Layla's Dark and Foreboding Weblog

On September 25, 1999 I was married to a man I'd been with since spring of 1993. In January of 2001, we separated for reasons too personal to go into on this blog. It was a very hard time, a terrible breakup (my fault for making it so bad), but after some time, we were able to put things together and have some semblance of a friendship. He had a very difficult time putting his life together on his own, and wound up doing things that were beyond what I perceived to be in his capabilities. The major thing about him is that he's the guy who everyone gets along with. But you never knew what really was going on behind his sorrowful eyes. And he would never tell you.

He died on August 28, 2002. We were going through the finalization of our divorce. I think part of me died with him. Not only was he my boyfriend, lover and husband for so many years, he was my best friend. It was the hardest thing I've ever been through. And, though I'm in a healthy and happy relationship with someone I consider the love of my life, I cry. And cry. And those little dates that I thought would be meaningless, those silly dates that 17 year old girls remember, our first kiss, the day we "officially" started dating, etc., those are the days I cry the most. For what was. So simple as a young woman, now a life riddled with complications and sorrow and happiness and life and death and money and taxes and bills and when do I get a break?

I like to read this poem. I just like it. I actually quite hate poetry, never wanting to have to deal with other people's angst. This one, however, was given to me by my sister-in-law who got it from a woman with who she works, a woman who knew P in passing only, but who was touched enough by him to think of him as she read these words:

It Was Like This: You Were Happy
by Jane Hirshfield

It was like this:
you were happy, then you were sad
then happy again, then not.

It went on.
You were innocent or you were guilty
Actions were taken, or not

At times you spoke, at other times you were silent
Mostly, it seems you were silent - What could you say?

Now it is almost over.

Like a lover, your life bends down and kisses your life.

It does this not in forgiveness-
between you, there is nothing to forgive-
but with the simple nod of a baker at the moment
he sees his bread is finished with transformation

Eating, too, is now a thing only for others

It doesn’t matter what they will make of you
or your days, they will be wrong
they will miss the wrong woman, miss the wrong man
all the stories they tell will be tales of their own invention

Your story was this: you were happy, then you were sad,
you slept, you awakened.
Sometimes you ate chestnuts, sometimes persimmons.

Posted by layla at 11:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

So since I can't just write about GWB making me mad every day (he's even making people like DeLay (R-Ariz) mad, ha!) I figure on occasion I'll just post random rantings. And ravings. And maybe some poems if you're lucky. And poems by people other than me if you're luckier.

Rave: The new Horrorpops album, Hell Yeah!. I can't stop with this thing. It's Kim Necroman from the psychobilly band, Necromantix on guitar and this chick on lead vocals and she plays the upright bass. Really well. Released on the Epitaph/Tim Armstrong label Hellcat , it's gonna get a lot of play from the little punkers, and hopefully will show them that there is more to life than emo. It's bad ass. Check out the website www.horrorpops.com and download the video for Miss Take. Good stuff. What does suck, however, is they had to cancel their US tour for immigration issues. Hopefully they'll be in town soon.

Rant: Trucker hats. Hello?!?! These were big when I lived on Cape Cod like 2 years ago, and everything hits there like a year and a half late, so let me just say NO. Get them off. Now. And that goes for you, S. OFF!

Rant: Uggs. Is that how you spell them? Why? And, yes I know that you have a pair, Z, and for the most part they don't bother me on you because I know you. But, anyone else in these fucking boot/slipper hybrids needs to be beaten up. Sorry. And, the worst was when I was in Nordstrom buying shoes for me* and I was watching these girls try them on in pink and teal and every other color that should be stripped from this earth and they were actually saying, "I really think these are ugly. But, I guess if they're that popular, people will think I'm cute in them." Girls like that make me want to rip out my vagina.

Rant: Everyone at my office. They're all on my shit list.

Damn. I wish there could be more raves. I'm hating today. Ok, let's see...

Rave: Gavin Newsom
Rave: um, Gavin Newsom’s testicles.

Yeah, can't think of any more.

*I fucking hate Nordstrom’s to begin with so for me to actually go into that hellhole meant that I really, really needed work shoes. I have to go back to waitressing before I lose my fucking mind.

Posted by layla at 05:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Oh Georgie boy. This will be your Waterloo.

It's bad enough that our born-again Christian president is opposing same sex marriage. And that he lied to us about Iraq. And that he's left pretty much every child behind. And that he's lied about his past, covered up almost every wrongdoing, won the election by cheating, campaigned using Enron's private planes after lobbying for tax cuts for them, gave Halliburton contracts in Iraq only to soon find out that we were overcharged *$60 MILLION* for catering costs, *$60 MILLION* in oil, gave tax cuts to the wealthy, passed laws banning late term abortions even when the mothers life is at stake, has a felony record, made Texas the most polluted state due to his blatant disregard for environmental laws, used taxpayer land in a sweetheart deal for his baseball team, and the list goes on. And on. And, do you know that Ashcroft guy? He's subpoenaed medical records of women who've had late term abortions. Yes, those private records. He thinks he's above the law on this witch hunt of his, the fucking cocksmoker.

Now good ol' Dubya is pushing for a constitutional amendment to ban same sex marriage. An amendment. In the constitution. The supreme law of the land. Holy poo. But you know what? It's not an anti-gay amendment, oh no sir. It's an anti-minority one.

This man is backing an amendment against a minority group. The same group that he refuses to include in hate-crime bills. He's called them a minority group. And he's rallying against them. I have to say, I don't have a lot of faith in the American public to come out for gay marriage, but I do know my fellow citizens well enough to know that they won't put an anti-minority amendment in our Constitution. I love my country, which may come as a shock to some. Love it, would never want to live anywhere else. I think that there is a big difference between love and pride though. I'm proud of some things we've done in the past, but man, I'm embarrassed as hell for the past 3 years.

Time to start thinking. We only have a few more months until our chance to get this psycho out of there, along with his evil henchmen. Do it. Now.

Posted by layla at 10:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Pop Quiz: Guess which of these are legal in Texas?

1. Dildos
2. Vibrators
3. Cock Rings
4. Strap Ons
5. Assault Weapons

If you guessed 5, you're correctamundo. The state of Texas has an archaic law on the books banning the use, sale or promotion of "a device designed and marketed as useful for stimulations of the human genital organs." according to Section 43.21 of the Texas Penal Code.

For me, stimulation is in the eye of the beholder, really. If I wiped after I pee in a certain way, I can feel stimulated. There go my TP rights. When I was just a little girl (maybe 12, so not that little), I found out that my new electric shaver can be disassembled and was really just this white plastic thing that vibrated. Let me tell you that my allowance for that entire year went to batteries.

For the most part, vibrators and dildo are used by women. Not to say that there aren't a few (damn) good men who enjoy sharing the toys with their partners (those tongue muscles get tired!), but all in all, tons of women can't get off without a little help. In come the toys. There are many ways that the government (read: old white men) try to control the bodies of the women they govern. Here is one of them. The government is saying that the Hitachi Back Massager that you bought for that, wait a second while I laugh to myself, awful knot in your back, can't be used for that delicious knot in your front. Orgasming woman are dangerous. First, they're cumming, next thing you know, they'll want to vote too!

So JoAnn Webb, a purveyor of smut, according to the Lone Star State, is being charged with selling and promoting these dirty little things. She hosts what is known as "Passion Parties", these little Tupperware-like get-togethers for the suburban housewife looking to spice up the bedroom. We're not talking swingers, or orgies here. No women looking to take their riding crop home to shove up their husbands ass while he licks her boots and hangs weights from his balls. These are women who haven't come since their 4th kid, who have husbands who if they're not banging their secretaries haven't touched them since they can't drop that last 25 lbs.

Silly Texans. They call my dildo a "cake topper".

Posted by layla at 03:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Mostly rants and rhetorical questions today, thank you very much.

Why is it that ERA couldn't pass and now this idiot in Washington is talking about making an Amendment banning same sex marriages? Does this seem wrong? I mean, republicans are all "Oooo, Clinton signed the Defense of Marriage Act, so don't blame it on us, blah, blah, choke." Hello? That makes NO SENSE! Clinton didn't attempt a new Amendment to the Constitution of the United State of America! So, ostensibly, it will be like Free Speech, Right to Vote, Right to Own Land, Right to Bear Arms, Right to Privacy, Right to Not Let Queers Have Rights. An Amendment is a huge step, a huge mistake. It takes so much time, and money and lobbying and lying and cheating and whatever to get a law into that sacred document so many of us swear by. And so much more to take it off. Then I see stupid moronic shit-fer-brains like Britney Spears get married for like, what, 10 minutes and say "Oops! A-Doy, I like totally didn't really wanna do that! Is there a breeze in here or is it my breasts leaking?" And beautiful, loving partners of 5 or 10 or 50 years can't even visit their lifemate in the ICU. That is a crime. When you ask anyone what marriage means, you'll hear the same. It's about two people loving each other. It's about a lifelong commitment that too many people don't take seriously anymore. It's about growing old together and fighting about the toilet seat and whether to have chicken or fish tonight, how much TV their kids should be watching. It's a celebration honoring love in front of God, family and friends. Why is it all of a sudden about something so silly as who's got a penis or a vagina? It's love. That's it.

Another thing. I can't believe that I like Gavin Newsom so much now, after so vehemently campaigning against him. He's got balls. Matt Gonzalez never would have gotten this far. Gavin has friends in high places, and can go balls to the wall with the best of them. Sorry Matt, I love you, but I'm really crushing on Gavin now.

And lastly, there are more donkey related deaths than automobile related deaths in the world each year. Just remember that.

Posted by layla at 08:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

God bless John Belushi. You know what the one thing was that I learned from Animal House? That I was not the kind of girl to hang with the Frat Boys. In my mind, it was the epic battle of the Greasers and the Socs. Frat=Soc. In college, we would avoid frat/sorority parties like the plague. As my little brother said, being in a fraternity is like having to pay someone to be your friend. Ugh.

And then, my S.O. comes into my life. And yes, he listens to punk. And yes, he can reminise about the good ol' days, where punks were still underground and skaters got beaten up with their boards. And he's almost as tattooed as me. And yes, he's a minx in the sack, and loves hangin' down south...ok, you get the point. And he's a frat boy. He's a PROUD frat boy. This scared the piss out of me at first, but now I'm getting used to it. The stories of drunken debauchery. The sex (yeah. try over 50. nice.) without attachment. The beer. The girls. Ugh.

But, alas, I am going this weekend to meet his brothers. Frat brothers. I go with an open mind and a damaged liver. Because if my S.O. could be a part of that world, hell it can't be all that bad. Cause he's all that good.

Did I mention the minx in the sack part?

Posted by layla at 09:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The past few years I've been really reflecting on the people who I may have caused insult and/or injury to. The past year especially, after leaving B, seeing as he is one of the most hurtful people I've yet to meet.

So, Beast. Not her real name, obviously, but the name that the kids gave her. Most likely started in Jr. High, but it carried on through high school. The sad thing about Beast is that she was a friend of mine at one point.

I grew up, until about 8, on a block with kids in every house. Kids that ranged in ages that meshed perfectly with my brothers and me. The group of kids we played with would spend time at the baseball field, which was at the dead end. During the summer, we would play in forts, ride bikes, play tag or stickball until the sun would set, usually well after 8 in the summer months. Beast and her brother Billy had the misfortune to have a father with a megaphone. "Debbie! Billy! Get inside" we would hear from across the field. While Debbie (Beast's real name, and the name I'll refer to her as for the rest of this story) wasn't the most popular or the most fun, her departure was a sign that the group would have to pack it in for the night, and go back to our 90 degree homes, sweating it out till morning. We hated to see her go.

At 8 years old, my parents split up. We moved from our palatial 5-bedroom house to our 2-bedroom rental a few miles away. Things changed, but that's another story all together.

I didn't see Debbie again until high school, or if I did, we had never acknowledged it. I was a dirtbag, a term used for the metalheads and punks in our school. It wasn't meant as a flame, more of a loving phrase for those of us who partied hard. The real dirtbags of our group, the criminals and vagrants earned the term "dark dweller", which meant the worst of the worst.

Debbie would walk through the Commons at school, and like clockwork, you would hear "BEEEEEEEAAAAAASSSSSTTTTTT" rolling through the cavernous room. I would laugh. Laugh! This girl, this poor girl who I would swap Barbies with not 10 years earlier, would hear these verbal assaults every single day. Debbie was overweight. She had stringy hair, wore no makeup, had acne, wore black sweatpants and dirty black tee shirts as her uniform. Very androgynous. She hung out a lot by the art wing, not because she was an artist (or maybe she was), but because there were few of the "popular" kids down there to ridicule her. Art was not cool back then.

If she wasn't there, she was on Smelly Island. How fucking wrong is that? Smelly Island! There was a platform in the Commons where the less desirables hung out, and that was its name. I was ruthless with some of these people. A total and complete cunt. I never beat them up, but I never helped when someone did. These poor kids would go home and cry and live this miserable high school existence, and I would laugh.

Now, as an adult approaching 30, my life has taken many, many turns. If Karma is a motherfucker, consider me unlubed. My marriage failed, my estranged husband, the absolute best friend to me, died while we were separated. I got involved with an abusive, sadistic, victim of a man. I have to think that because of the awful things I've done to people, Debbie being the least of it, my life needs to be a struggle.

When I see people more unfortunate than I am, my heart genuinely goes out to them. I feel the burning need to help them. And, it's not even to even out my Karma. I loathe who I was. The only people I feel hatred or rage or anger for now is those who purposely try to inflict pain on others, emotionally or physically.

Debbie. You are a beautiful person. I hope that all of that torture in school built you to be a strong woman today. I think about you, I remember running down Clipper Drive past your house, seeing your Dad with the bullhorn. Playing in the rocky field that you couldn't even drive on, the one that now is populated with Lexus SUV's on weekends, paved to perfection. Life has changed me in so many ways. If you've ever thought poorly of me, please know, I am truly sorry for hurting you.

Posted by layla at 06:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I'm really bad with titles. So, for each entry (and this is the ONLY week of boring entries), I'll name it whatever song I happen to be listening to. Good, right? Right? Affirmation, please.

I've been trying to decide if I want anonimity here, or an open view for people that I know to gather 'round and see inside. I think anonimity may, quite possibly, be for wussies and pussies and weenies. I am none of those, so here you go. And, if you do know me, and read this, and I start seeing less and less of you, well, I know that anonimity may have been the way to go.

I think I'll use a lot of this space to tell stories. Stories of fun things that never happen to me, but to my friends and aquiantances. But I'll say they happen to me. Except stories about my good friend in the East Bay who shall remain nameless. Now, if you happen to be a girl that recently took it in the backdoor while being fisted, you might have an inkling as to who I'm talking about. Or if you can be described as a "gusher", you may also know. Yuck.

So next week we start the real DARK and FOREBODING shit (good title, R). Ok, then.

Posted by layla at 09:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Woo hoo! My own blog. Oh man...

Just THINK of the possibilities.

Posted by layla at 08:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)