As The Stranger's art director, you might expect me to regret the shamefully exorbitant number of design errors that pollute this fish wrapper week after week--typographical anomalies, ridiculous color choices, idiotic art, etc. As the empty bottle of Talisker under my desk can attest, working with Stranger editor Dan Savage requires infinite patience, flexibility, and pain-dulling agents. And while I am sorry for my mistakes, I think it's much more productive to regret his.

Namely, I regret Mr. Savage's taste in men. I have an affinity for the three B's--big, burly, and bearded--while Mr. Savage operates under an "if there's grass on the field" frame of mind (i.e., he likes teenagers). This may not seem like a real problem, but it is. It explains why The Stranger's special issues--our Strangercrombie issue, our Valentine's Day issue--are always littered with hairless girly-boy waifs instead of thick-furred truckstop daddies. If Mr. Savage had better taste, every page of The Stranger would be a celebration of the hirsute beefcake. We would throw our holiday parties at The Cuff. We would make slanderous comments about Ashton Kutcher's skinny little arms, and not George Nethercutt's flapping man-boobs.

As it stands, the only art-related issue is that Mr. Savage and I agree on is that the photo of the two women on p. 12 was nightmare-inducing, and won't happen again.