ANN ROMANO—Yet again, another brilliant display of bodacious wit and unparalleled journalism [One Day at a Time, March 3]. Well, we here at can only wonder why you would NOT consider yourself a suitable match for the adorable Mr. Clooney. Your shining personality and boundless energy to wittily bash others, several of which H. Kip has been said to find alluring, must mean that you yourself are exceptionally beautiful. So what this all means is: WE WANT A PICTURE OF ANN ROMANO! (And it better be recent.) 

-Susan Sweeter


DEAR MERCURY—Oh sure, you are young and hip now, but are you going to realize when you, Wm. Steven Humphrey, wake up someday and have become the next Mark Zusman or Richard H. Meeker?

-Jeffrey M. Arnold


THANK YOU, SCOTT OWENS—I agree with you up to an extent ["Demystified," Letters, March 10]. King Missile did have two great tunes. "My Heart Is a Flower," which sums up 90 percent of the PDX indie scene and beyond. There is also "No Point," with a video everyone has been trying to imitate for decades, a sound that echoes in a lot of indie irony but without the straight-up humor of the original. They were influential, their sound was awful, but the "point" and the sound have been adopted by many of these American indie bands without them maybe even knowing it, a case of cryptomnesia.



DEAR MERCURY—You fucking jackoffs. Five top-notch symphony musicians and their friends invite international composer Gabriel Prokofiev to town, and the Mercury barely mentions it under its DJ listings. Perhaps you could spend a little less time determining which newscaster you'd like to blow, and a little more effort checking out the local music scene.

-Brian Horay, Angry Symphony Guy


DEAR MERCURY—Last week I was in a local coffee shop with my 10-month-old daughter, who was making googly eyes at the iron-haired old lady across the table while I enjoyed a monkey muffin and perused your fine publication. Everything was going swimmingly until the old dear's eyes wandered to the front cover of the paper, which featured a crudely drawn Portland hipster, naked save for an ironic '70s sweatband, riding a llama, drawn with a particularly baggy and visible scrotum [Cover, Feb 17]. At which point her face became strangely rigid and I could just about see her wondering how badly damaged my baby would turn out to be. This week I got a to-go cup of coffee and picked up a Mercury again. And this week it's the Sex Issue. The cover is toned down a bit (It's a still from Flashdance, right?) but it still says "Filthy Sex" in every corner and somehow I feel a little self-conscious rolling it up and putting it under my arm to take home and read later... [Cover, March 10]. Naked welders are great and all, but how about a big-print disclaimer like, "The contents of this paper aren't just pages of naked people (and possibly llamas)." Just so the sweet old lady opposite me doesn't call up child services when I get next week's coffee.


SORRY FOR THE AWKWARD moments, Paul, but we can't help it—you have no idea what llama scrotums do for our pick-up rate! Thanks for reading in spite of judgey old-lady glances, and please enjoy two tickets to the Laurelhurst Theater and lunch at No Fish! Go Fish!, where you'll need to park your llama out back.