I'm walking to the Lantern Church Gym on Tuesday evening, and a darkly tanned woman in a green summer dress flanks me from the right.

"Excuse me, are you a performer?" She asks.

"Oh, I'm media, actually. Kind of." I stammer, having never been mistaken for an actor before. I compulsively produce my press badge, feeling some irrational need to prove this.

"Oh, That's great too. I'm looking to get some people out to my Thursday show." She hands me a playbill.

I thank her, and then immediately notice how far away we are from the theatre. A cold fist closes around my stomach. For whatever reason, as a critic, I always feel that if I'm left alone with an actor, director, writer, technician, etc., they'll find some polite way of asking me: "So what's your fucking problem, man?" But of course she doesn't. She introduces herself, asks what I'm going to see and makes pleasant small talk all the way over to the ticket tent. A day later, I run into some volunteers I've seen before—a girl named December and a charming man with John Lennon spectacles—and we chat as they wait for their box office to be delivered from the Fringe brainhive on Twelfth street. Though many other theatre festivals tout it as one of their fundamental precepts, Fringe is perhaps the only one that's truly inseparable with community that supports it.

The great and terrible thing about Fringe, summarized as only an ancillary member of that community could, is there is nobody who says "no." No one but the artists consider whether or not a project is bankable enough to see a profit return, no one says anything is too risky or risqué, no one says "this line is awful, cut it," no one says "this script is riddled with clichés, heavy revision needed." Fringe is the only festival where I could start off the evening with Cam and Legs, a lovely blend of puppetry, animation and hiphop reminiscent of a Pixar short film, then jet over and see Big Winner, one of the funniest, warmest, most entertaining shows I've seen all year and then finish the day with Wildwood Park, a show which, if nothing else, provides a counterweight to the wit and creativity of the other two.

No one sets limits on Fringe shows, and while the quality of the individual productions vary wildly as a result, this is exactly what lends the festival it's unique character. By nature, Fringe is a level playing field. Artists can experiment, show off or be downright audacious, completely unfettered by the wants of a company or city-specific cliquishness. Compared to something like, say, Ignite!, where it's all-too obvious that casting choices have been influenced (perhaps even unconsciously) by associations within the community, at Fringe, much of the talent is imported, and when it isn't, one person's cachet only extends as far as whoever is doing the casting. The community of the Fringe Festival is just as spontaneous as the festival itself. Like a strange problem in physics, the result is eclectic, esoteric and wonderful, fed by the hectic energy that scintillates in the air when so many creative people pack themselves into such a tight space. It's Fringe, and there really isn't anything else like it.

The show I was going to see the evening I was approached by the woman in green was Big Winner. A short time after I sit down, an older woman and her husband come and sit beside me. She wastes no time in producing a package of saran-wrapped vegetables from her backpack, and begins munching. She elbows me gently, and then holds out a palmful of carrots and tomatoes, raising her eyebrows.

"No thanks," I say.

"It's kind of a late dinner," she laughs. "My husband and I are performers, we don't have a lot of time to get around. We have a show this Friday, Glory Days. It's a romantic comedy about a boxer."

"That sounds great. I'll be sure to check it out."

"Are you a performer?"

"No," I smile. "Just here for the show."