Friends, coming out of jet lag is like waking from a coma with a start. I've slept how long? And Sasha Obama is president? But there's no time for jet lag, because it's Edinburgh Fringe, which starts officially on the third, but everyone's "preview performance" is tonight. Thank God our show doesn't start until mid-Fringe; we run Made for Each Other from August 15-26th. Because, friends, if my show was about to open I wouldn't have time for this wee chat with you, right?
Edinburgh, where every other word seems to be "wee." "Would you fancy a wee cup of coffee, then?" No, I'd like a giant super-deluxe size that Mayor Mike Bloomberg would like to ban, thanks very much, I'm American. The only thing we do that is "wee" is... I haven't the heart to tell them that where I come from, "wee" means to piss. It would be bad for American-Scottish relations.
There is nothing wee about the Fringe. A tsunami of performers from 47 countries is rolling through a medieval city, so it all looks like an overpopulated Hogwarts. The architecture is charming, the views are of rolling hills and sheep on one side, and then the slow curvature of the coast brings your eyes to the blue sea on the other. In between, heavy stone buildings that have seen it all for a century or more, stand stoically as they are assaulted by teen actors in purple hair wearing "Keep Calm and Keep Fucking" tee shirts desperately try to get the lights to work for the death scene in Phaedra 2012: a Lesbian Fantasy. I just made that one up, but it has the flavor of Edinburgh Fringe.
This will be a short diary, as I have slept about twelve hours straight, and the sun is shining. The sun is shining! That calls for applause in Edinburgh! And a rare opportunity for me to get up and about to put up posters for my own show before the inevitable rains come again. Tonight I will be seeing Desperately Seeking the Exit starring my cheeky mate Peter Michael Marino at a Free Fringe venue up on the Leith Walk. I sound like a real Edinburgher now, and I only wish you could hear me roll my r's; when I say "Edinburgh" the last syllable sounds like my cat hocking up a hairball. I'm quite proud of my wee self.