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ooooo ooooo .oooooo. oooooooooooo HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #517
`888' `888' d8P' `Y8b `888' `8
888 888 888 888 888 "Random Generic"
888ooooo888 888 888 888oooo8
888 888 888 888 888 " by Neko
888 888 `88b d88' 888 o 3/16/99
o888o o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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I spent two whole entire minutes adjusting my hair. It's gotten
long enough that now I feel it somewhat necessary to run my hand down the
middle and try to part it on either side. Maybe I can look like someone
sexy or something rather than having my hair all flop down on my face.
It doesn't work. I still look like me.
Out of frustration I light up a cigarette. Marlboro Red. Just
like the Marlboro Man, I want to be a cowboy. I want to be rugged. I
rub my fingers across my chin. Stubble. Nice. But whenever I let the
hair grow out, it comes in too light and looks like glorified peach fuzz.
Strike two.
Stubbing the cigarette I turn on the TV. Who can I be today? I
see Phil Hartman reading the news on the radio. Too bad he died. He was
a fine actor. Anyway, I could do radio. Then my mind tunes the music
back in. I already do radio. Isn't the crappy indie rock blaring on my
stereo enough to signify that? "Lost in my sleep, downtown I creep."
Sounds like fucking Alice in Chains. Some bullshit that is.
Click.
Ooh, the guy on channel four is telling me to be a Christian. I
had better donate some money so that I don't end up in hell. Tough luck
buddy, I'm already going there. If there's a God -- the God you believe
in -- I guess I'll see you then. How do you think He would like the fact
that you're pimping his name on TV for a buck?
Turn that shit off. My headache is beginning to go away. Hoo-ray
for medicine. Hoo-ray for the crunchy cookie I am eating.
Hoo-ray, hoo-ray, it's a lovely lovely day. Some song. Some some
some song. Heard a grindcore cover of it once. "HOO-RAY, HOO-RAY" yeah
rock n roll baby.
Heard a grindcore cover of "I Touch Myself" once, too. Not too
shabby.
Do I really believe this will have any effect on anything ever?
The answer, simply put, is no. This is not a release, this has no
meaning, I am doing nothing more than vomiting on the keyboard.
Fact? Fiction? Don't know, don't care. Can't be bothered with
minor details like that, I've got work to do. Work work work work.
You see, I am a fisherman. And, if you know nothing else, surely
you know that the fisherman can!
I CAN! You hear that? I C! A! N!. Can. Krautrock. Me.
I. Can.
So I read this book recently about the guy who hosted the Gong
Show. He was a fucking CIA agent. Seriously. He'd chaperone the trips
that the winning contestants of the Dating Game went on and he'd kill
some enemy of the US over there. Can you believe that shit? I can.
Because I am the fisherman. Not just *A* anymore, but *THE*.
What makes me The? Funny you should ask. Three letter make me
the. T, H, and E. You wanted more than bullshit reasoning? Maybe
that's all you'll get. That's what you get for asking questions. Didn't
anybody learn you some manners, boy?
Once my grandmother sent me a book on manners. I was very excited
to get a package. I was expecting something cool in the mail. I don't
remember what it was, but when I was 16, it was something cool. So I
tore open the envelope and out fell the manners book. My friend Dryla
told me later that I looked visibly shocked and depressed to see what
fell out. In my daze I handed the book to Dryla and when she opened it,
a ten dollar bill fell out. Thanks grandma.
Dryla and I often shared laughter over the book. She'd come over
for a meal of fried hot dogs and we would read proper etiquette on how
I should seat her, feed her, and treat her. Then we'd blow off all the
silly rules and fuck.
When I was 16 I thought it was nothing more than a physical
relationship. It wasn't until later, one day out on the lake, that I
began thinking about Dryla, pining for her. I reeled in a 20-pound
catfish and the damn thing was flipping around so crazy that it smacked
me in the face. I dropped my rod in the bottom of the canoe and realized
that I had been in love with Dryla. The way she smiled. The way she
laughed. The way she sucked cock. Ouch. Suddenly my brain hit itself.
The way she sucked cock. Ouch again. Hmm. The way she explained things
to me that I didn't understand. No pain. The way she used to run her
fingers through my hair. No pain. The way she screamed when I'd eat her
out. Ouch.
My brain wouldn't let me think impure thoughts about Dryla.
That's how I knew I'd been in love with her. Scratch that -- that's how
I knew I still was in love with her. I picked up my paddles and started
rowing to shore. I *had* to find Dryla. I moved away my senior year of
high school, from Chicago to San Francisco. Later in life I ended up
here, in Montana, but that's of little importance at this point. The
night before I left, we fucked -- no, made love -- like never before.
She spent the night, and when my parents woke me up the next morning they
didn't even say anything.
She came with us to O'hare airport. She didn't speak the entire
drive. I looked out the window, saying goodbye to each and every part of
the city as we passed it. Goodbye Wrigley Field. Goodbye Comiskey Park.
Goodbye Soldier Field. Goodbye expressway. Goodbye loop. Goodbye,
goodbye.
Inside O'hare, Dryla somehow managed to come all the way to our
gate with us. She looked like I'd never seen her before. She wasn't just
pretty anymore, now I know. She was beautiful. She hugged me and held
me tight. And she cried. That was the worst part. I didn't get it, and
it made me feel weird deep down inside. She told me she'd write me every
day and extracted the same promise from me.
Then I got on the plan and was amazed by it's interior and
exterior and the ensuing trip. I don't think I thought about Dryla during
the entire trip. We landed in San Francisco and rented a car to take us
to our new house. I resumed my old habit of checking the mail box every
time I arrived at home, and, to my family's surprise, I found a letter
from Dryla.
I don't know where the letter is anymore, but I think I can
remember most of it:
"Dear Jason Thomas Dusing,
Hi Jase, I bet you're pretty surprised to hear from me this early.
I know I would be. I wrote this letter a couple days before you left so I
could be sure it'd reach you when you arrived in San Fran.
How's the weather out there? The newspaper says it's in the 80s
this week. Must be nice to leave Chicago in a sweatshirt and arrive in
San Fran in shorts weather!
Anyway, I already miss you. I know you're still here (well, not
anymore), but it seems like you're gone. I want you to know I think about
you all the time. I think... well, I'll tell you some other time when I
know for sure.
Well, I hope you made it OK, Jase. Don't forget to write me
every day, ok????
Love,
Dryla."
Something in that letter scared me. I got quite a few more over
the next month or two. I never responded, and each one became more and
more desperate. Then one day the letters stopped. By that time I wasn't
really reading the letters anymore anyway, just skimming them and throwing
them away. I had a new girlfriend in San Francisco, a Julie, I think.
She never told me she loved me. Then again, neither did Dryla, but at
least Dryla tried. I think.
So here I am now, almost 15 years later, thinking about Dryla, whom
I have lived half my life without. And the thought won't go away.
After a week or two of continuously thinking about her, I decide
to fly to Chicago. I had enough money saved away that I could skip work
for a week or two, so I didn't have to worry about that.
I don't know what I was thinking. I rented a car and drove
straight to her house. I don't know why I thought she'd still live
there, but that's where I went. And even if she did still live there,
why would she want to see me?
But those thoughts didn't cross my mind at the time. The only
thought was seeing beautiful Dryla and proclaiming my love for her.
I pulled up to her house, an old brick two-story, 766 Candlewick
Lane. I nervously put out my cigarette and walked to her door. I rang
the doorbell half expecting to see Dryla run out and jump on top of me,
half expecting to see some man come out and ask me what the hell I was
doing on his porch... but I never considered what I did see. Dryla's
mother came to the door.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Thomas. I was wondering if Dryla was here?"
"Jason -- Jason Dusing? Is that you?"
"It's me, ma'am." I guess I did learn something from the etiquette
book.
"Let me get in the car and take you where you can find her."
So we got in the rental car and drove. Turn left here. Right
here. Left at the corner store. Straight on for a few blocks, now right
at the gate.
I slowed down for a second to read what was written in iron above
the gate.
"Fields Cemetary"
"Does Dryla work here?" I asked.
Mrs. Thomas didn't answer. She just rolled down her window and
lit a cigarette, pointing me to follow the right fork in the road.
After she had smoked half her cigarette she threw it out the
window and told me to stop. I didn't see Dryla -- or anyone, for that
matter -- around. "Where is Dryla, Mrs. Thomas? I thought she worked
here."
Mrs. Thomas led me to a headstone about three rows back from the
road. I saw the name. "Dryla Thomas". Surely this was a cruel trick
played upon me. Did someone call to tell her I was coming? She always
was a prankster. The date on the headstone read "1969-1986". I left
Chicago at the end of 1985... two months later would've been 1986...
what the hell?
"She wrote you every day, Jase. She would run to the mailbox every
day looking for mail from you. She got so depressed that you never
wrote."
"Did she... did she kill herself?"
"Over a boy? Ha! You should've known her well enough to know she
wouldn't buy into any Romeo and Juliet sort of bullshit. No, Jason. She
tried to alleviate her depression by dating another boy from her high
school."
Mrs. Thomas pulled out another cigarette and lit it with a book of
matches, shaking off my offer of a lighter.
"They went out to a party one Friday night. I told her to be home
by midnight, and her father and I didn't wait up for her. We trusted her.
When I went to wake her up on Saturday morning for her piano lesson, I
didn't find her in bed. I called the other boy... Michael I think his
name was... I called his house to see if she was there. Michael's father
answered and told me he hadn't come home all night either."
Mrs. Thomas flicked the cigarette toward a neighboring headstone.
"I called the police to report my daughter as missing. They told
me I had to come down to the station, and to bring a picture with... so
they could identify her. I guess they had a double meaning in mind, but
I figured they'd just send a copy of her picture out, you know, an APB.
I thought maybe she'd tried to drive to San Francisco to see you or
something."
Mrs. Thomas started to cry a little and lit another cigarette.
I didn't even bother offering my lighter this time. Fuck etiquette.
"When I arrived at the station, the police took me aside and
explained why the needed the picture. They were going to use it to
attempt to identify a body they'd found in a car accident. It turned out
it was Dryla. Michael's car was hit by a drunk driver. Michael and Dryla
were completely sober. No alcohol, no drugs, nothing. But this drunk
asshole killed my daughter, Jase. He killed her."
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, somewhat self-centerdly.
"I called your mother... she decided it'd be better not to tell
you."
"Mrs. Thomas, I loved Dryla. I still love her."
"I know, Jason. I know. We all knew. Everyone but you." She
turned and walked back to the car, to give me a minute alone.
It all hit me so suddenly. Everything was so new to me. Dryla was
as dead as the catfish that lay in the bottom of my canoe the first time
I thought of Dryla. Dead.
I am the fisherman, and that is why.
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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #517 - WRITTEN BY: NEKO - 3/16/99 ]