Richard Meltzer

We got word that someone was saying bad things about Los Angeles and we acted promptly. As the media surrogate for millions of tan and tranquil Californians, it was our unpleasant duty to have a little talk with the only angry man in the City of Angels. As we approached the old Miracle Mile area apartment building in which Richard Meltzer, 43, lives, a woman strolled down the sidewalk wearing a "Born to Act" T-shirt. A television sat on a manicured lawn.

Richard Meltzer is an inspiration to anyone like me who lives in Southern California simply because I was born here and can't afford to move ("L.A. Basher: A Little Talk on the Wild Side" by Bob Sipchen, Sept. 23). Everyone here is just a phony that can't come up with their own personality so they copy television, movie and rock stars. Los Angeles is the land of gangs, yuppies, heavy metalers, prostitutes. . . . Anyone who actually enjoys living here is truly sick in the head. Richard can't be blamed for cowering in his apartment to avoid the kind of airheads that live here.

Richard Meltzer is an inspiration to anyone like me who lives in Southern California simply because I was born here and can't afford to move ("L.A. Basher: A Little Talk on the Wild Side" by Bob Sipchen, Sept. 23). Everyone here is just a phony that can't come up with their own personality so they copy television, movie and rock stars. Los Angeles is the land of gangs, yuppies, heavy metalers, prostitutes. . . . Anyone who actually enjoys living here is truly sick in the head. Richard can't be blamed for cowering in his apartment to avoid the kind of airheads that live here.

We got word that someone was saying bad things about Los Angeles and we acted promptly. As the media surrogate for millions of tan and tranquil Californians, it was our unpleasant duty to have a little talk with the only angry man in the City of Angels. As we approached the old Miracle Mile area apartment building in which Richard Meltzer, 43, lives, a woman strolled down the sidewalk wearing a "Born to Act" T-shirt. A television sat on a manicured lawn.

It saddens me to see Richard Meltzer wishing for what's past and not opening himself up to the great, uncorrupted bands that are making music today ("Meltzer: Rock Is Dead," by Kristine McKenna, April 26). Bands like the Smiths, R.E.M., U2 and Simple Minds have large followings, yet have not changed their ideals and integrity to suit the mass market. These, including such lesser-known (but equally brilliant) acts as the Cocteau Twins, James, Woodentops, the Jazz Butcher and Husker Du, are the Dylans, Beatles and Rolling Stones of the '80s.

Crawdaddy magazine founder Paul Williams, often credited for helping establish the field of rock music criticism in the mid-1960s, died Wednesday at age 64 from complications related to a 1995 bicycle accident. Williams' wife, musician Cindy Lee Berryhill, confirmed her husband's death in a post on Facebook, telling followers, “It was a gentle and peaceful passing. " Williams, according to a note on his official website, "suffered a traumatic brain injury in a bicycle accident, leading to early onset of dementia, and a steady decline to the point where he now requires full-time care.

Freddie Krueger masks--celebrating the serial killer of the "Nightmare on Elm Street" movies--may have ranked among the hottest-selling items this Halloween. But none was in evidence Monday at the Los Angeles Police Department's annual costume contest, judged by Chief Daryl F. Gates. The winner, picked from a lineup of two dozen entrants, was Joyce Atzinger, portraying a crusading knight. A fingerprint-identification expert, Atzinger rode a hoof-less cardboard horse of her own making.

Spider Barbie? In "Sentinel Species," artist Laurie Hassold has created an army of crawling Barbies equipped with extra legs but no heads (so much for the big hair look!). The hundred or so mutant Barbies comprised one of the displays in "The Fragmented Body: Violence or Identity?" a free exhibit appearing at Cal Poly Pomona's art gallery through Nov. 27.

The name Lester Bangs is unknown to the general reading public, but to those who write about rock music, it's nothing short of legendary. Uneven, willfully perverse and self-involved to the point that he occasionally threatened to disappear into himself, Bangs was nonetheless one of the few rock critics who managed to elevate this vilified form of prose into the realm of literature.