His Name Was Erik

I just opened The Phantom Of the Opera, a DVD JD gave me for my birthday, i think. It does not matter now, does it?

And so i watched this beloved story of mine for the first time since i caught the theatrical release in 2004. I've gone to a live performance in L.A. - as a musical virgin. It was simply breathtaking.

I even enjoyed the 1989 horror version starring Freddy Krueger. Umm, i mean Robert Englund.

The tragedy captivates me. Such wistful yearning, feelings of unworthiness; such anguish and self-sacrifice... Since i first experienced it i thought it was one of the most beautiful love stories ever written.

Tonight it strikes me: The Phantom must've been one of the first pervs to utilize a two-way mirror to stalk. It must've been exquisite to watch Christine unlace and remove her corset late at night.

Look at your face in the mirror. I am there inside.

The Phantom transports Christine on a gondola to his secret lair. Where are they, the 19th century French sewage system? Inquisitive minds want to know!

When Christine faints, he who calls himself a monster who dreams of beauty gently lays her down in a soft satiny bed. And walks away.

What?!?!! You've got to be kidding me. Surely The Phantom had every intention of making the soprano his love slave. Have you seen the lacy gartered flowing gown she's sporting? Who wouldn't want to fill each orifice while she makes sounds like an angel??

I guess i have outgrown my romantic side, ay? Perhaps I should consult the original Leroux version...