TO WM. STEVEN HUMPHREY: I just thought you might get a kick out of knowing that the only reason I even bother to arise from my nice, warm bed on Thursday mornings is so I can rush to the coffee shop, get a Mercury, and read "I Love Television." You are the most hilarious goddamn writer that I have ever come across (comparable only, perhaps, to the likes of Tom Robbins), and you are my hero.

Sarah Leimert


TO PORTLANDIA: I couldn't believe all of the horrendous lies contained in your article on the Partridge Family Temple ["C'mon, Get Violent!" Jim Redden, Oct 5]. I thought my television was getting poor reception.

I was not wearing a paisley shirt; I was wearing a shirt with psychedelic flowers on it. I was not wearing black bell-bottoms; I was wearing black stretch pants. Our walls are not red; they are orange, blue, green, yellow, purple, and pink. (We do have a red ceiling, however.) These lies did hurt me very much, and my soul did suffer.

However, I know that doesn't cancel you, only makes you more groovy. Gotta go now, I've got a lovely delicious delightful warm glass of urine to drink. Mmm, mmm, good.

Shaun Partridge


TO THE EDITOR: As president of " The Officer Partridge Fan Club," I would like to tell the real story as it happened the night of said conflict at Fellini. The woman in question shattered a full pint glass of beer on Officer Partridge's head; she punched him viciously several times while attempting to work the green beret death hold on his supple neck. He gallantly deflected her monumental blows, sending her drunk ass stumbling to the ground. When he rushed to the poor little ex-marine's side to help her up, she leapt into the air and began pummeling him with striking force. When he tried to explain Gandhi's principle of nonviolence, her extremely large and powerful black-belt biker boyfriend sidled up behind Officer Partridge and began beating on him with brass knuckles. Officer Partridge, now bleeding, stood stoic like a superhero fighting The Axis. He called to the waitress to phone the police. "Anything for yoooou, Officer Partridge," she cooed. Upon hearing that his fellow policemen were on their way, the violent subhumans fled the scene as Officer Partridge n' Friends stayed to talk to the cops. One month later, Jim Redden poops a large pile into a bowl and eats the whole thing!

Debra Jean Danger (a.k.a. Peaches Partridge)


TO EVERETT TRUE: Putting They Might Be Giants in the same category as Steely Dan and the goddamn Barenaked Ladies makes me pity you, Everett True [Up & Coming, Oct 12]. Why spend your time joining the " public displays of stupidity" ranks of George W. and Lon Mabon when you could be listening--really listening--to one of the finest bands that has ever graced this beautiful green earth?

To label TMBG as " comedy rock" tells me you have never listened to a complete album. They Might Be Giants has proven again and again their deep understanding of tonal harmony, unique lyrics and the importance of individual album ambience. I would suggest you have formed your opinion of the band based on the majority of their fans, who, I readily admit, are largely shrill, becloaked Dungeons and Dragons fanatics. I would also suggest that you, in the time-honored tradition of music critics everywhere, have your head deeply planted within your own ass.

Marianna Ritchey


TO MARIE MARTIN: I look forward to your column " Dating Tips for Horny Boys." I was especially fond of the earlier " do" and "do not" lists, but I've also enjoyed the handy condom index and most recently, the intimate details of your crushes [" My Rampant Crushes," Oct 12]. (I really fall for men with repressed Southern accents. All you have to do is get them drunk.) In any case, the only flaw I can find in your wonderful articles is that they don't appear every week!

Jane Friar