures of them and show them to you. (Though I did toss the slinky away.)

"Yeah, grandma, loved the tic-tac-toe set. Played for hours."

"Oh, I'm so glad! You know, I wasn't sure, but I figured it out and. . .I'm so glad!"

"Righto."

And so it went. But it was during dinner time that I snapped, upon learning the name of my friend Jenny's new boyfriend. "His name is what? You must be kidding. There's just too many of them! This can't be real!" But it could. There are now officially too many people named Ben in this world. We have Ben W., Ben B., another Ben B., and now Ben my friend's boyfriend. This isn't right, I tell you. Not, of course, to mention Ben Affleck and David's friend Ben. . .And that is why you must change your name.

So I'm ranting at my dear conservative Christian grandparents about how there are too many Bens in the world. Unsuprisingly, they did not take terribly well to this, probably because my grandfather is named Ben. As punishment, I endured twenty minutes of awkward silence and inedible food at the dinner table, and then they tried to force me to go to church with them.

"Grandma, I'm Wiccan. Remember? I told you last time you were over here."

"Wiccan? Darling, is that a kind of actress?"

"No, Grandma, it's a religion."

"Oh, well, that's nice dear. Here, get in the car, we're off to church."

Suffice it to say I didn't come.

That night's Sunday dinner was the worst of all. We met the lobster. No, really. Brooke, our cook, insisted upon bringing home a rather large lobster for mother's day dinner. Why did she bring it home alive instead of buying a dead one? Either she's a sadist who enjoys watching lobsters being boiled to death or, as she said, lobsters are better fresh. Even the word fresh sounds bad there, like. . .I don't know what.

Erik: Kat, if you're this squeamish about lobsters, what about when it takes the time to Punjab your respective Buquet?

Kat: I would have no problem whatsoever killing Kevin McNally. He left Johnny Depp to die on the island with a man with bad tastes in hats and a monkey named Jack, not to mention the gold.

Erik: . . .Er.

But getting back to the subject. Poor lobster. I then had extreme difficulty eating my lobster, therefore the quotes of the day are:

"I find it highly awkward to eat someone I've met."

- Kat

It reminded me inexorably of that bloody cow from Restraunt at the End of the Universe. . .(Twitch.)

And this one from the Hunchback of Notre Dame Disney movie, because Tessa and Allie were watching it and this line made me laugh.

"Ah, Paris. The city of lovers is glowing this evening. True, that's because it's on fire, but still. . ."

- A Gargoyle Who Is Apparently Nameless

Because I'm Kat and this is the sort of morbid thing that amuses me.

Regarding the elephants. They're finally gone and I can live in peace. Well, not exactly. Next up, a rather strange post about human nature.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

An Immature Guilty Pleasure

"In 500 years, who'll know the difference?"

Such was the cry of Linus from Peanuts. It's one of the lesser known catchphrases, but I love it all the same. Linus was the only truly happy human Peanuts character - living in an idyllic world with his security blanket. On the occasions of Lucy's disturbance of this world, his reaction would be either to pretend to shoot her or to yell this catchphrase at her. It's now one of my favorite sayings. I would love a T-Shirt with that on it. (I have T-Shirts that say all sorts of sarcastic things on them. I make them myself.)

All our lives should be so simple and sweet as Linus's. With that short tangent done, I'd like to inform you all that today, May the sixth, is the J.G.'s Comic Srip/Book day. I've decided that if this blog is my kingdom than we need national holidays, hence this, our first. Hallelujah.

Just what is it about comics that make them so lovable? C'mon, tell me that you don't search through the newspaper on Sundays to find the latest installment of your favorite. I do, but of course, I'm Kat, and Ely has a thing about comments. Maybe it's the blend of graphics and text. Maybe it's the charming humor so often employed. Or maybe we should just let our inner child enjoy themselves and not ask questions.

But more on subject. Peanuts is the first strip we shall be honoring today. It is a classic, and we all love it to death. Why? Probably because it's such an accurate portrayal of childhood. Yes, I've thought about this. Peanuts is not often light-hearted. In fact, at times it's quite dark. If Charlie Brown were alive today, he would get called into Miss. T. (our beloved school counselor) for a short talking to, a hug, and a lollipop. There is bullying in Peanuts. Pulling away the football, anyone? There are unrequited crushes. Think Charlie Brown's "the red-headed girl." And such is life in Peanuts. Real, tangible, and identifiable with.

Not to mention the beagle.

Here's something a little odd. There are only two comic strips that feature black characters. Candorville and the Boondocks. Now I do love Candorville's down and out writer, Lemont, but the Boondocks have really stolen my heart. What are the Boondocks? Well, they are essentially the rantings of two angry kids, Huey and Riley Freeman. And they are bizarrely funny. But, true to my rather odd form, my favorite character is Ceasar, the half Jamaican boy who is a pro at lightening the tone and being a sweet, darling little socialist revolutionary. For their daily adventures, peruse www.boondocks.net. Or at least I think that's the address. Ceasar's the one with the dreadlocks.

I have never particularly liked Archie comics. Frankly, the perky, all-good attitude towards the teen years that they take put me right off them. But my siblings love them, and yesterday one was reading an Archie at the dinner table. I expected my father to scream, or Punjab her, because he hates when we read at the table, but his response was quite different. "Is that an Archie?" He gasped. He had read them as a kid as well, during the early Palezoic.

Why does the PotJH blog now have this as a holiday? I suppose the best answer is my answer to all things: Why not? Or 42, if you like. No, actually, the best answer is this. Comics are my favorite American media, aside from musical theatre. You really can't go wrong with comics.

And I've never said no to a good manga.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

Waltzing, Seed Pod Flicking, And Various Other Fascinating Activities

And, once again, the J.G. states her fantastic knack for getting into trouble. And her complete and utter lack of proper respect for authority. And her tendency to speak in the third person. And her talent for sitting still for long periods of time. Sorry, am I confusing you?

All right. Here's the method to my madness. Of course, the method merely qualifies as more madness, so that's not exactly the best explanation, but you get the idea. After a rousing game of soccer and then a slightly less rousing game of Sports Trivia in P.E., I sat down to flunch with Dakota, David, and Spencer. Yes, flunch, that was not a typo. We have lunch during F Period, hence, flunch. (Another ripe debate about whether or not it's a word, I suppose.) After barely surviving several Ace Ventura enactments, my lunch and sanity were comfortably disposed of, and I moved tables, minus lunch tray and trash, to chat with James and Max.

Let's take stock of the situation. We have me, or rather, us, if you include Erika and Ely, who are being more assertive than usual lately and want health insurance, who is a Phantom, specifically of a Junior High, and is therefore possibly delusional. We have Max, who is - actually, 'nuff said. We have Max. And we have James, who has a level of paranoia in regard to communism relatively close to Joseph McCarthey's. This was quite obviously going to develop into something a little scary, but then you include seed pods, which there were certainly enough of lying around on the table, from the garantuan tree up above us. Sorry about garantuan - Quentin Tarantino moment. Anyway.

The seed pods. James was talking away, and the J.G. kids you not, about the conspiracy of the Chinese communists with the Killer Squirrels and the MLB to control the world. Of course, Max just had to mention, "You know, I was a communist for two weeks." And the war began.

We were fighting for domination of the lunch table. James was the bright shining light of American democracy, Max was Socialism, and I was representing The Ambigous People In This For The Excitement. We battled for world domination, or lunch table domination, by flicking seed pods at each other.

Just then, out of the darkness and the smoke, out of the abyss, came the Lord of Darkness, otherwise known as Mr. M. He greeted us politely with, "Do you want to clean up this lunch table, or go visit Dean Sherman?" Only faster, sort of, and punchier, if you know what I mean. Which you don't. But I don't really care. To proceed. "Do you want to clean up this lunch table, or go visit Dean Sherman? You have five seconds to decide."

Label me confused and send me to the Paris Opera House, Mr. M. What? I did my best to explain that I hadn't eaten here, because I thought he meant food, and well, it just went downhill from there. Damn my stupid, stupid, Erik-ish pride.

To make a long story short, I ended up in the prinicipal's office, after having given Mr. M. plenty of opportunities to refer to me as "girl" but look at me as if I were a bug, and finally, ended up in Mr. R.D.'s office, having a slightly tubby man with a lisp scolding me for I'm still not sure what.

And that's it for the Saga of the Seep Pods.

As far as waltzing goes, I'm now writing a series of one-shot short stories which all have Erik waltzing with someone. So far I've finished Erik and Luciana's, and started Erik and Christine's. I'm very pleased with Erik and Luciana's. For any (humph) under educated non-phans, Luciana is from Susan Kay's Phantom. Erik worked for her father, Giovanni, a stone mason, during his time in Rome, in his adolescence. And, as adolescents are wont to do, Erik and Luciana developed a bit of a mutual thing for each other. Sweet at first, but it ended badly.

And now for some Erik like logic.

Ben, you have to tell me who you think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is, because you said I told you. If I told you I already know, therefore I've merely forgotten and it is common courtesy for you to remind me. Besides, I already know who he is, and I just want to know if you know. Max, you have to tell me because I'm curious as to what you think about this whole business. (If you guess correctly who he is, I must inform you that he is immune to being Punjabbed by anyone but me.)

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

A Survey With Identity Crisis

My dear, dear readers, I have decided to annoy and possibly confuse you further by making you do something. You must fill out a survey which I have been so kind as to provide. And soon I shall control the world. Why, you ask, is it a survey with identity crisis? Because it seems to be confused as to whether it's a survey or a quiz. Ah, well, it was born of my boredom during a science class, so you might as well do it so that that class will have served some purpose.

1. Who currently plays Erik on Broadway?

2. Please answer in the form of a question. 42.

3. To be or not to be?

4. The age old PotO question: Raoul or Erik?

5. Yes?

6. Why not?

7. If Ford Prefect wakes up at 7:30, then leaves for Guilford on a train at 5 miles per hour with fifteen train attendants whose legs are eighteen feet long, and Trillian got into the Heart of Gold at 12:05, then tried to convince Eddie to make tea until 1:30, and finally entered the Improbability Drive at 1:45, who do you think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is?

8. No, really, who do you think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is?

9. What is your PotO pairing allegiance? (Telepathic beams.) E/N, E/N, E/N. . .

10. Who should have domain over the blog and Kat's actions: Erika, Ely, or Kat?

11. Should you get insurance for your split personalities?

12. Tomato sauce on top or on the side?

13. And will you have fries with that?

14. On a scale of 1-10, how was the Hitchhiker's movie? How about the PotO movie? How was Being Julia?

15. Shall we come to order?

16. In an alliteration of 20 words or less, describe this blog.

17. What is the significance of the number of this question in the book "The Phantom Tolbooth," by Norton Juster?

18. How much longer can I keep this going?

19. Where were you on the night of January 8th, 1992?

20. What is Piangi's first name?

21. Provide ten excellent excuses for not doing your homework. God knows I need them.

22. How many pages in Kat's notebook do you think this fills by now?

23. Please, why are you doing this?

24. List all your nicknames and/or aliases.

25. Why do all TV V.O.s and/or movie advertisement V.O.s have vaguely the same voice?

26. Is glomp a word? How about whomp? Or Punjab?

27. Why is a raven like a writing desk?

28. Is Kat losing inspiration on this quiz, and if so, why?

29. What if?

30. Is thirty a good number to end a quiz at?

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

So Quick Bright Things Come To Confusion

I bet you're wondering about the title. I just happen to like that quote, and as bright things are currently coming to confusion, I thought it appropriate.

First order of business. I would like to welcome another person to the elite ring of the commentors. And this personage is: Ben's Mom, AKA, Anonymous. Thank you for the Alanis Morrisette lyrics, and may you never be Punjabbed. Keep your hand at the level of your eyes. In an ideal world, there'd be a gift, but all I can offer you is an equal share of Ben's muffins and plushies. Whether he'll give them to you, who can say, but at least I offered them.

On to the blog!

There are three impossible and therefore pointless things in the world. The first is to convert Max from the worship of Diet Coke. The second is to understand Ben, all the time. The third is hockey. And now, for your entertainment, some dubiously funny episodes from today's hockey game during Fizz Edd.

Ethan: (Playing goalie.) Kat! Hit the ball!

Kat: I'm trying, but the other team keeps getting in the way!

All right, so I had a blonde moment. As do we all. Besides, I was tired and we were playing hockey. Give me a break.

Kat: You know, I think your team has an unfair advantage, Ben.

Ben: . . .

Kat: You know what you're doing and we don't.

By that point, however, we actually did know what we were doing. We were losing.

Coach H.: Kat, just pretend it's water basketball.

Kat: But I can't!

Coach H.: Why?

Kat: There's no water. And I sense a discernible lack of basketballs.

Other fascinating highlights from the last few days? Well, I discovered the world's worst insult. Now, fop is a great insult. Classic. And our dear Erik has heard too many times the dreaded accusation of "freak," a problem I unfortunately can identify with. Fat, stupid, ugly, tall, girly, etc., etc., etc.. And I know Ben knows the "B-tch" theory. In case, you're not familiar, I shall explain.

Many men are afraid of powerful women. Now, this is a bit of a neccessary generalization. I'm not saying that all men fear powerful women. Obviously Ben and Max don't, or they wouldn't come within ten feet of me. My dad doesn't, because have you ever met my mother? But I'm afraid most men are a little unnerved by women in power. Why do I say this? Why do you think on Fifty Cent's videos there are always really scantily clad girls, and why does he glorify abuse of girls in his music, just like most rappers? Because powerful women creep them out, so they create new ideals of women that they like. Repeat, I'm not saying all guys are like that. They're becoming more reasonable now.

Another example? Well, why do you think most of the guys in the grade are scared of me? Yes, I realize this is blatant self flattery. My ambition scares guys most of the time, because I might beat them at something. Most likely water basketball or riddle games.

Now. Most guys, in my experience, don't like it when you beat them. Most girls don't like it either. It's just that the typical male reaction is to say something along the lines of, "B-tch."

(Uncomfortable yet? Good.)

One day I got tired of hearing that one. I mean, really, can't they be more creative? Call me "foolish addle-pated maggoty trogdolyte" or something? But no. It was always just that, with the occasional, "d-ke," or "sl-t." I think it should be obvious that I'm not a lesbian or overly flirtacious, so I can let those last ones slide. But the first one started to bug me, especially when guys tried to pretend it was just a mispronunication of "witch" after I threatened to Punjab them.

So I formulated the "B-tch" Theory. When a girl is intelligent or successful, she is called a b-tch. So I think we can safely redefine it, yes?

B-tch - n. - A successful or powerful woman, with the unfortunate tendency to win a little too much. [Also - Bizotch, biatch, biotch, or any number of synonyms]

I have reconciled myself to being a b-tch. Oh, well. I've heard variations on it from "unimaginable," from David, to "tall," from a short Hungarian boy, but as far as I'm concerned, they're all roughly synonymous.

So the next time you hear that insult, just think of the J.G. and her random theory, and smile.

But anyway. About the insult I have created. "Lime green." Yes, lime green. That is now the greatest insult in the world. Why, you may ask, is lime green such a great insult? Well, as we all may or may not know, depending on our level of geekiness, Erik greatly enjoys insulting Nadir. One day I was writing a line of dialouge for him in a phan fiction, and this came out. "You pigheaded, nosy, obstinate, lime green -"

I stared at the computer. Wait, what? Lime green? Why would Erik call Nadir lime green? I looked at my hands as if they'd typed it by themselves. I asked Erika and Ely about it. They merely smiled secretively. Oh, well. Generally Erik creates good insults, so why not? Lime green. Haha. Victory.

Er, right.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.