Broken Spanish

Like so many writing projects, I started this blog years ago and never found the time to keep it updated. I intended it to be a place to reminisce about music, but I'm a little older now, and have other things to say, maybe. 

Who knows. 

For now, I will write for me: For the joy it brings, and for the pain it heals. 

I still love music. It's always going to be a huge part of my identity. That will never change. 

I was born at home in Silicon Valley in the summer of 1978, to a young mother and a Viet Nam veteran father. The big names in town were Hewlett-Packard, Stanford University, and a burgeoning little software company named after a fruit.

My, how times have changed.

I generally enjoy having a place to share my written thoughts with anyone who cares to read them, but social media has some downsides. I have shied away because I'm a somewhat old-fashioned girl. I deleted my Facebook account about a year ago because it's not a safe place to share my thoughts and feelings. The trolls were always ready to attack, and I grew tired of defending my territory.

This isn't a unique experience, I know.

As a high-school honor student, I dreamed of one day becoming a music journalist, and was granted a provisional admission to UCLA upon graduation from high school. My acceptance letter mentioned that before I could attend, I first needed to satisfy my foreign language requirement. 

I had taken Spanish I in high school, but hadn't taken Spanish II. The letter encouraged me to complete this prerequisite during the summer of 1996 so that I could commence my freshman year in the fall. 

I planned to do so. But as they say, "Man plans, god laughs." 

The summer of my 18th birthday, with my diploma in hand, my mother decided to abandon me in Los Angeles. 

She wanted to go live in a tent with her boyfriend in Mammoth Lakes, CA. I could go with her if I wanted, but if I wanted to stay in LA, she could no longer afford to support me. She was living off unemployment and the Social Security benefits she received after my father's death in 1988. 

When I turned 18, those payments stopped, and so did her ability to make rent. 

I eventually forgave my mother, but I can't forget. The consequences of her actions have affected me since I was born. 

But this isn't her story, nor is her story mine to tell. 

I only had moved back in with my mother when I ran away from foster care on my 14th birthday. I had spent the previous 7 years being abused in foster care with her relatives in Colorado. 

The 4 years I lived with my mom were only marginally better. 

At least she didn't beat and starve me. 

I graduated from high school in June 1996. I was barely 18 and was working at McDonald's. I'd worked part time jobs since I turned 15, and prior to that, used to babysit and clean houses to help with family expenses. 

The idea of being homeless in a tent with my mother and her boyfriend at age 18 held zero appeal. 

Since I now had to find a place to live, I had to postpone my UCLA dreams and couldn't afford to take that missing Spanish class. My heart broke in two as I folded that letter, and my dreams, away. 

The irony of that missing Spanish class is not lost on me. 

My mother's side of the family is of Spanish, Mexican, and Filipino descent. Her side of the family is Roman Catholic. She is the 9th child of 9. 

My maternal grandparents grew up in America during the Great Depression, and speaking a foreign language was verboten. My maternal family has only learned Spanish in school or at university, if at all. 

Since UCLA was off the table for me that Fall, I searched the want-ads to find full-time work and an apartment of my own. I found an ad for a call center in Woodland Hills that paid $8.00/hr. It was a huge step up from the $4.25/hr I was making at McDonald's. Suddenly, I had bigger bills to pay. 

I showed up to the job interview in tights, heels, a corduroy skirt, and button-up shirt I'd purchased from a thrift store. I was determined to make a good impression. 

The interviewer was a sweet older lady who looked like one of my high school guidance counselors. She informed me that the job I was interviewing for was to become a "Phone Actress," and I would be speaking to the men who called the 1-900 numbers in the back of pornographic magazines. 

I was a virgin until I was 18. I was still dating the man I'd lost my virginity to when I was offered that job. 

My experience was limited, but I grew up reading a lot of literature and listening to angsty British music, which as you know, is often about sex. 

I felt I could "fake it till I make it." 

I was hired. I then went out and rented my first apartment. 

I didn't set out in life to be an 18 year old phone sex actress, but life is funny sometimes. 

"Man plans, god laughs."

Working graveyard shift was surreal. My co-workers were a motley crew, but many of them were pretty awesome people. I learned a lot from them; about life, about sex, about my queer identity, about feminism, about the world. 

But before I get too lost going down memory lane, I think I'll hit pause on this story for now. 

If you're reading this, I hope I'll be back to write another time. For now, I'll just hit "publish," and see where this goes. 

To be continued...

But don't hold your breath.

Countdown

Here we are, a mere 13 days away from Pulp's first show in the Los Angeles area since 1996, and I just can't wait! I've been reading the reviews of their shows at the Royal Albert Hall. One reviewer made a good point that there are no new songs. Strangely, the thought hadn't occured to me yet that Pulp would be doing new songs. Hopefully that's in the works, because it would be great to hear Jarvis writing about life from his current perspective. I supposed I've heard it on his solo recordings, what with Fat Children and Disney Time, and the perfect Cunts are Still Running the World. But it would be great to hear what the 6 of them have to say. I'm sure it would have a different feel.

In the meantime, I'll be perfectly content revisiting my Pulp collection in anticipation of the upcoming shows in Pomona and Indio at Coachella.

Let's all meet up in the year 2000

Actually, for me, this journey started in 1994. That's when I first heard Pulp's amazing His n' Hers and was introduced to the singer I would become intrigued with, well sometimes bordering on obsessed with for the last seventeen years. I was in high school in 94, and while most of my fellow high schoolers were enjoying the cheerful sounds of Seattle, my little group of friends were devouring all things British.

Long before I had a computer, I had a Smith-Corona typewriter, and I decided that with this piece of technology and some glue sticks, I could start my very own fanzine. That became Synthetic Fluff, my teenage diary of ditching school to see all of our favorites play. And there were some amazing shows, starting with, of course, Pulp opening for Blur in 1994. That was the show that started it all for me. I happily pogo-ed to my favorites off of His n Hers while watching the band weave their magic.  While Blur was playing, we ran into Jarvis and Mark Webber at the bar. We didn't know who Mark was since he wasn't officially in the band at that time, but he started off as a fanzine writer, too. I think I made some lame compliments about his silver nailpolish. We even met the bassist, Steve Mackey, standing outside of the tourbus. I took this and all my other collected musical experiences and created the first issue of Synthetic Fluff.

Since this was long before facebook and only a few kids were on AOL, I didn't have the ability to instantly distribute my fanzine. Instead, I did what all the other kids did--I passed out fliers at shows. I also networked with other zine writers and asked them to put my info in the back of their zines. Slowly, but surely, the orders came in and I built up a small mailing list. I often wonder what it would have been like if this were all done in the time of Facebook, but obviously the experience would not have been the same.

And now I guess that's what brings me here today. I wrote a 2nd issue of Synthetic Fluff, this time with a co-writer. Pulp came and did a tour of the US in 1996, and we'd planned on releasing a 3rd issue about it, but due to creative differences, a lack of time and the fact that Pulp broke up, issue 3 never came to be. Just like Jarvis singing "Let's all meet up in the year 2000," we missed our date and never had that rendezvous.

Until 2012.

Sure, we had our little trysts in the meantime with Jarvis' solo work. I even saw him perform at Coachella in 2007 and in Seattle that same year. But a full fledged Pulp show with Pulp songs? Sadly, no.

So here we are, and Pulp reunited to play festivals all over Europe. For months, there was no sign of a US tour, but I put Coachella tickets on layaway hoping that either the reunited Pulp, Suede or even Blur would play. My heart skipped a beat when the lineup was announced. There it was: My chance to see Pulp again. Okay, so now I'm 33 instead of 16, I've been married and divorced, just like Jarvis, I guess, and I've also got kids ("you can even bring your baby....oooh"), but I'm looking forward to this rendezvous nonetheless. I'm dusting off some old memories and will bring them here to this blog to share. And I'll be creating some new memories, too.

Maybe you can share yours too. I'll see you in the crowd.