On those rare occasions when I come across an article in this decaying corpse of a newspaper that does not end in me reaching for the emergency eye wash, it is generally not an article written by one of the lazy hatchets-for-hire who pass themselves off as full-time employees. Instead, it is almost always a contribution from a man like myself—a man of serious mind and morals—who has, through some inexplicable twist of fate (and, likely, some illegal-substance-induced confusion on the part of the paper's editors), ended up working for The Stranger on contract. Such is the case with MATTHEW RICHTER, who this week delivers a fine piece on handcrafted submersibles that I recommend to all seafaring men.

Myself, I have been able to see every underwater thing I need to see using the diving bell I constructed many years ago at the Sequim property and now keep aboard the Orrin Hatch. Some warm pajamas, a flask of good bourbon, a machete, and a diving bell, Mr. Richter—that is all a real man needs to tangle with octopi and sea urchins, and to discover whether his mermaid fantasies shall be realized (mine were, but that is a story for another time and for readers over the age of 21). But men will always search out better ways to build a bell, I am sure. Such is "progress." The only real quibble I have with Mr. Richter's tale is of a different sort. It regards the way in which he demeans the noble calling of submersible construction and deep-ocean exploration by laying it on the couch beneath the gaze of some disturbed Freudian psychoanalyst who, predictably, comes up with outlandishly filthy explanations for why men like to peer into the deep beneath. All of them are hooey, I assure you. Sometimes, Mr. Richter, a submersible is just a submersible.

Turning the page, one finds oneself right back in the miasma of illiterate rants and indecipherable fever dreams that normally fill these pages. One, by JEN GRAVES, begins: "Art was being murdered." Which is as concise an explanation of what she has been up to with her criticism as any I have ever read. Bravo, Ms. Graves, for this rare moment of honesty, and readers, you can stop cold at her admission of violent intent. It is all you need to know. Another offering, by that overstuffed reverse transvestite PAUL CONSTANT, makes the mistake of all naive, poverty-destined "humanists" and takes sentiment as the prime mover in this world when, in fact, it is and always has been money. That, "Mr." Constant, and not some lucky find of creaky floorboards that stirred certain fond memories of other creaky floorboards, is why the venerable Elliott Bay Book Company is moving to Capitol Hill. Just be happy it's now so close you can walk there and sweat through only one shirt, and leave the rest to professionals.

As for LINDY WEST, who continues to fall through floor upon floor in the house of my esteem: I have no idea what you just said. In either of your pieces. Please telephone me. I am very concerned.