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A Performing Arts Festival That's Always On Edge
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But the certificate from the tentmaker states that the tent and its parts are fireproof, and the curtain is part of the tent, Brienza says.
Sorry, the clerk says. No.
Back at the office, Brienza calls the tent company in Canada asking for a letter attesting that the curtain is part of the tent. "I'm totally not kidding you," Brienza says when tent man protests that he has already certified that. "I would not call and ask for this if I was not serious."
Sorry, tent man replies. We have no other certification. No one has ever asked for this before.
Brienza calls the District and begs. Nothing doing.
At which point Scot McKenzie, the festival director, walks in to announce that a D.C. meter maid just ticketed everyone's cars.
The talk turns to rats -- not a rant against the traffic police, but against the actual rodents that are the old restaurant's main tenants. Staffers have taken to drowning the pests, and there is some optimism that the human beings are winning.
Just as there is optimism that the shows, or at least a fair number of them, will be good. The fun of the Fringe is in the risk-taking, both on stage and by the audience. This is not art you select by reviews you read in the paper. You pick shows based on the flimsiest of come-ons. Sometimes you are richly rewarded with a first glance at talent others will discover years down the road. Other times you see, as I have in past years, a tiresome political tirade by a sweaty man who believes that comparing the president to Hitler is the height of hilarity, or a singer whose skills don't carry outside of her shower.
To engage in the Fringe is to take a flier on life. Which is why Brienza waits one more day and shows up again at the District's offices.
The gods of culture shine upon her: A different fire inspector is at the desk. Curtain's fine with him. The plans are stamped, and the shows will go on. In bureaucracy, as in art, it's all about people and persistence.
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