HARRY SHEARER
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As a one-time New Yorker, a former copy and editorial writer, I found Harry Shearer’s trite “High Desert Drifters” (Man Bites Town, April 8) devoid of humor, style or interest. At thirty- or fortysomething, who is he trying to impress with his reminiscences of a mescaline trip gone awry? Who cares? It was so loosely tied in to New Yorkers and what neighborhoods or delis they habituate, that surely I missed something.
His T.W. (“Then Wife,” as he calls his ex-spouse) is well rid of this bore.
BARBARA HOLTZMAN, San Bernardino
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