PACO REVIEWS: The Passion of the Christ

by Weird Paco

The festival theme got me thinking. From the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival to Coachella, festivals have remained harsh manifestations of our refusal to accept Christ. I’m no Christian—this is just fact. Please know I say this with acute respect for Birdbath: I’m disappointed. To counteract the kinds of articles I knew this theme would spawn, I resolved to write and review The Passion of the Christ, Mel Gibson’s 2004 masterpiece.

The film’s poster shows Jim Caviezel’s Jesus up close, face beaten but steely in its resolve. Out of frame, one can imagine his arms stretched to either side, nailed to his cross. I took a good look at the poster, provoking in me a sharp sense of recognition. You see, Jesus and I aren’t so different after all. My cross, readers? I’ll start on Thursday, January 18.

With Zoe out of the house at a meeting, my options abounded. What a fantastic afternoon—I chewed a few toothbrushes, tore some paper, and (best of all) poached a bag of powdered hot chocolate from an undisclosed location. As the women I live with tend to do, they erupted into hysteria. Not only had I left an alleged mess, but they claimed my beard was brown and matted from my conquests. I had barely been groomed a month before, but after a week or so with my stained beard, Zoe scheduled an early haircut. 

This brings us to this past Monday, January 30. It’s almost too fresh for me to write about, but in the spirit of vulnerability, I’ll speak a little about it. I was dropped off early in the morning, and kept waiting for hours. When my hairdresser finally got to me, I engaged in a deep sort of meditation that cleared my mind entirely, so the next thing I remember is arriving home. Immediately, a shift was palpable. The women of my house seemed edgy and alarmed. Nobody dared approach me. When the alarm faded, they pointed at me and screamed with laughter.  

Since I’ve been butchered in this way, my magnetic whimsy stolen, everything has changed. My face is scraggy and gaunt; my ears end abruptly in an even line; my eyes bulge. I recoil at the sight of myself in the car window. Dutch Bros employees hardly acknowledge me, let alone offer me treats.

I never did get around to watching The Passion of the Christ, but I can’t imagine that his suffering rivals mine. Though I’m reluctant to end this on a negative note, I see no alternative. How about a smile? they ask. Nothing to smile about in my life.