While it is true that I chafe at all this modern-day workers' rights nonsense, there is one union-spawned development that I am in favor of: Regular vacations are, I believe, a necessary evil. Even the hardiest of souls occasionally require a respite, a week off once a year or two to divest themselves of the quotidian grind. What I do not understand is why everyone on the staff of The Stranger decided to take a week off at the same time.
Bear witness to the fruits of slackery: The longest story this week is "Worn Out," which is allegedly The Stranger's annual fashion feature. (If there was an installment of Worn Out last year, I have blessedly forgotten it entirely.) The average reader probably has no idea how laughable the concept of such a feature is. To illustrate, allow me to describe what a few of the reprobates at The Stranger were wearing during a recent visit to the offices to pick up my weekly pittance for manning this column. Dominic Holden and Paul Constant were both wearing "tee-shirts" of an ill-fitting variety. Mr. Constant's shirt asked, "WHERE'S THE CHILI DOGS?"—as pathetic a plea as any I have ever seen scrawled on a cardboard hobo sign. Mr. Holden's shirt was emblazoned with the words "I [heart] WIENERS," which is about all that need be said about that.
Further, Charles Mudede was wearing some sort of elaborate caftan, which I assume has something to do with "reclaiming" his "heritage," Jen Graves was swathed from head to toe in leopard-print fabrics, and Cienna Madrid appeared to be garbed in some sort of hosiery without benefit of further coverage for her unmentionable bits. These mutants have the audacity to give Seattle sartorial guidance? The fact that this is all a slapdash, last-minute attempt to fill some pages after a weeklong drug and/or perverted-sex-act bacchanalia is obvious. The fact that a Worn Out fashion show is to take place—at the otherwise respectable ACT Theatre, just two days after this so-called newspaper lands in your unenviable hands—is unthinkable but, apparently, true. In a word: boycott.
Following that bit of filler, we have a "photo essay" in the music section by KELLY O and DAVE SEGAL celebrating young people who violently throw themselves at the floor to the tune of hippity-hop music. This must have taken all of four minutes to toss together, even under the influence of the strongest narcotics.
And the cavalcade of Stranger- writers-on-mental-if-not-physical-holiday continues: NEWS: The apathy oozing from Miss Madrid's shameful tirade about Rich O'Neill is palpable; if you're going to write a hit piece, Miss Madrid, at least care enough to make a coherent point... CHOW: Brendan Kiley churns out 1,200 words about barbecue—another troubling sign that Mr. Kiley's tendency toward the verbose with even the most banal subjects (cocaine, peep shows, bedbugs) is getting out of hand... VISUAL ART: Miss Graves pays homage to the execrable Joni Mitchell while writing about some subject or another that has absolutely no bearing on life as we know it... CONTROL TOWER: If even one human being can prove that he actually reads this testament to tedium, I will eat my Borsalino.