Holy Bunny, Batman.

Um... Excuse me, but where the fuck was I when it was announced that today is Easter? Was there an extremely loud train that galavanted through the city and I missed it, or did it sneak up quietly and other people are on the same boat as I am in saying, holy shit. Easter already? Who knew?

Train or the boat, people.

Point is, no open mics tonight because none of my regular dives were open due to som serious bunny love, (the holiday, not the person, and if you don't know what I'm talking about, what are you doing in this city besides being overcharged for rent) a fact which was only brought to my attention because of a planned revival of a certain musical baesd on a cult movie classic eponymous for a blood stained prom queen, and my being called in for the role of high school bully (the lines roll surprisingly naturally off the tongue... "my dad's a lawyer. He will sue your ass," among others...) who collects the blood and orchestrates the consequent soaking. 27 and I'm finally being taken seriously as a 17 year old.

I was under the incorrect impression that this was a world premier, so when they sent me original sheet music to prepare, I had a mini panic attack and lied to my manager.

"You do know how to read music, don't you, Scout?"

"Do I know how to read sheet music!" I responded, channeling my best Barbara Streisand channeling her best Fanny Brice.

The truth is, I read sheet music with the same dexterity that Helen Keller learned the word "water." Sure, she figured it out eventually, but it took a lot of hand holding to get there. So, in a panic, I went to arrange a practice session with an accompanist, which led to the realization that no one will work on Easter Sunday, followed by a consequent googling storm, followed by a big motherfucking sigh of relief when I found a very muddy recording of a 2010 reading on YouTube that was at least intelligible enough for me to learn my 32 bars. And then I drank mimosas in the park.

Thanks, for dying, Jesus. From one lapsed Jew to another. (To be fair, mom raised us Catholic. Dad's people were the chosen ones, and my mom chose to ignore their eight days of light and other evenings of whimsy, and parked our Midwestern fannies twice a year--Ester being one of those biannual body of Christ bonanzas--at an Anglican Church... aka Diet Catholic, or as they say in Europe, Catholic Light.)

One year I forgot about Christmas. Man, that flight was expensive.