Hedwig And The Angry Inch Today

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer’s voice cracked over the feedback, "whether you like it or not... Hedwig!"

She adjusted the towering blonde wig—a majestic architectural feat of synthetic fiber—and checked the jagged scar between her legs. It was her "Angry Inch," the surgical souvenir of a botched operation and a passport to a freedom that felt more like a cage. Hedwig and the Angry Inch

Hedwig sang louder. She sang until her throat burned, tell-all tales of Plato’s symposium and the search for the other half—the soulmate torn away by jealous gods. She ripped off her wig, revealing the sweat-slicked head beneath, shedding the costume of the victim. "Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer’s voice cracked over