secret indulgence of the week

Actually, I very covertly indulge in this every week - and now, with the weekend edition, twice weekly. Here it is: I enjoy MidWeek. Sue me.

Most people I know hate everything about it: how much space it takes up in their mailbox, the ads that fall all over the place when you open it, Bob Jones, Michelle Malkin ...
What the hell is Amy Alkon talking about? Why do the Style pages always look the worst? Susan Page rails against public school because she had to sit in the mud at her son's soccer games? Did all the copy editors go on strike? Did this REALLY happen to Ron Nagasawa? Who thinks up the weekly poll topic ... and why?! Does Pamela Young personally track down all those people that readers thank for returning their purses?

I think it's all these things I roll my eyes about that I secretly like, and cherish the fact that they are a part of this oh-so-local publication. I look forward to spotting at least one person I know or know of in the Pa'ina section, and it's a fun little ritual to look at the style section and mentally re-place the wiped-off features on each model's face. And Roy Chang rocks. The syndicated political columns (and the caustic Amy Alkon) seem so out-of-place in this otherwise (sometimes) too-good-natured weekly. Is there another paper in the world that will poll people on what they've always wished their names were, or that will devote over twelve column inches to applauding people who pull over on the freeway to give you a hand changing your tire? (Actually, is there another place in America where people will still voluntarily pull over on the freeway without worrying about getting shot?)

I may make fun of MidWeek like everyone else (how can you not laugh at something called MidWeek: the Weekend?), but I really do check the rest of the pile of mail to make sure I didn't get one of those cards you're supposed to fill out in case they choose you to cut from their mailing list. When I get tired of reading about the world going to hell in a fiery, bullet-riddled handbasket over depictions of the prophet Muhammad, I turn to Jade Moon, who revitalizes my belief in the aloha spirit, or to Rick Hamada for good advice on how to cross the street. (Rick Hamada, he's the man. He's not the man sitting next to the man. He's not the man sitting next to the man sitting next to the man. He's the MAN! ... former KHVH listener, sorry.)

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