More of Sweeney: Condensed

(Scene Four: The Worst Pies In. . .Wow, Aren't You Mrs Potts? and Two Quasi Sexual Obsessions - Oops, We Mean, "My Friends.")

Lovett: (Chops suet with wicked looking Knife of Sharp D00m.)

Todd: (Comes in.) Oh, wrong store. . .(Starts to exit.)

Lovett: OMGWTFACUSTOMER! (Flourishes knife.) Stay, or fear my awesome knife skillz of knife stabbage.

Todd: No, ma'am, I have the wrong shop. See, I'm looking for a sort of chubby-ish woman with sort of reddish hair done in a Baby Spice kinda hairdo.

Lovett: That's me. Ignore the leather and all, I've just changed a bit over the years.

Todd: DEAR GOD! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH ANGELA LANSBURY?

Lovett: Ate her. Now, have some pie.

Todd: Okay. She was kind of scary anyway.

Lovett: (Brushes living organisms that have evolved to quite an extent off of the pies.) I wonder why no one buys them? I mean, I don't put cats in them like that Mooney woman. . .

Some Guy in the Audience: Heee, Mooney. . .

Lovett: (Throws knife ninja style.)

Some Guy: (Pwned.)

Todd: Can I please go now?

Lovett: Not until we do more plot exposition! (Proceeds to inform Todd of his wife's rape and his daughter's kidnapping.)

Todd: OH NO!

Lovett: So it is you, Eugene P. Thistlewaite!

(Silence.)

Todd: . . .What?

Lovett: Oh. Um. Hey, are you Benjamin Barker?

Todd: NO! NO I AM NOT AND MY OVER REACTION IN NO WAY DEMONSTRATES THAT I AM NOT WHO I CLAIM TO BE!

Lovett: But wait! I kept your razors!

Todd: Oh, that's all right then. The Judge's time has come.

Lovett: Whatever. You know, my bedroom is the third door on the right.

Todd: What'll we do now?

Lovett: I've got some ideas! (Winkety wink wink.)

Todd: Hey, how about we sing about our corresponding quasi sexual obsessions?

Lovett: Yeah!

Todd and Lovett: (Do so.)

The Audience: WTF.

Some Woman in the Audience: Bill, this is nothing like Into the Woods!

Bill: Sorry, I didn't realize all of Webber's hits had gone to Stephen's head this way.

Todd: AT LAST, MY RIGHT ARM IS COMPLETE AGAIN!

Lovett: You are so sexy.

Audience: ohmygodhideusfromthecrazypeople

---

That's all for now.

By the way:

Hughsical: (n) : A musical involving or featuring the lopsided awesomeness that is Hugh Panaro.

Quote of the Day

"The callous shadows mock and make it clear some things were not enough to make you stay."

- Lestat. The Hughsical which closed yesterday.

Your good friend,
Sidhe Todd

Let's All Make Fun of Kat's Favorite Musical!

Yes, let's.

WARNING: If you are not at least a bit familiar with Sweeney Todd, the below will be totally and completely incomprehensible to you. This can't be too different than the rest of the blog, though, so knock yourselves out.


Sweeney Todd: Condensed!

---

(Scene One: The Grave.)

Gravedigger One: Okay, here we go, let's dig it. . .(Strikes haphazardly with shovel.)

Gravedigger Two: Goddamnit, Bob, that was my foot!

Gravedigger One: (Gettin' his boogy on.) Hey now, can't you dig it? I can dig it.

Gravedigger Two: If you don't stop making that joke, I'm going to need to resort to drastic measures.

Policeman: Hurry up, the curtain's coming.

Gravedigger One: Come on, let's get off before the factory whistle -

Factory Whistle: (Blows everyone's eardrums.)

Gravedigger One: -blows our eardrums.

---

(Scene Two: The Ballad of What Now?)

Soloist One: Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd! Hey, am I Toby, or some random guy, or what?

Soloist Two: Just sing. He kept a shop in London town. . .

Pallbearer One: Hey, should we be careful with the body of the main character?

Pallbearer Two: Nah, he's only one of Sondheim's greatest roles. (Dumps the body in the grave.)

Gravedigger Two: Hey! That's a NICE grave! Respect it!

Gravedigger One: Shut up, you nitwit.

Chorus: Sweeney Todd, y'know? Interesting guy, no? Neat, inconspicuous, scared rats by blinking through indeterminate methods, all good stuff. Subtle guy, too. Real interesting. There's more we could say, but you get the gist of it, right? RIGHT? SO WHY DOES THIS SONG HAVE SO MANY REPRISES?

Todd: ATTEND THE TALE OF -

Solo Guys: Who are you?

Todd: I'm Sweeney Todd. You know, the lead?

Solo Guys: My God, you've changed since the days of George Hearn! Your hair is all gone!

Todd: You know how it is as you age. But, anyway, I SERVED A DARK AND A VENGEFUL GOD!

Solo Guys: AND I WILL NOW PROCEED TO TELL YOU WHAT HAPPENS IN THIS PLAY!

Todd: Hey, no, man. Spoilers are bad.

Solo Guys: Awww, man.

Todd: You know, I think we're forgetting something. (Pause.)

Solo Guys: (Whisperage.)

Todd: Oh yes.

Full Company: SWEENEY TODD, THE DEMON BARBER OF FLEET STREET!

---

(Scene Three: The Streets of London. Todd and Anthony have just arrived.)

Anthony: I am so happy! And handsome! And hyper! And other positively connotated words beginning with H!

Todd: Bah, humbug.

Anthony: Mr Todd, you're so silly! Can't you see London's beauty?

Todd: London sucks, in my opinion.

Anthony: Well, aren't you just Mr. London-sucks-in-my-opinion.

Todd: Um, yes.

Anthony: But you're so adorable anyway! (Pinches cheeks.) Do you need money?

Todd: Nah. . . (Spots the Beggar Woman.) Whoa, who is that hideously ugly creature? Do you think my behavior in this scene is dramatic irony at all?

Anthony: Naw.

Beggar Woman: Hey, you, sailor. Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?

Anthony: EW. HAVE SOME MONEY AND GET AWAY FROM ME. MAJOR EW TO THE MAX.

Todd: OMG LOOK OVER THERE!

Anthony: What? What?

Todd: Now that you're distracted. . .Because I would not, of course, spill my life story to someone whose innocence I genuinely want to protect. . .There was a barber and his wife. . .(Proceeds to give the audience some major plot exposition, which is why anyone who walked in halfway through the first act of ST never understood a word of it.) I'm outta here.

Anthony: Call me, honey!

---

And that's all I've got so far.

Quote of the Day

"I think we should have children."

- Kat. It's a really, really, long story. Well, not really.

Your good friend,

Sidhe Todd

Jen/ny

"Oh, Jesus," the girl breathed in surprise. She hadn't expected, when she'd searched for mp3s of this particular song, to find anything. It was mildly obscure, after all. Even so, it was indeed there, and she stared with melancholy gravity at the link flashing blue under her pointer. It had been a long time since she had heard that song. Without really bothering to rationalize her behavior, she clicked the link.

People are always asking me why I do things. . .but what I think they don't realize is that half the time I don't know why I do things. Why, for example, was she doing this? Why was she trying to listen to a song that had essentially allowed her to develop a very strong emotional connection with it, then turned around and bit her in the ass like an inflamed T Rex?

Jen was beginning to become quite sure that nothing in her life had ever or would ever make sense.

She was half hoping that the song wouldn't download, that maybe there would be some kind of setback like when she'd tried to download Bittersweet Symphony or Fields of Gold, but there was no setback. Everything worked like a charm exactly when she wished it wouldn't. Jen cursed at her computer in fashions that might concievably turn the metaphorical air a lovely shade of bright aqua.

Should I try to hide
The way I feel inside
My heart for you?
Would you say that you
Would try to love me too?

A shudder escaped Jen, like what goes through one when one touches raw meat or sees something disgusting, but softer, full of gentle wind.

In your mind could you ever be
Really close to me?
I can tell the way you smile
If I feel that I could be certain then
I would say the things
I want to say tonight

Jen let out one short, painful, unsteady breath, warm and wet and sad.

But till I can see
That you'd really care for me
I will dream that someday you'll be
Really close to me
I can tell the way you smile
If I feel that I could be certain then
I would say the things
I want to say tonight

Jen could feel the abashed, terrified joy she had felt the first time she had ever read those lyrics. Jake had mentioned them in passing, dropping the cryptic, Jacobly hint that they reminded him of an acquaintance of his. Upon reading them, she had known immediately who. She'd printed them out at the school library, late on her way to Spanish class, and had read them in spurts, fearfully, as her teacher conjugated irregular verbs.

But till I can see
That you'd really care for me
I'll keep trying to hide
The way I feel inside.

Lips pursed, Jen contemplated. She was fairly certain that she was no longer in love. Well, there was one sure test, a test only Jen Cashwell had ever put to use. (Of this she was fairly sure.) Off to google.com. She google imaged "magician." No reaction. No faster heartbeat. Not even a sigh. "Rubix cube." Nothing but her sardonic laugh that was really nothing more than an upward inflected cough. Yes, she was certainly not in love. So why did the memories of the whole wretched business bother her so much?

Well, chortled the family therapist in Jen's head, let's examine that further, shall we? Jen wrinkled her nose. The family therapist had a habit of crossing his legs and then twisting the suspended foot back and forth. Once and only once he had asked what she was thinking, and she had replied earnestly, "I'm wondering if your foot will come off." He had not spoken much to her after that.

Nevertheless, perhaps this particular advice was rather more sound than the usual. Let's examine that further, Jen thought caustically. She glanced at herself in the dark reflective surface of the window in front of her computer. A girl with a sloppily, patchily shaved head, eyes that were like tiny black pools in the monochromatic window, bitten lips and gnawed nails, ruddy cheeks, headphones over elfish ears, and an impertinent nose that seemed to be telling the viewer exactly what they could do with their long straight olfactories.

This was Jen.

For no real reason, once more, she pulled up her Photobucket account and sorted through some old photographs. There was one of her with Jacob, the one of them engaged deep in conversation. She had thought at the time that it described their relaionship perfectly. She was looking at him with interest, he was looking at her with mild amusement and a quip just inches from coming out of his mouth. She was in her trademark black, he was in his trademark stripes. (To this day Jen had seen him in no street clothes that did not involve a collared shirt with stripes.) The girl in the photographs, while yes, probably rather pretty, had an innocence and a naivete to her roundish face that Jen was devoid of now. There was a softness to her that Jen had lost somewhere along the line.

That was Jenny.

The old song came off her mp3 player, fading into Franz Ferdinand.

Oh well I woke up tonight and said I
I'm gonna make somebody love me
I'm gonna make somebody love me
And now I know, now I know, now I know
I know that it's you
You're lucky, lucky
You're so lucky!

Jen remembered when her mother had seen her shaved head, her own handiwork, almost bald spots running through it like veins of pale virgin silver, she had breathed, "You're not still mourning him, are you?" The idea had struck Jen as preposterous. Mourning? Why should she mourn Jacob, she'd asked her mother. He's not dead. "Maybe a little bit," her mother had replied, "dead inside." Jenny hadn't argued, mostly because she wasn't sure if she agreed.

But was she mourning him? The answer came as easily and simply now as it had then. No. No, she was not mourning Jacob. But perhaps she was mourning Jenny, the soft, gentle, easily embarrassed girl she had been eight months ago. She could go through old emails, read old diary entries or blog postings, hear songs she had loved then, and was almost shocked that they still existed. It was as though when the girl who wrote them disappeared, she had expected them too to disappear off the face of the earth, or in some cases, the Internet.

Oh well do you, do you do you want to?
Oh well do you, do you do you want to, want to go
Where I've never let you before?

The music played a pounding backdrop to Jen's musings. So who was she now? She was Jen. But who was Jen? Jen glanced in the dark widnow again, then thought to herself, Oh yeah. Her.

Oh well do you, do you do you want to?
Oh well do you, do you do you want to, want to go
Where I've never let you before?

It was all remarkably simple, once you understood it.

Well he's a friend and he's so proud of you
He's a friend and I knew him before you, oh yeah
Well he's a friend and he's so proud of you
Your famous friend well I blew him before you, oh yeah

What was it about this song that was so conducive to learning to forget Jenny, to live with being Jen? Well, it had bite, Jen considered. Attitude that Jenny wouldn't have dared to have.

Oh well I woke up tonight and said I
I'm gonna make somebody love me
I'm gonna make somebody love me
And now I know, now I know, now I know
I know that it's you
You're lucky, lucky
You're so lucky!

It was just a matter of finding a person who'd love Jen, after all.

Oh well do you, do you do you want to?
Oh well do you, do you do you want to, want to go
Where I've never let you before?

And after that? Well, she'd just have to try Jacob's method. Just to run. To run. Did she want to? Fuck yes. Why did she want to? No reason. To get away from obligations. To find her obligations. To fulfill her obligations. To see how far she could get before she had to stop.

Oh lucky lucky
You're so lucky
Lucky lucky
You're so lucky
Lucky lucky
You're so lucky
Lucky lucky
You're so lucky
Lucky lucky
You're so lucky
Oh lucky lucky
You're so lucky!

Jen grinned. "Lucky, lucky, lucky," she whispered through soft, bitten lips. "Lucky lucky lucky," Jen said again, and turned off the computer, her thin finger illuminated by the glow of the pulsing power button.

Oh well do you, do you do you want to?
Oh well do you, do you do you want to, want to go
Where I've never let you before?

Quote of the Day

"To be idle requires a strong sense of personal identity."

-Robert Louis Stevenson. Dear old Bobby Lou.

Your good friend,

Sidhe Todd

More Poetry. Bible Themed This Time. Oh Boy!

So I reread Genesis and am now a tad obsessed with Cain and Abel. Blame the One Acts.

Let's go to the fields,
Cain said to Abel, and
The concept of murder was created.
Murder can't be merely murder when the family is all there is on barren earth
It's fratricide, an ugly word
That few will taint their tongues with
And fewer still apply to their own selves
But Cain dared to do so
As Cain would always dare to do the disallowed
In the beginning out of initiative
Later simply out of habit.

Let's go to the fields,
He said, and
Abel went with him
To watch the wind on the wheat
And to stare at the sky
The last dregs of the grayish clouds like rotten milk.

Let's go to the fields,
Abel agreed, and
Thought as they walked of God and sheep.
Cain thought of sheep and why they pleased the Lord
He thought of smelling colors
Tasting sights, he touched the sound of his brother's breath
Until he crushed it out and

And and and and and and

Let's go to the fields,
I say, and
I say I want to talk to you, Cain
Because you who were the first brought into the world by the people
You were the first to stamp one of them out
Because I want to talk to you
Because of this, I do
Because of this because because

Cain, the blood of your brother cries out from the ground
The vengeance of the Lord will know you yet
It will catch you
I don't know why you're running anymore, O Best Beloved of Eve
Adam doesn't want you anymore
They carried Abel's body to the grave, Cain.

Cain, the blood of your brother cries out from the ground
And now the earth will not serve you, Cain
You are cast out
Say your goodbyes to the world you knew because you're never coming back.

"But now someone will try to take my life."

Cain, the blood of your brother cries out from the ground,
It isn't true, Cain, that you will be killed,
For whoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken upon him sevenfold.
Here, here is a mark
To wear on your forehead
And never to give away
And by this men shall know thee
And no one will hurt you anymore save your own self.

Cain became a wanderer of the world.

Your good friend,
Sidhe Todd

In Which Kat is Eveyfied

Kat: *has no hair*

Parents: OMGWTFOHNOEZ!!!1!!!11!!

Kat: I like it.

Mother: WE GO HAT SHOP NOW.

Kat: No!

Mother: HATS NOW!

Kat: *pwned* *looks like the love child of Natalie Portman, Sinead O'Connor, and a Holocaust survivor* *is therefore not biologically possible* *doesn't care*

Be ready for a surprise when you see Kat on Monday.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Quote of the Day

"Eating people is wrong! Especially Hugh!"

- Someone on PPN.

Your Good Friend,

Sidhe Todd

Kat is Presently Occupied with Fangirling and Cannot Title This Post kthnxbai

Thanks to dear old Gabe and much loved Oren for being 73# 1337 and making this. To anyone who may have questions: YES. THIS IS COMPLETELY NECESSARY. STFU N00BZ. It's A Little Priest in ultra 1337.

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It's taking the world a little while to realize that there are certain people to which the rules of society do not apply and that I am, or at least will be, one of them.

Oh well.

But anyway. The librarians have just given me a severe chewing out for telling Chloe A that I hope she dies an early death. She then added, "I'm sure you don't mean it." For the record, I absolutely did. If there's one person I can't stand in this world. . .Well, if there's one person I can't stand it's probably Ms. E the librarian, who is simply NOT COOL ENOUGH to share a last initial with the muchly cool Mr. E. She loves her job. It's painfully obvious and it hurts my soul.

Can't the person realize that what they're chewing me out for is precisely what Chloe does every day? It hurts my tiny chewed up soul, it really does.

Quote of the Day
"America is the only country to go from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between."

- Oscar Wilde. God, I love that man.

Your Good Friend,
Sidhe Todd

PS. Mickey, we can use the PPN chat room instead of AIM if you want.

All the Joys of YouTube

Am currently YouTubing the hell out of the much beloved Mistah Cerveris.

Michael: Just another loooove story. . .

Kat: *MeltfaintgeneralMichaelfangirling*

In other news, I have almost killed dead my Jesus Christ Superstar recording and am developing a crush on Judas that is not a little disquieting and possibly morally wrong. Michael still has my soul, though. I appear to be abusing my relatively new status as a single woman. In the past month I've decided I was going to marry Michael Cerveris, Judas, Hugh Panaro, Jude Law (only in a wheelchair) and this guy on YouTube called Semeril who sings Broadway songs. No, really. It's really quite funny, because he's got this fantastic voice, and yet his acting is highly corny, and he can't seem to figure out what to do with him arms.

And not only that! But YouTube has Passions, which is Sondheim's musical that is ALL ABOUT SEX. (I am completely serious. IT IS ALL ABOUT SEX. ALL OF IT.) And for you, Miss Mickey who will not concede that Michael is not sex embodied in a bald creepy man with a voice of ohgodfaintdiekatmelt, I have but two sentences.

Shirtless Mistah Cerveris. Making out (there simply is no other world for it in this case, much as I hate the vernacular) with Audra McDonald.

Oh, yes.

All these factors complete my state of Michael freak outage.

Before I bore you completely with my Michael fixation, I think I'll cool off with some Manoel Felciano. "Nothing's gonna hAAAAArm yooooou. . .not while I'm arOOOOUUUND. . ." Maybe if I turn it up really loud, they'll think I can't hear them. . .(Well, I can't.)

Ah well. No dice.

Time: (Goes by.)

I'm back!

What to write about.

Nothing.

Bye 'till next time.

Quote of the Day

"Y'all did what? Oh. . .oh. . .NO! That's outrageous!"

- Hugh Panaro, upon hearing of the adventures over on www.hugh-panaro.net. It's a long story.

Your good friend,

Sidhe Todd

ALL YOUR MUSICAL ARE BELONG TO US

Yes they are.

Well, I found a recording of "The Vicious Cabaret," from V for Vendetta. It's quite lovely, I must say. "And he hungers in his secret dreams for the harsh embrace of cruel machines, but his lover is not what she seems and she will not leave a note!" The instrumentals are fantastic. This song is like crack, I swear. So. Lately I've been writing a ridiculous amount of poetry, as you may know. So here's the latest. (This should really go on The Other Side of the Rain, my poetry blog. Oh well, I'll post it there too.)

It will have blood, they say, blood will have blood.
The Lord knows that it will, or he would
If he existed,
The barber says.
He's quoting wiser men
He's hiding all his terrible knowledge
Behind his tight white smile.

The lady with blood black hair is smiling
Smiling and wandering in lands she barely knows
Stumbling confidently in desert places
She knows herself
She holds the world in thrall.
Her confidence will be her own mistake
As she grinds the meat and smiles.

The lady in the alley way is dreaming too
Her yellow hair all tangled in garbage
She smells the smoke but cannot trust her throat
To bring forth what her mind is screaming
She clutches a bundle of rags
And murmurs words of love.

The man untainted walks a line thin and invisible
He doesn't know the danger in the depths
He laughs and loves his lady
And he trusts his elder mentor
Even as the blood collects on the old man's sleeves.

The loveliest of our deathly nontet
The root of their obsessions and sweat filled dreams
Listens to bird song at the window
And ignores the yearning, tortured moans of her fathers.
She's stroking all the hatred
That she's holding to her breast.

The troll beneath the bridge, white wigged and robed in black
Cries for the lovely women of his temptations
And passes judgement for all, although he does not know himself.
He tries forgetting all between a woman's thighs
Forgetting all his shame
Ashamed of all his women, his paradoxical wound and antidote.

And in the lighter places waits his lackey
A man made up of fat and grease
Who knows that he believes in himself
Who knows that all men are the same.
He does the Devil's work
And bides his time.

Out in the streets a man is hawking wares
With every breath blessing his own depravity
He holds his servants to their task
And knows his moral code:
"What works is right and moral,
'Till you're caught out."

The last of all of them, the youngest of the nontet
Is the white faced boy, tender in his new skin
Curled like a paper shaving by his chosen mother
Ignoring the fangs and claws
Behind her lovely face.
He watches for the danger in the dark.

The last of them observes from outside
Other dimensions, where the lost are found.
He watches as the silver razors fly,
And sometimes whispers his name,
"Benjamin."

To clarify matters, the Benjamin in question here is neither my brother, nor the Ghost Host, nor my stalker from the Theatricum, nor the lobster, nor Jenny's exboyfriend, nor my grandfather. It is Benjamin Barker, Sweeney Todd's past identity, my present fixation and subject of novel writing. (Can I be bothered to tease out all the Freudian symbolism involved in writing a novel about someone with the same name as my brother, my ex, my grandfather, etc.? No, I cannot.)

Have I ever mentioned how much I hate FFN?

Yeah, well, consider it mentioned.

I'm sorry, Julian, this blog post is nowhere near as rude as it should be.

ALL YOUR DECEPTIVELY ORDINARY BLOG ARE BELONG TO US

Quote of the Day

"But, Sidhe, everything reminds you of Sweeney Todd. . ."

- Ghostwritten on PPN. Admittedly, it's true.

Your good friend,

Sidhe Todd

In Which Kat Does Something Of Astronomical Idiocy

I have decided to come out to my grandparents.

Wait for it, it gets stupider.

I have decided to come out to my grandparents after my grandfather's birthday party.

Aren't I amazingly brilliant?

Excuse me, a short Sweeney interval is in order.

<.sweeney.>

Michael and Patti: *do the crazy cannibal waltz of sexual suggestiveness*

Kat: *melts*

<./sweeney.>

I need to go finish my Sweeney Todd fanfiction. And I mean baaaadly need to. But I've gotten almost no reviews, and I'm such an unmotivated Kat that it makes little bakery assistants named Toby CRY. (That's Katspeak for "Go read it right now or I will feel hopelessly inadequate as a person.") The problem is that I keep wanting to write the end before the beginning.

Gaaaah.

Your good friend,

Sidhe Todd

There Comes A Time In Each Man's Life. . .

When it is necessary to change some things. As to why? Because I'm just not the Phantom of the Junior High anymore. I've grown up much too much in the past months. I really do feel like I've become older and more mature. And now I will absolutely stop being emo. Thank you. Actually, I think I've stopped being emo for a long time. Emo!Kat will not be back until - well, until the next guy comes along and she falls all over herself and acts like an idiot again. Hahahahaha.

Anyway. The blog has changed a lot, yes, but it's really just Kat, good old cheerful lovable cuddly Kitty-Kat. Well, perhaps not cuddly, but heyyyy, whaddaya want from me?

Well, the Middle School Play is tomorrow, the fifth, at six o'clock out at the Theatricum, and you will come, or it's three times through the grinder with you. (You're all going to have to learn Sweeney Todd catchphrases now, I'm afraid. And just when you were getting used to PotO, too. I'm sorry. The one constant is Hugh Panaro, who is equally beautiful and sexy in both shows.)

And of course, for David, the long promised quote of the day.

Quote of the Day

"Well, I heard those tiger trainers are coming to town, Sigmund and Freud - I mean, Sigfreid and Roy."

- The Indomitable David.

Your good friend,

Sidhe Todd