What the hell is the matter with you? Is the need to be contrary so ingrained in your system that you have to write eight pieces on how mad you are at Michael Jordan (“Air Sick,” 5/16)? Do you imagine that anyone will read your laundry list of half-baked charges and agree, “Oh, yes, the District definitely got the rub when MJ came to town”?

While it’s amusing that your paper is shocked to find that athletes stay up late, hit on women, start failing businesses, gamble, and don’t visit every charity and endorse every little homeowner’s bugaboo (perhaps you’d rather he do drugs and drive-bys), it’s disturbing—no, it’s annoying as hell—that you’ve dragged in the opinions of a few crybaby 20-somethings to slam a man who just wanted to play, chose D.C. as a place to do it, brought millions to downtown, and then was forced to leave before he desired to do so.

Coming one week after the smug, self-congratulatory we-almost- broke-the-Jayson Blair-story story (“Off Target,” 5/9), this just further reinforces the whiny, self-important, indie narcissism that each week radiates from your newsstands.

Perhaps you should have followed your own advice: “My only advice is to maintain your dignity as best you can. There are 50 guys who used to date Madonna, and the jerkiness of each one can be immediately gauged by how quickly he offers up particulars. A certain discretion—a melancholy understanding of the fickle ways of fame, success, and the world—is as flattering to a city as it is to a person” (“Haven’t Got Time for the Pain,” 5/16).

Get over yourselves; MJ, faults and all, graced your city with basketball greatness, and all you can do is whine about it.

Adams Morgan