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Letter of the Month Archives!!! ... real letters culled from the swollen mail sacks of the Smugglers ... This month’s installment of "Letter Of The Month" comes from a poor soul named Scot Lockman of the Atlanta, Georgia region of the American South. Scot saw us in Atlanta in March 2000 and apparently picked up some seriously tainted merchandise. Read on, keen kids... Grant replies to Scot below... (oh and by the way... like the REAL picture of us with Jay Leno on the Gallery page, it has come to my attention that SOME people think that these letters are FAKE!! Listen friends and fans, these are REAL Smugglers fans with REAL problems, lives, goals and sex appeal so PLEASE take these letters for what they are: THE TRUTH).
Smugglers, hello (and help!): I wrote to you guys about five months ago, and I almost can’t believe I’m still alive and kicking (editor’s note: we couldn’t respond at the time because we were in Japan and the computer only typed out Japanese characters and at the time we thought that would just make matters worse. Read on). Lemme explain: When I wrote the first time, it was a desperate cry for help. A button (red background, white maple leaf) I purchased at your Atlanta show had somehow gone bad. I wore the button every day for a week, and the quality of my life went downhill real quick. I wrecked my car (while wearing button), and soon after contracted a really weird intestinal thing that made me spew nastiness all over my pal’s front yard and bathroom (button on, still). I also lost a bunch of money, and my insurance went way up because of the wreck, all this while still wearing the button. So I decided to stop wearing the button, and everything cleared up. No more car wrecks, no more vomiting spells, no more incapacitated limbs, no more lost money. Everything was good and wonderful, and the button occupied a place of honor on my nightside table, where it could do no harm. But: One day I decided to put it back on. My girlfriend saw it, gasped, asked me what the hey I was doing. I said I dunno. But I really thought everything was going to be all right. I fell asleep that night, the button still on, happy because nothing had happened that day. I woke up the next morning, and (I swear) my dad had contracted pancreatis. We rushed him to the emergency room, and he spent the next two weeks totally goofed on pain medicine, howling at the moon, seeing things that no one else could see. Then he came home for a couple days, and then he went back to the hospital for five weeks. So I’m not wearing the button anymore - no offense or nothing, I just don’t know if it’s safe. I’m wondering, though - should I give the button to an enemy, and hope the button finishes him/her off? Or would the button finish me off in some mysterious way? Help! yr pal and fan Scot
Dear Scot -
Well Scot, let’s analyze this situation a bit, shall we Scot? One thing you may not have known unless you were privy to our tour schedule at that time, Scot, was that the night before our Atlanta show, the show you bought the ill-fated button, we had played in New Orleans. Now Scot, of course anyone who knows any damn thing, Scot, knows that New Orleans, and especially the French Quarter of New Orleans, is seeped in Black Magic, Voodoo and all that other chicken feet and bat wing shit. Now Scot, while we were in New Orleans that night, besides watching frat boys pissing on each other on Bourbon Street, Nick, Graham and I went a little deeper in the darker side of the French Quarter to seek out some authentic Cray Fish. We finally found a tiny little place in a near pitch black alley way. No joke, Scot. It was wet and hot, so we took a seat outside, ordered our fish from the gypsy-zombie waitress and waited. Just before the foot arrived, seemingly out of nowhere we were approached by a tall, gangly old man with an extremely long gray beard that came right down to his knees, Scot! Again, Scot, this is no joke! He was dressed entirely in tattered black clothing... leather boots, pants, a vest and a strange, crumpled top hat. He literally sprung upon us while I was trying to take pictures of the scene. The bizarre old fucker grabbed me, shook me, freaked THE HELL out of me and slobbered some unintelligible dialect that none of us had ever heard before in our lives. I wrenched his frail hands from my body, and blathering like a mad man, he disappeared into the leafy foliage behind the restaurant, but not before getting his fucking drool all over me. And Scot, when that saliva touched my bare forearm it burned like diarrhea from a camel. We had pretty much completely forgotten about this incident (though we did manage to capture the man on film, as he appeared in the photo I took before he pounced on me) until we received your email, Scot. Could it be a coincidence that on the next night you buy merchandise from me (as I was elected to sell that night) and suddenly your life turns upside down? I don’t know, Scot. As an extremely superstitious, judgmental and generally ignorant person, my advice to you Scot is to DESTROY OH BOY the button. Believe me Scot, it certainly won’t be the first time someone has willfully thrown out Smugglers product in utter disgust, so don’t feel the least bit guilty. In the meantime, we will send you a Smugglers picture disc as, Scot, a tiny token of our appreciation that you remain a fan of the band. You have freaked me out like Greg, Peter and Bobby on the Hawaiian episode of the Brady Bunch, but Scot, thanks for taking the time to write. Once the button is destroyed, we hope that ends the misfortune we have unwittingly bestowed upon you and your family, Scot. Hey, say hi to your girlfriend, too, eh? See you in the front row, Love Grant and Your Smugglers
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Um,
whoa. Hmmm... not quite sure how to deal with this one, Scot. Lots of
illness involved. I’ve heard of people puking at our shows but that’s
usually only if they happen to catch a glimpse of Beez changing.