Every few weeks, we here on the Di-Gel desk like to go through our junk mail. What letters we don't pass along to the FBI, we like to print. We do this for two reasons: 1) In most classic mass-communications diagram situations, a vigorous dialogue between sender and receiver is considered vital to continued successful message transmission and ongoing avoidance of "channel noise," and 2) it beats heck out of working. This episode's letters arrived from several exotic locations.
Dear Cap'n Dave, Since I moved to Houston (pronounced "youston" for you all who think Arizona is a Western state) six months ago, I have been going through withdrawals. There are no New Times on any newsstands here. Thanks to my co-fans who share my love for you, I get your column in photocopy form each week! So, it's a little late . . . I still get my laughs. You are a GREAT writer!!! Not exactly White House staff material mind you, but right up there with my idol Stephen King. Pretty good company in my book. Okay, so your styles are a bit different and the subject matter different, occasionally. Just the same, you are Great!
I wish you were here to cover the cuisine scene so I could avoid all these places that offer everything blackened, and those sorry places they loosely call Mexican. One thing that you would love though . . . just about everything that isn't blackened is swimming in butter, creamed sausage gravy or some other oily sludge (must be the Exxon influence . . . after all, oil is the Texas way of life).
Actually, the purpose of this letter is to say keep writing, and I thoroughly enjoy you even though I am 1,200 miles away.
Linda honey, If TV anchors were allowed to run their mail, I bet most of it would look like this letter. For me to run it is equally shameless, but it's not often a person gets mail from Houston these days. Thanks, toots. And by the way, I've turned down several offers to serve on the White House staff. Just last week Dan Quayle called to see if I'd be interested in piloting Air Force II around for a while. A tempting offer, I admit, but the last time I flew for him, he insisted we "buzz the Pentagon, just for laughs" while we were landing in Washington.
Dear Cap'n Dave, I've read your column, once, and thought you would like to know about a place where a man can eat.
It's located right off I-17 in Goodyear, Arizona. You can't miss it. To tell you that Perryville-Santa Cruz Kitchen 19 is an eatery is to tell you we're all happy to be here. The food is strict and complies with all state calorie requirements. The hamburgers here are oh, so different. Not to mention their famous SOS plate for hungry-morning munchies. Service is at all times quick and controlled. Try it, if you have the time.
Don't worry, I'm just a dishwasher there who makes thirty cents an hour. Sincerely, Jaime Garcia
Arizona State Prison-Perryville
Jaime, Thanks for the invite, but in checking my appointment calendar I notice that I'm booked up for the next, oh, six million years. P.S. Ask for a raise, man!
And, finally, there was this postcard, which carried a New York City postmark. If anybody out there knows what any of this means, please write soon. I have a feeling I should RSVP, but I don't know where or what for.
See Kenna for the Chinese postcard that goes in this space
Till we eat again . . . What's eating you? Is there a groovy gut-bomb out there you're just dying to share with the world? Hash that's a smash? Write to Cap'n Dave and tell him where to go. Send your napkin notes to: Cap'n Dave, New Times, P.O. Box 2510, Phoenix, AZ 85002.