Pig PensThese colours DO run
Gonna be honest. I’m not here looking for reviews and stars. I’m not here for connections or professional development. I’m not certainly not here to hone my craft. I chose to throw away my dismal bank savings by returning to the Fringe purely to escape the current horror that is the United States of America. You’re welcome.
So naturally I shuddered slightly when I was offered a souvenir American flag bandana at the weirdly hilarious and slightly disturbing show, The Piece. It was like being handed a complimentary war flashback. I came here to forget about my shite homeland and the baboon in the Orange House. But, my venue is an oven and I sweat like a hungover Russian in a moldy steam room, so I really needed that patriotic Yankee bandana (surely sourced from a Chinese sweatshop) to keep me looking pretty during my act.
I broke it out for the second performance, and as I wiped my brow 5-minutes in, I felt a slight stinging sensation. While soaking up the salty brine from the back of my neck, I felt a distinct burn. Every blot stung. Yet, every wipe was a massive “FECK OFF” to the USA. In every swipe, I was openly and proudly desecrating this once glorious and now pathetic symbol of freedom and democracy. None of this discomfort mattered for I was making a statement! I was openly desecrating my flag on a WORLD STAGE! I would not be silenced!
Also, a reviewer was in from The List.
I continued to perspire and wipe, perspire and wipe, for the rest of the show…burning my sensitive flesh, but never looking at the bandana. At the end of the show, I held up the soaked cloth like a fishing trophy and it looked like a hippie’s tie-dyed frock at a Grateful Dead concert – the red stripes running for their lives into the welcoming blue field and optimistic white stars. I was ready to write a piece for the freakin’ Scotsman now, for I had made a political statement.
Afterwards, I met with friends for drinks in the neighboring beer garden who gasped in horror at my visage, informing me that my hands and face were glowing fuchsia. I ran to the loo to see a sad, blotchy clown staring back at me in the mirror. I looked like I had just finished a twelve-hour shift picking raspberries in a tanning bed. But the pain and humiliation were worth it and I hope The List takes note in what I can only imagine will be a 50 star review – one star for every American state that I honoured in my new politically-charged-performance-art show.
Peter Michael Marino’s Show Up plays at 16:45 every day at The Counting House. www.showuptheshow.com