It was the modern-day philosopher Jerry Lewis who taught us that, deep down, clowns make us laugh because they are at heart very sad. (Unfortunately, Mr. Lewis inexplicably abandoned his promising career as a comedian to raise money for a few sick children who must be in their late 50s by now.) Based on the number of times LINDY WEST has "clowned around" in the past few issues of The Stranger, I have diagnosed her as a depressive personality. The great tragedy in all of this is that this particular sad clown is not funny at all—instead of laughter, she inspires a vigorous round of tut-tuttery and head shaking from her audience.

For her latest, Miss West visits a "Red Tent" event in which women "celebrate" their Monthly Curses as though they were not a God-issued punishment for tempting Adam in the Garden of Eden. This is news? This is entertainment? Regarding the fetid, swampy hippie outpost that is Vashon Island—the setting for this "story"—a certain expression involving fishes and barrels comes to mind. That Miss West chose the unspeakable horror of menses as the medium in which to write her cry for help was, I suppose, inevitable. To be overly fair, it is in some way admirable that Miss West at least left the comfort of Capitol Hill to bring the mocker to the mockee, but if the end result is a litany of unbearable so-called observations on bodily fluids and genitalia, what does any of this matter?

Speaking of "What does any of this matter": The "news" section of The Stranger is fit to burst with hypocrisy and navel-gazing this week. ELI SANDERS continues his primary-season hit pieces on right-thinking candidates, this time leveling the charge of "carpetbaggery" on upstanding young go-getter Mike Heavey. This bit of codswallop is obviously The Stranger's way of responding to Mr. Heavey's Seattle Times endorsement. It is baseless, shameless, and borderline illegal, which is to say it is par for the course for Mr. Sanders, whose downward spiral continues apace.

Meanwhile, fiery Latina CIENNA MADRID brings her borderline understanding of toddler-level English to a complex issue: the city of Seattle's attempt to "road-diet" a busy thoroughfare into a three-inch strip of bicycle-friendly grass. And CHARLES MUDEDE pens an eye-opening argument about race relations. No, I jest; please forgive my sarcasm. Sometimes a public editor wearies of writing the same thing again and again. It is as unreadable, pretentious, and ignorant as anything Mr. Mudede has ever written.

Meanwhile, in the music section, the comely ERICA GRANDY writes about Seattle-area musical groups that have the same name as other musical groups. Suffice it to say, this is not Miss Grandy's finest hour; perhaps she is trying to usurp Miss West's "throne" as The Stranger's resident funnywoman? In that case, Miss Grandy, let me give you some advice: The queen is dead, and you do not want to be the new queen. Unless, of course, we are talking about queen of my heart, in which case, you should ring me up posthaste. I am accepting applications for that very position as we speak.

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