Kudos to the Reader for assigning the review of Frank Zappa’s entire catalog [Rock, Etc., September 29] to someone who admittedly has always thought Zappa to be a “big weirdo.” Forget the fact that a fair assessment of 53 CDs in three columns of space is impossible. Or the fact that “critic” Peter Margasak, of his own volition, chose to actually listen to only six to render his highly prejudiced judgment. A serious overview of the life’s work of any artist should not be left to someone with no credibility.

Margasak gives a huge clue to his own personal agenda in this passage: In high school “some of his [Zappa’s] fans disrupted the class, wickedly outsmarting teachers because it was far more provocative than solving a predictable algebraic equation.”

Gee, Poindexter, do I sense a little hostility? Perhaps a group of drooling, drug-crazed Zappa fans dragged you into the can and gave you a self-esteem scarring swirly.

As for Margasak’s criticism of Frank’s music, it doesn’t merit rebuttal. The myopic wordplay of a trifling tool withers in the shadow of Zappa’s body of work. In fact, I’d be worried if the music didn’t make him nauseous.

In high school and college, I was a “rock critic.” I gradually discovered that there was more satisfaction to be derived in being a musician. “Those who can’t do . . . ”

Paul Fromberg