You'll Be a Woman Soon

There's an article in last week's New Yorker about the Strawberry Festival in Plant City, Florida. Apparently Plant City, a close neighbor of Tampa, is a pretty major national supplier of strawberries in the winter. I'm always surprised when people know of Tampa when I tell them where I'm from; know of it, have been there, and/or have family there. The mind boggles. I guess it's a bit narrow minded of me to think that the paces I've found somehow or other displeasing to my person, might actually be pleasing to other persons. I'm just as shocked when I'm told about exciting adventures in Brighton Beach, where I served time for about a year when I first moved to New York (and it did have a prison like atmosphere), and heck, a few years ago I read an article in one of those in flight magazines about how Springfield, MA (my true motherland) was all up and coming. Last time I went for a visit it seemed just as dingy and soulless as before, but apparently Departures thinks otherwise, as does everyone who's been to or driven past the Basketball Hall of Fame in that glorious city.

I never made it to the Strawberry Festival while I lived in Florida. We tried once: me, my younger sister, and my mother. It's a massive festival with bands and all that nonsense, and draws quite a crowd. I think that's why we ended up turning around at the gate. No parking, was it? Maybe we got there late and it was ending soon? The point is, we ended up going to the movies instead; I suppose because my mother wanted to spend time with us somehow. I'm not sure how or why we came to pick Pulp Fiction, or by whom it was selected. Was it 14 year old me, my 13 year old sis, or my pious (when she wants to be) Catholic mother? Something inside of me is whispering that I was the likely culprit. The soundtrack was all the rage back then, that and the soundtrack to The Crow, man that was a good one, NIN, Joy Division, Stone Temple Pilots. 9th grade was a good time for soundtracks, it seems. I couldn't have realized what, exactly, we were in for when I undoubtedly took the reins in convincing mom that the R rated Pulp Fiction was a good quality family film. The violence wasn't so bad, I guess, but the part where they compare a foot massage to eating a pussy? Now there's a squirmworthy moment.