I was making my way into my almost-last Fringe show this past spring (Captain Discovery: The Edible Musical) when I was accosted, among the throng of eight or nine people crowding into a closet otherwise known as the Jamie Mykins Theater, by a young man wearing what looked something like a centurion’s helmet.
“I’ve got something for you,” he said, and he reached into his backpack and handed me a CD.