Panicky in the UK

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been nearly one month since my last pig-headed diatribe. Tell the truth, I wish I had something petty to ridicule, but I'm starved for ideas. Oh, got it! First, the facts: I'm in Edinburgh, Scotland for the Fringe Festival. I'm performing with The Civilians (a theater company that cares) in "(I Am) Nobody's Lunch". We're playing the Assembly Room, right in the bleeding heart of this ye olde city - this city of birds who make horrific sounds outside my bedroom window, this city of "Oh Shit! There's a castle behind that bus!," this city of cheap beer and expensive nuts. Since we're playing this particular venue, we get free passes to most of the cooler shows. So, after our 15:15 performance (military time, since UKers like to pretend they're always at war), the cast hiked up a long road to the Pleasance venue. We wanted to catch the controversial and orgasmically praised production of "My Name is Rachel Corrie." We did catch it. Willy from the Simpsons might have called it a boring piece of shite. I will call it the definitive reason why no one should ever publish a diary. (Being that I'm blogging right now, you might think that I'm a hypocrite to say that. You would be right.)

Wait... I think... no, I'm sure that we're now on a terror alert. We are. The UK airports are in a panic of sorts, since the authorities have foiled a terror plot to explode nearly a dozen US-UK flights over the Atlantic. Fun. I'll write once my fear is assuaged back to a healthy orange.