I like to think of my office as the tomb of the unknown writer. : Pass the Broccoli, Bruce

I am the recipient quite often of anonymous letters that hurl accusations, ask questions, demand answers, offer advice and occasionally suggest where I might put my column, and we are not talking here about page placement, dumplings.

Many of the notes cry out for publication, but, since most journals of print will not publish unsigned letters, they are dumped and hauled off along with the cigar butts, the Twinkies wrappers and the story leads that don’t work.

One can only imagine the frustration of the writers who never see their material in print, a condition not unlike a man who tries to make an obscene telephone call and is answered by a recording device.

Therefore today, as a public service, I offer space and comment to those who, between visits to the outpatient clinic, have taken the time to write me anonymous notes with their stubby pencils on lined, three-hole binder paper.

I like to think of my office as the tomb of the unknown writer.

The letters:

“I am 24 years old but can’t seem to break away from my family. I’m healthy, perhaps a little neurotic, but healthy. Do you think I should move to Texas or stay in Saugus?”

By all means, move to Texas.

“You must be a real boob to consider all tow truck drivers as people of caveman mentality. My husband has neither a sloping forehead nor close-set eyes. But he does have a master’s degree in English.”

Anyone with an MA in English who is still driving a tow truck in L.A. probably ought to move to Texas with what’s-her-name, the healthy neurotic. I suggest El Paso.

“1. Are you handsome? 2. Do you write articles under another name? 3. Are you white? 4. Are you really bad-natured? 5. Do you like Chinese acrobats? (Signed) Joyce.”

1. In the fifth grade Stella Dellamaroni considered me cute, but no one took her seriously because she didn’t shave her legs. 2. Sometimes I write plays under the name Neil Simon. 3. Beige. 4. That’s a stupid question. 5. I’ve never known any.

The next letter in the stack is a chain letter and not a personal note, but I find it compelling enough to share with you anyhow. Feel free to mail anonymous copies to whatever friends you might have.

The letter begins: “Kiss someone you love when you get this letter and make magic.” Unfortunately, I received it at the office and, lacking anyone to love, could not comply with the request. There was, as a result, no magic.

You, however, may atone for my deficiency by kissing whatever is close.

By the way, I was supposed to send the letter on within 96 hours to someone who needed luck. Everyone I know needs luck, but since the postmark on the envelope is Sept. 26, alas it is too late.

“Joe Elliot received $40,000 and lost it because he broke the chain,” the letter warns.

“While in the Hawaiian Islands, Gene Welch lost his wife six days after receiving this letter, which he had failed to circulate. However, before her death, he received $7,755.

“Dalah Fairchild received the letter and, not believing, threw it away. Nine days later he died.”

Well, too bad about Joe and I’m sorry about Dalah, but other than that, Gene, did you enjoy the islands?

To continue with the anonymous nobodies out there in the great nowhere:

“I am a resident of Viewridge tract in Topanga. My ceiling does not sparkle, I do not have wall-to-wall carpeting and I resent your categorization of everyone in the tract as nature-hating dumbbells. Where do you live, sir!”

I live in a house with sparkles on the ceiling, wall-to-wall carpeting, gold-plated bathroom faucets and a large velvet painting of a panther stalking through the jungle. The painting hangs in the living room, over my vibrating rocker.

“You never mention Pacoima.”

Right.

“How does one go about getting started writting?”

By counting the number of t’s in writting and dividing by two.

“Whatever became of the couple you wrote about who met in the singles bar? I believe it was at T.G.I. Friday’s.”

They married but, unfortunately, she was a Virgo and he was a Capricorn and, due to their mixed astrological signs, their child was born with an insatiable thirst for strawberry daiquiris. His first words were, “Where do you work out?”

“I don’t believe you dislike Chatsworth as much as you claim to dislike Chatsworth. I believe you secretly like Chatsworth.”

Do you also believe the Bird Man secretly liked Alcatraz?

Back to the chain letter:

“Aria Daddit, an office employee, forgot to mail the letter and lost his job. Later, he mailed out 20 copies and got a better job.”

Twenty more and he’d have qualified as a columnist.

Finally:

“Your snide reference to a ‘gay vegetarian’ was not appreciated. If it were you, what would you say then?”

I would say please pass the broccoli, Bruce, and then I’d move to Texas. Houston, I think.