The Paulownia elongata is the fastest-growing hardwood tree on the planet. Several enthusiastic botanists have reported first-year Paulownia growth as ridiculously high as 12 to 17 feet. Because these trees grow so prolifically and maintain such high quality in their wood fibers all the while, they are a sentimental favorite of the logging and paper industries. This means that the copy of The Stranger you are holding in your hands, more likely than not, is at least partially composed of Paulownia elongata. I share this information so that we can mourn together for these trees; it is an immense arboreal tragedy to see such a useful and dignified plant give its life for something so petty and incompetent.
It appears to be junior-league week at The Stranger: Two major pieces in this edition are written by freelance so-called writers for the music section. In a bloated feature, TRENT MOORMAN splays the melodrama of his misbegotten love life onto the printed page for all Capitol Hill's degenerates and sycophants to mock. To fully apprehend the tragicomedy of this piece is nigh impossible: Moorman's relationship woes are so insignificant that reading about his psychic torment seems laughable. That he believes the rest of us would care about this manufactured pain is even more ridiculous.
After choking down that simulated angst, we turn to the theater section, where overblown crybabies are supposed to get their due. CHRISTOPHER DELAURENTI scribbles out what feels like a few thousand monotonous words about Seattle Opera's most recent staging of The Ring. It is a ridiculous tirade, ignorant of facts. The only Seattle landmark greater than the Opera's production of The Ring is Seattle Opera's general director Speight Jenkins himself, and when Jenkins mounts a production, you can be sure that that production stays mounted. It is true that Jenkins and I have a great many similar interests—most notably, we founded a monthly cheese-tasting club together (your turn to bring the Camembert next time, Speight, old bean!)—but I believe I can objectively say that everything Jenkins touches is flawless. That DeLaurenti can fabricate so many errors in a Seattle Opera production is only indicative of his deficiencies as a human being.
And speaking of deficient human beings, there are yet more entire pages full of them on parade in this wretched installment of The Stranger, particularly in the music section, in which a veritable who's who of the caterwauling preadolescent rebel set (spearheaded, as always, by SEAN NELSON) join Mr. Moorman in blathering on endlessly about traveling the country in a drug-induced haze. And in as good a representation as any of The Stranger's regulars, JEN GRAVES titters about "malicious erections" in a too-long diatribe about spite. There are no erections more malicious, Ms. Graves, than your smut rag's hideous distribution boxes on every street corner in Seattle; the bilge they produce should be outlawed, and they no doubt will become illegal contraband when my good friend Susan Hutchison is declared King County executive this November.
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