Incompetent organists and other things that make me happy.

I'm back on the East Coast, but I've been too sick to do much besides catch up on trashy novels. So far I've made it through Echo Park by Michael Connelly and One Good Turn by Kate Atkinson, the latter of which managed to incorporate both the Edinburgh Festival and St. Petersburg (I do so enjoy reading books set in places I've been. It helps the book come alive, but mostly I think it's the smug sense of superiority I get from recognizing things other people wouldn't. I mean, maybe I'm being presumptuous, but I'm guessing the Venn Diagram sliver of people who know their way around both the Royal Mile and Nevsky Prospekt is pretty thin.)
Burning through fun-to-read books in a matter of hours, by the way, is the penance us speed-readers must pay in turn for getting wordy textbook assignments over with sooner than everyone else. It's a gift and a curse.
Something else with which I've been amusing my invalid self: just before I left Pomona a friend told me to find a sound clip called "Messiah on Crack." I finally got around to it today, and it had me in fucking stitches. If you like Handel and schadenfreude, listen to it posthaste.