Of the 52 interminable issues that The Stranger insists on publishing each year, perhaps 2 percent are worth reading—and even then only in brief, confined doses. My general rule, developed over years of painful and unhappy patronage, is that when approaching this paper, it's best not to outstay your welcome; if you stumble across a solid piece of reporting in the news section (as rare as the rarest orchid), it's best to banish the paper to the dustbin before venturing further. To dig deeper into the issue usually results in what I call the three stages of Stranger grief: (1) disbelief at the sheer tonnage of stupidity on display; (2) anger and/or sadness over the amount of time squandered leafing through the packaged tripe; and (3) irreversible damage to memories of quality.
That last stage is usually the cruelest. For The Stranger to publish a complete travesty from front-of-book to back is never a surprise. But during those moments when actual quality is, miraculously, allowed to infiltrate these pages, watching its merits obliterated supernovalike by the sloppy, illegitimate, and at times outright dangerous "journalism" surrounding it is enough to send you reaching for the nearest bottle of rye.
This week's stupor-inducing article is by one SANDY CIOFFI, a documentarian who was detained by Nigerian authorities whilst working on her latest project. In clean, effective words, Cioffi takes the reader through her ordeal, and while reading it there were a number of moments when I fought the urge to flop back to the cover of the issue in order to confirm that I was, in fact, still reading The Stranger. This, after all, is a publication whose feature section is often reserved for stories by admitted girly men (see Constant, Paul) and the sort of deep political thought gleaned from deep within the recesses of a bong (see Sanders, Eli). In this setting, obviously, Cioffi's splendid work can't help but stand out—and thankfully, standing out isn't its only merit.
Unfortunately, the remainder of this week's offerings are as fetid as usual. The news section finds JONAH SPANGENTHAL-LEE spilling still more words on nightclubs (file under department of keeping major advertisers happy) and new hire DOMINIC HOLDEN writing the most boring In Other News item in history. As for the various arts sections, they continue to be populated by the deaf, blind, and dumb. In the deaf department, music editor ERIC GRANDY returns from a trip—and of course I use the word "trip" here in the drug-addled sense—to the Sasquatch! music festival in Eastern Washington, where, according to his foul-named column, he developed a few uninteresting insights into bands that no one has ever heard of (or wanted to hear of). In the blind department, movie columnist LINDY WEST tries—and fails—to convince us that this year's SIFF opening-night party was worth a damn. And in the dumb department, theater critic BRENDAN KILEY continues to overwrite himself into irrelevance. I should have followed my own rule and stopped reading at Ms. Cioffi's last word, and I recommend, dear readers, that you do yourselves a favor and learn from my example. 
