PUNKED BY A MIME ARTIST: Close Encounters With Florentine Street Performers

Marco (below) is the honorary "grandfather" of the mime artists who come and go in central Florence, particularly in the area of the Uffizi. (Does anyone know his last name?)

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For over twenty-five years, he has been doing Dante —now "Grandpa Dante"— while remaining staunchly in character, developing a grave yet benevolent style of his own.

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A Zen thing maybe?

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This "pure soul" won a devout Asian following and is particularly loved by Chinese children.

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No one would ever take this smirking Grandpa Cupid for a "pure soul", but he too became an established presence at the loggia of the Uffizi.

And I remember various others over the years... Unfortunately, I can't find a trace of that woman who did the Statue of Liberty— keeping her torch-bearing arm raised for hours at a time, while nodding and smiling like Lady Di opening a branch library.

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Then there were the zingare (ladies of the Rom or Sinti people) who were neither gracious nor beloved.

Some years ago, the Florentine police cracked down on begging in the tourist center and a few enterprising souls discovered that mime artists were legally protected as street performers. The Italian equivalent of a First Amendment carve-out, I suppose?

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As you probably guessed, I am burying the real story in "context"— hoping that you will bail on this long-winded post.

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Who are we both looking at— the Killer Klown and me?

My camera-wielding brother, of course!

He shot a rapid burst of photos from 4:17 to 4:18 on the afternoon of Monday July 2, 2014.

Meanwhile, Mister Fun was near enough to nibble on my earlobe and I hadn't a clue.

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Where are we exactly?

Standing in the Piazzale degli Uffizi, looking across the Loggia dei Lanza toward Piazza della Signoria.

Center stage, we have Benvenuto Cellini's Perseus. In the background, the usual clutter of touristic voyeurs.

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Those creeps were damn-well laughing at me, not with me! Don't even pretend!

And everyone but Grandpa Nitwit knew that his own brother had set him up.

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Don't you hate it when you have no choice but to be a good sport?

After coaxing me into pathetic poses (to the delight of all), my brother pointed over my shoulder and signaled "turn around".

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Lo and freaking behold...

My only consolation? The disappointed look from the woman in blue lowering her camera.

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So I knew. And Bozo knew that I knew.

Was that the end of the trolling?

Of course not!

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But what could I do except cut and run— with a grinning sociopath in hot pursuit?

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