HEY FOLKS: I know you're set up around a weekly printing schedule, but that's just not going to cut it anymore.  You've got a website... start doing rolling updates! Why? Because I have a date on Thursday. What are we going to do? I don't know. Because the Mercury won't tell me what to do until that very day. Please, you must begin doling out your guidance in careful rations every day, instead of just one great steaming lump per week.


WM. STEVEN HUMPHREY RESPONDS: Barry... you are absolutely right. But don't worry! We are mere weeks away from rolling out new website options that are designed to answer those concerns, and BLOW YOUR FREAKING MIND! The Mercury is committed to being your one-stop shop for all the fun in Portland, and to supply that info as soon as we get it!


DEAR MERCURY: You clueless dorks—you could have saved a lot of time and risky travel by simply walking North Killingsworth from Interstate to MLK at 3 am ["Best of 3:AM," Feature, Aug 10]. You'd see your fill of puffy black bitches yakking on cellies at the MAX station, crack-dealing pimps congregating in the shadows of PCC's Technology Center, sporadic gunfire, a belligerent brother shouting death threats and eating a full plate of chicken bones in somebody's front yard, a trail of curly black hair extensions along the sidewalk left from the last girl fight, being hit up for a "quarter" (?) every five minutes, and numerous orphaned Honey Buckets placed conveniently in vacant lots just screaming to be tipped over.

Lux Nunchucks


DEAR MERC: Though I thought your "Best of 3:AM" [Feature, Aug 10] offered late-night diversions for just about every taste, you left out one of my new faves: BEST PLACE TO TAKE YOUR LIFE INTO YOUR OWN HANDS IN A HORNY STUPOR! I am, of course, referring to the pedestrian walkway along the south side of Powell between SE 16th and 20th. Driving around Portland at 3 am looking for sex is usually less then eventful, but last week I saw a sexy-looking guy around the entrance to the walkway. Well, the things that make it ideal for a quick public sexual encounter also make it an ideal place for a mugging, or worse. Once down there, you are virtually unseen from the streets and yelling would go unheard. The sexy guy was in the middle of the tunnel sitting on the floor. He had a long metal club, which looked like the leg of a metal desk. It was clear this was a bad idea, so I walked quickly through. Great place for a late-night quickie, but bring your own club.Dan


EDITOR: You stole most of your clever remarks about "ghost riding" directly from a song without attribution ["Best of 3:AM," Feature, Aug 10]. The lyrics of "Ghost Ride It," by Oakland's Mistah F.A.B. include "get out the way and let Casper drive," "the Ghostbusters, they the police," and "who is that driving? Patrick Swayze." I understand the temptation of blatantly jacking his ideas and thinking you can get away with it: He's a black artist, on an independent label, and largely unknown (at this point) outside of the Bay Area (where he is wildly popular). But it is nevertheless extremely weak sauce to pretend those are your lines. Here's an idea: Give credit where credit is due, and let the artists have some shine, or get off of the hyphy movement's nuts and let 'em breathe a little bit—you punk-rock beezies.

Sketchy BYO, SKETCHY B! We love Mistah F.A.B.! Check out Chas Bowie's new podcast show, "It's the Jump Off," on the first episode of which he played that very track! But for pointing out that not everyone's going to get the reference to F.A.B.'s work, you win two tickets to the Laurelhurst Theater and $30 to No Fish! Go Fish! where the nuts are always allowed to breathe (and there's never any "weak sauce").