Transcripts of messages left on the telephone
of John K. Samson, lead singer of the Weakerthans:
Monday, Nov. 25, 10:57 a.m.
Hi John, my name's Mark and I write for the Martlet, the
University of Victoria's student newspaper. I'd like to interview
you for a story I'm writing previewing your show at Lucky Bar
on the sixth of December. You can reach me in the office at 250-721-8360.
Talk to you later. Bye.
Thursday, Nov. 28, 2:43 p.m.
Hi John, it's Mark from the Martlet calling again. I was
hoping I could speak with you tomorrow, Friday, at one o'clock,
central time, if that's where you are. Again, the number at the
office is 250-721-8360. Call and leave a message if this doesn't
work for you. Thanks. Bye.
Friday, Nov. 29, 11:47 p.m.
John, what's going on? I've got an empty bottle of Colt 45 in
my hand. Shit, I just stepped on my nail clippers. Hey, did you
know they make Clodhoppers in Winnipeg? Hey D, put on that Johnny
Cash Nine Inch Nails cover. You gotta hear it. D, crank that shit.
John, man, it's so good. Or, as I heard a couple guys on bikes
say tonight, "Super choice." They were talking about
some bike trail. Whatever. When did adjectives get so lame? Okay,
I gotta go, our cab's here. We should chat. Call me at home. The
number is [inaudible]. D, just leave it. I'll deal with it tomorrow.
John, did you get that? My roommate wants me to throw out this
jug of milk that expired a month ago so he can fit more lemons
in the fridge. Long story. Ciao.
Saturday, Nov. 30, 2:14 p.m.
Hey John, sorry about last night. It was the Colt. Somehow they've
bottled the essence of a 16-year-old heterosexual male - the demographic
they're gunning for, I'm guessing. I mean, fucking Billy Dee Williams.
Lando. Gayle Sayers. Brian's Song. James Caan. You wanna talk
word association. You want me to rely on obscure pop culture references
for humour? How about sex and drugs. Can't go wrong there. Shit,
look at the label. A red bronco bucking inside a golden horseshoe.
I don't need to lecture you on symbolism. You wrote "rely
a bit too heavily on alcohol and irony, get clobbered on by courtesy,
in love with love and lousy poetry." You know.The Colt 45
label is saying drink this shit and with a bit of luck, you'll
alleviate those blue balls, 'cuz it's gonna take more than a leg
kick to loosen what's tied around that nutsack. Acne, bad hair,
Levi's orange tabs, whatever's holding you back. Hey, Alden Nowlan
has this poem, "The Broadcaster's poem," and in it this
car gets run over by a train, and the radio keeps playing, like
to the dead. And how the broadcaster couldn't go on talking if
he knew about what a fucked-up world it is outside his little
booth. I'm that car. You're that broadcaster. Shit, I gotta flip
my omelette.
Monday, December 2, 12:45 a.m.
John, I don't know if you got my last message or what.
**
Fatlip Saturday
is fucking wasted.
