Twenty year ago I was living in San Francisco. I was visiting Rivercide for Christmas, and I went to the Cave to see some bands, and I met this crazy, fine, red head. We hung out and we went back to my mom’s house and fooled around all night, much to the disapproval of my mother.
Then I went back to SF and we talked on the phone every night. She came up to visit me once, thanks to the Conditionz, and we decided that I would move back to the ‘cide so we could be together.
Within days of me returning, worming my way into a room at Natalie’s, she tells me she is pregnant. After much consternation and some rather insane possible scenarios, I convinced her to get an abortion, which she did. And that was the end of that relationship.
Twenty years ago there was a girl that I would leave San Francisco and move to Rivercide for, who I impregnated and convinced to have an abortion. I still have this one picture of her I saved.
And I can’t even remember her name.
But I do remember her.
At that time in the ‘cide, twenty years ago, I went to see Steve Martin’s play “Picasso at the Lapin Agile” with Tina B. in LA. At one point in the play, Picasso, when confronted by a former lover, states that although he can’t remember her name, he remembers her, and then describes her in detail.
What makes me go here? Yeah, another one has bit the dust. And what I really hate is each time it happens, these women, some of them the most amazing people I’ve met, who I have achieved incredible levels of intimacy with, become placed on a list, become a memory that fades over time, until their names start to blur. Forgotten, until their memories are triggered for some tangential reason.
I remember now. Jennifer.