Every week, the prancing ponies at The Stranger expect you to feel guilty about something. Do you own a car? You should feel guilty. Do you enjoy seeing beautiful women? You should feel guilty. Whatever it is, it never fails to annoy and exasperate. This week's feature is so inane that it transcends mere idiocy to become something more pathetic: It's pure whiteface, a kabuki-style dance of apology and guilt from a pasty-skinned, golden-ringleted white woman to other ethnicities, which she automatically assumes are more "noble" and good than she.

Do I even need to tell you that we are dealing with JEN GRAVES here? This massive apologia (over 5,000 words, from its opening whine to its final whip of self-flagellation) is nothing less than irresponsible, narcissistic, and ridiculous. Miss Graves apologizes to Seattle's people of color (or, more specifically, people of one color; Miss Graves is, interestingly, obsessed with blacks, leaving Seattle's many Asians, Native Americans, and Latinos almost completely out of her discussion). She interviews groups of white people who have nothing better to do with their time than feel upset at what they perceive to be their own racism. She publicly autopsies her own racial faux pas with a kind of breathless, confessional glee—almost a kind of sexual pleasure.

One imagines that on the day this issue is published, her autoexcoriation finally printed on paper, Miss Graves will run through the Central District or Rainier Valley, waving this self-obsessed diary of unnecessary guilt over her head, bellowing, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" all the while. And one can imagine the hardworking people of those neighborhoods wondering at the ruckus, shaking their heads, and lowering their blinds, thinking, "What's that crazy white woman going on about?" To these ethnic Seattleites, I can assure you: Even we whites have no idea what that crazy white woman is going on about. She is a soldier in a pretend war that is entirely of her own making. She begs for your forgiveness, but she deserves only your pity.

Elsewhere in this issue: A shockingly useful pullout guide to Bumbershoot, mercifully free of the usual vituperative garbage for which The Stranger is known... An inexplicably glowing profile by MEGAN SELING of the Seattle Center employee who competently programs the music at the International Fountain... A tandem effort in navel-gazing by CHARLES MUDEDE and GRANT BRISSEY, corralled on one page for convenient ignoring... A food review by one KATHERINE LONG, who in writing about the Eastside completely neglects its very fine fine-dining... And BRENDAN KILEY profiles a gentleman who wants to renovate the former Lusty Lady into an arts business of some sort. Even though this piece can be found in the theater section, it is winningly about an entrepreneur with a plan, which explains how I made it to the end.