I have been informed by my little niece, Castina Platte-Steen, that a rumor has been circulating on the World Wireless Web that The Stranger's public editor (namely, me) has all these years been nothing but a sort of "hand puppet," or alter ego, for thankfully departed managing editor Bradley Steinbacher. Now that Steinbacher has moved on to better things (he was last seen at the corner of 12th and Denny, trying to use a half-consumed Twix bar to lure prostitutes into the back of his van), perhaps this rumor can finally be put to bed. I am a real human being: I laugh, I bleed, I live in Magnolia. Stranger publisher Tim Keck's father and I were in the same award-winning a cappella group back in our Yalie days. And when Chip Keck heard through the alumni newsletter that I was giving up day-to-day control of my strip-mining concern and taking up residence in this lovely city, he asked me to keep an eye on his little Timmy. The best way for me to do that is from the public editor's perch, so here I am.
Now that I have put that egregiously wrong-headed rumor to bed, hopefully for good, I will gratefully cease writing about myself—yes, it is true, I am one of the few people at this publication who believes that the first-person form of writing is mainly a crutch grabbed at by the feebleminded and narcissistic—and return to my solemn duties. Which, unfortunately, begin with the news section.
Let's flip quickly through this wasteland of lies and libels, because we have seen it all before: The supposedly wronged lesbians crying to a credulous DOMINIC HOLDEN, the attempts by CHRIS KISSEL to wiggle even further into the pocket of the nightclub industry, the shameless efforts of JONAH SPANGENTHAL-LEE to turn his online porn addiction into a matter of public import, and of course the misguided mewlings of ELI SANDERS, who wouldn't know a new political idea if it slapped him—though I sincerely wish one would.
On to the feature, in which BRENDAN KILEY apparently ventures down to the local Hot Topic store branch and becomes what my niece jeeringly refers to as "a gothic," which I understand is a type of teenager obsessed with death. Though Mr. Kiley's funeral-business story is surprisingly well written (which for Mr. Kiley means that his sentences are made up of both subjects AND predicates), one wishes that he had obeyed that long-standing court order relating to his "strong personal interest" in graveyards and his tendency to be found in them in trench-coat-and-tube-socks attire. I, for one, am tired of being called as a witness for the prosecution during the summer months, and I fear it is now about to happen again.
Lastly, in regards to the books lead, in which young homosexual STEVEN BLUM interviews noted homosexual humorist David Sedaris, I have only three words: Way. Too. Gay. 
