Columnist Scott Dickensheets: Readers weigh in on write and wrong

SCOTT DICKENSHEETS' column appears Tuesdays, Fridays and Sundays. Reach him at 259-4082 or [email protected].

E-MAIL CALL! Time for another periodic roundup of recent correspondence, where the reader always gets the second-to-last word.

Rare is the columnist who isn't delighted when a reader seeks his help in adding depth and nuance to her understanding of the world. "Scott," a reader named Anne wants to know, "what is the world coming to when the Unknown Soldier's identity is revealed and O.J. Simpson is a free man?"

Delighted you asked, Anne, and extra-super-mega delighted to answer. I'm inclined to view these developments as baby steps in human progress -- the Unknown is now known, while the already known is, if not guilty, at least still civilly liable. Or, put another way, the way I put it at bedtime when my children crawl into my lap and ask what the world holds for them: "I really don't know." Thanks for writing, Anne!

And an extra-big-special thanks to another lady -- this one anonymous -- who sent in a pressing question of her own. "Is your name really Dickensheets?" she asks, like many who suspect I'm some ordinary-named bozo trying to advance his career through colorful nom de plummage. Were that true, missy, I doubt "Dickensheets" is the name I'd choose. She'd agree: "Do you know that sounds like (vulgar genitalia pun here)." By God, she's right! I've never noticed! All those years when the other kids cruelly mocked my name -- you can imagine the many hurtful variations on "Scott" -- it didn't occur to me that my last name had scorn potential as well.

Speaking of really funny name humor, another reader offers advice on choosing a new handle should I switch careers. "To find out your perfect porn star stage name," he writes, "do this: Add the name of your first pet to your mother's maiden name. That equals your porn name!" Hmmm ... Mustard Paulson. Sounds more like a garage band in Dayton. Perhaps I'll keep my real name, which, as I've recently learned, already sounds suitable for that line of work.

"You missed the whole point about SUV drivers," insists a man named Stan, regarding a pair of columns I'd written lightly defending sport utility vehicles (mainly because I own one). "Please let me enlighten you about the facts." At long last, someone who's willing to cut through the cheap sentiment and meaningless stats with a hard slice of logic: "Males who love their SUVs have small penises ... females who love their SUVs are full of penis envy. And I didn't need a full-page column to give you the facts."

Well! As an SUV owner myself, allow me to say that Stan is extra-super-mega wrong, and, by way of rebuttal, I'll quote the erudite wit of Oscar Wilde, who once said, "Shove it, monkey-face."

Of course, having your name and anatomical correctness ridiculed by complete strangers is troubling, but today's most distressing e-mail comes from a source closer to home. My sister-in-law Michelle sends this heart-stopping bulletin: "I am organizing a family skydive at Boulder City Airport for the week of October 25th.

"Grandma Hanson will be turning 83 and this will be her first jump," Michelle continues. She lists eight family members "who are going to jump (or be thrown)," and, curiously, horrifyingly, temporarily, "Scott" is among them.

"Scott" must be the nom de plummet of another skydiver. I'm going by Mustard these days.

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