Batman v Superman

Easter went by without a hitch. But like many of my colleagues in the organ world, I’m still recovering from Holy Week. As with many things in life, the problem is not so much the work so much as strategizing how to get away from it. I failed miserably. 

My Holy Week

Monday I can’t remember how many times the word “Hosanna” was sung yesterday, but it was probably fewer than the number of (presumably stale) hot cross buns left over at Le Pain Quotidien. After finishing my quinoa, I was offered one of these iced cruciform delights by the waitress. I declined. I despise raisins.

Tuesday I got free tickets to a chamber music concert at the Morgan Library.  Ravel, Debussy and Stravinsky comprised a charming first half. Post intermission? Schoenberg’s Pierrot Lunaire. Sat on a park bench on stage, the soprano gave a naughty cabaret-esque performance. Being sat in middle of the fourth row, I had the pleasure of staring straight into her groin as she dutifully stroked her bright purple lycra-bound inner thighs at every mention of Good Friday or anything remotely religious. Moving as these metaphors were, my mind wandered. Where the hell did she get those purple tights?

Wednesday Morning run in Central Park. Ear buds in, blasting iTunes my playlist of Euro-trash pop songs. A chorale from the St. Matthew Passion morphs into a catchy dance beat. WHY?

Maundy Thursday A class discussion on Stalinism and my professor brings up Bulgakov’s Master and Margarita, a novel in which tales of the descent of the devil and an obese cat upon Moscow are interspersed with flashbacks to Christ’s trial before Pilate. There’s no escape.

Good Friday The service was three and a half hours. That’s like all day. In keeping with the spirit of the liturgy, I didn’t have meat for dinner. I had bourbon. I was going to get the check, but the smooth folky music playlist turned to Paul Simon’s American Tune – yet another pop song based on Bach’s O Haupt voll Blut und Wunden.

I feel like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. Except I’m not waiting on a rodent. I’m just waiting for another bourbon.

Holy Saturday/Post-Easter Vigil 

11pm. Bar. Mood: fed up. Sobriety: questionable. Solution: Batman v Superman at 11:30pm.

Easter Sunday

12:45am. Cinema. Acting: terrible. Plot: even worse, but Ben Affleck looks good shirtless. 

2am. Cinema. Superman is dead. Lois, Batboy and Wonder Woman remove his body from the clutches of Lex Luthor’s nuclear turd monster. The fact that all I notice is the characters’ similarity to Mary, Mary Magdalene and Joseph of Arimathea is probably a sign I should go to bed.


4pm. Apartment. Mood:

4:05pm. Zzzzzzzzz Zzzzzzzzzz Zzzzzzzzz

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: