Essence of the Fringe, II: Sitting in my front room having a chat this afternoon, something akin to a tremondous boombox seems to be coming down the street, drowning out my own music. As it looms oppressively close and loud, my interlocutor and I look out into our quiet residential side street to see the front of what looks at first like a gigantic tour bus, but then turns into a flatbed truck carrying a scaffolding and six or eight rubber-clad performers, cheerily waving at the few terrified people who might be peering out the windows of our sleepy gray apartment block.

Presumably they took a wrong turn at Albuquerque.