Jen Graves on adoption, race, silence, Barack Obama, and the changing American family.

In the world of transracial adoption, you don't have to look very hard to figure out why no one talks about this stuff. Federal adoption laws mandate silence. Social workers aren't allowed to talk to families about whether they already have black friends. They aren't allowed to tell families they might want to get some. Any of that would be seen, according to federal law written in 1996, as a violation of the 1964 Civil Rights Act. The 1996 law prohibits the placement of an adoptee on the basis of race, color, or national origin. Race does not matter, the law says. The American domestic child-welfare system is officially colorblind—or, more to the point, colormute.

Erica C. Barnett on the great wall of Chopp.

Armed with an hour-long PowerPoint presentation and a passion for his proposal that some observers say borders on the pathological, state house Speaker Frank Chopp seems poised to push his costly plan for replacing the Alaskan Way Viaduct—a $2.2 billion, six-lane elevated freeway that would be fronted by a sheer concrete wall—on to the legislature. Next month, the Alaskan Way Viaduct Stakeholders Advisory Committee will narrow the list of viaduct replacement options down to two or three; however, even if Chopp's proposal doesn't make the cut, the powerful house Speaker will almost certainly keep it alive.

Lindy West on Seattle Art Museum's Edward Hopper show and its frustrating wall text.

All the information SAM offers is about content. It is literary. Nothing is about composition. But what the fuck is the point of looking at a painting if you don't tell me anything about why it's a painting? Isn't composition kind of the entire point? Because without it, you could just tell me, "There is a woman sitting at a table," and we could sit there and talk about women in the workforce and the male gaze and whether or not we think this woman sitting at a table is sad and enjoying her fucking sandwich. What I would like to know about Edward Hopper's women is this: Why so many corners? Why is she over there instead of over there? Why is this shade of green the prettiest shade of green that ever greened?

Paul Constant on the Poet Populist, poetry on buses, and bad writing—plus, the best headline ever.

I know mocking someone who reads poetry aloud is rather like actively searching for someone with a weird sexual fetish—the ardent desire to dress up like a pony, say, and then be groomed by a member of the opposite sex—and then publicly mocking that person for trying to fulfill his or her desire in a discreet fashion. Poetry readers generally keep their compulsion to read poetry to the safe confines of poetry readings, and to seek them out and poke fun at them would be the most shameful kind of heartlessness. But the Poet Populist program actively involves us all in this very quest.

Angela Garbes on Bistro Turkuaz in Madrona.

Turkuaz is as warm and welcoming a restaurant as you could ask for: a long, railroad car–skinny room with just 10 tables, copper-colored punched-tin ceilings, crimson and yellow walls, blond wood floors. A tiny set of stairs in the back leads to the kitchen, where you can catch glimpses of chef Ugur Oskay preparing her soul-warming, garlic-laden, perfectly seasoned home-style Turkish food. The cozy dining room is presided over by Oskay's daughter, Dila Bizel, easily Seattle's most charming waitress.

ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: "The Sword Rule—They're The Perfect Opening Act for Metallica" vs. "The Sword Suck—They're the Perfect Opening Act for Metallica", plus tons of other stuff in music; the Anonymous Review Squad in theater, in which (this week) legendary local theater artists review local theater projects anonymously, allowing them to say what they really think; Bethany Jean Clement on the virtues of Vermillion; Jonah Spangenthal-Lee on a dispute between neighbors in Magnolia; Dan Savage on rape-fantasy-related red flags; Mistress Matisse on Craigslist's new policy of charging for erotic services ads; Last Days; another round of Mormon jokes; and more, more, more.