Every so often, a Stranger writer will choke out a "feel-good" piece. There are three possible reasons for this:
1. They are trying to give the impression of being what my Hebraic colleagues would refer to as a "mensch," because the writer of the piece is facing an impending court date for shoplifting, driving under the influence, or some sort of racketeering offense, and the state-appointed lawyers have suggested that a good deed would help sway the jury.
2. They are trying to seduce one of the subjects of the story, and the usual methods—drugs and/or duct tape—are not working.
3. The court has demanded a good work as part of a misguided soft-on-crime "community service" plea bargain.
Because I am not given to rumor-mongering and libel—because, in short, I am not a "reporter" for The Stranger—I will not speculate which of these three options applies to JEN GRAVES, who dedicates thousands of words (apparently written in no particular order) this week to a socialist "Arts Corps" that is supposed to teach children how to be artists. We are supposed to buy this hogwash as some sort of good work, when instead it is simply a smoke screen. If you want to perform some genuinely good works, Miss Graves, perhaps you should try writing about the disgrace of a public education system that is destroying the future of Washington State? Nobody cares if children can finger-paint or bang on a drum and feel good about themselves while they are doing it; everybody cares if these same children can do basic mathematics or read at a level commensurate with even the average Stranger reader, for whom I am including this handy summary: "Graves boring. No sex or fart joke. Dan Savage in back of paper."
In other parts of the paper, the monstrously obese transvestite known as PAUL CONSTANT devotes dozens of column inches in praise of an author. Unremarkably, said author is appearing at an event sponsored by The Stranger, during which Mr./Miss Constant will appear onstage with said author and a "rock and roll" band. Did I mention that unlucky atendees are expected to spend five dollars for the "privilege"? And that Constant will presumably get his/her grubby, pork-smeared hands on the proceeds for this event that s/he is promoting? I have a call in to the Better Business Bureau even as we speak. In the restaurants section, the tiresome BETHANY JEAN CLEMENT scribbles another adoring review, this time of whatever travesty has replaced luxurious Lampreia. I am not sure where the conflict of interest lies in this story—positive press in the hopes of free alcohol, perhaps?—but I assure you there is something.
And lest you think you are lucky enough to read a CHARLES MUDEDE—less issue of The Stranger, I bear bad tidings for you: He blathers about a hippity-hop act in the music section. Oddly for Mr. Mudede, however, he refrains from mentioning mammary glands or Karl Marx even once. Who are you, sir, and what have you done with the real Charles Mudede?