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.
I heart your writing.
PUBLIC EDITOR, the hilariously fake, self effacing opener for this otherwise piece of shit local rag, is the only worthwhile page in the this turd of a ‘paper’. At least the Stranger has a sense of humor enough to make fun of itself.