
In Which Three WCP Theater Critics Set Out To Discuss Matters of Pressing Import, But Get Stuck Bitching About Draconian Late-Seating Policies, Tapped Kegs and The Fact That The Apothecary is HOT AS BALLS.
Glen Weldon: All right, Graham. Klimek. It’s about time we blew the lid off a subject that THE MAN doesn’t want us to talk about. A topic TOO HOT for polite discussion. An issue that cuts to the very heart of the meat of the bone of the gist of Fringe.
Late seating. Comma why Fringe does not permit.
Look: The rest of the year, I loathe latecomers as much as any thinking person. They stumble over you in the brief darkness between scenes 2 and 3, reeking of entitlement and Chardonnay. They are to be mocked, abjured, pelted with fruit.
But something happened this year. Is happening. And it’s particular to Fringe: For the first time in my four years as a theater critic, I’ve been late to two shows in one week.
Neither time was my fault, except in the sense that both were totally my fault. (Graham, you’re a stickler for this; care to share your prim, nanny-like stance with the class?) Nevertheless, I submit that DC’s random! 20! minute! Green Line delays and rush hour gridlock on Mass Ave. played supporting roles.
Last Wednesday, when I sprang out of the unmoving cab four blocks away from the Goethe Institut, ran/hobbled through the broth-like air to arrive at PRECISELY 6:00 ON THE DOT, I was turned aside by the Fringe volunteer at the door.
“We’re closed,” she said.
Perched on my forearm, my falcon Cholmondeley let forth a querulous squawk from beneath his hood; he sensed my surprise.
“I’m …. sorry?” I asked.
“Closed,” she said. “The show’s started. You can go to the box office to get a later ticket, or try to get a refund, if you …”
“My good lady,” I said, tossing my vermilion opera cape over one shoulder with a flourish. “Do you know …. who… I …. am?”
She blinked at me, saying nothing. Clearly my erudition and breeding had dazzled the poor, dull thing.
I rapped the silver handle of my walking stick (an exquisite piece, shaped into the head of a doberman, with eyes of polished onyx) against the table peremptorily.
“Come come,” I said, “I am Glen Weldon. Of the Washington. City. Paper. …’s blog. I am a CRITIC.”
She stared.
“Your petty laws do not apply to one such as I,” I said. Cholmondeley’s feathers ruffled in sympathy. “Now let me in, that’s a good girl, and I shan’t report this affront to various and sundry Fringe board members, with whom I play whist and peasant-chess every fortnight. They will surely dock your pay, insolent wretch.”
“I’m a volunteer, fuckface,” she spat.
Read more Critical Mass: The Unbearable Lateness of Being a Fringegoer and Other Matters