There was a time, not long ago, when I thought LINDY WEST to be a rare, demure addition to this staff of attention-seeking smut peddlers. The way she handled the recent allegations about her "racist scarf"—well, in my opinion, her response to all that nonsense provided not just a virtuous defense of modest dress and cross-cultural adventurism, but also a shining example of how The Stranger's otherwise pernicious weblog can be used as a force for good amid the moral wasteland of the intersphere. In fact, I was so moved by Ms. West's actions that at the time I praised her on this new Twitterpage I have been given (a thing that I honestly despise and would not bother with if I didn't have an assistant to operate it for me). But now I take all 140 of those stately, dictated characters back.
This week, Ms. West pens a deranged manifesto that purports to catalog "The Different Kinds of People That There Are," and in doing so defames my old barrister (and former Washington senator) Slade Gorton, talks dirty to the wife of Jimmy Stewart (patriot, friend, and a man who does not deserve to have his companion's nether-regions discussed in these filthy pages), and uses two phrases that are so disgusting I am unwilling—nay, unable—to reproduce them in type in this space. My assistant may transcribe them if need be. [Eleanor here. They are "herpes of the eyeball" and "diarrhea of the heart." Ew.] I realize I have said this many times over the years in summing up the output of these imbeciles, but never have I said it with so much certainty: I have no idea what is being discussed in this piece of writing. I suspect the phrase "end up at the bar and the only snacks available are Rainier tallboys" had something to do with the travesty of journalism that is now being called this week's "feature" (though I personally find Rainier to be nonpotable swill and do not even want to know what a "tallboy" is). I also suspect that some mush-brained readers will be mollified by Ms. West's insubstantial prose style. But I am not amused. You disappoint me, Ms. West; I thought you were an upright woman of taste.
Elsewhere in this issue, we find a "Stranger investigation"—a phrase so unnatural that it should cause the Earth itself to burst into flame—about the career of Christina Orr-Cahall, the new CEO and director of Paul Allen's Experience Music Project. Apparently, JEN GRAVES takes issue with Ms. Orr-Cahall's long-ago refusal to display homosexual pornography in an art gallery. Allow me, then, in the one tiny corner of The Stranger committed to rational thought, to welcome Ms. Orr-Cahall: I applaud your brave choices in the past, and I encourage you to apply that same steady curatorial hand to your new museum. Perhaps the Experience Music Project would become bearable if you were to exercise your demonstrably fine judgement and excise the caterwauling-with-instrument-abuse that The Stranger celebrates as "music." Ms. Orr-Cahall, shall we meet for a martini and discuss civilized matters sometime? I like the cut of your jib.
Follow A. Birch Steen at www.twitter.com/strangerslog.
