So it’s afternoon, and I’m moving heavy things from one room to another, trying to talk myself into hitting the treadmill downstairs, and my iPod shuffle kicks on “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” This in turn kicks on a memory. 

About six months ago, a combination of mp3 technology and space constraints necessitated the purging of our enormous household CD collection. For the most part, it was easy, but there were about a half-shelf of discs that we couldn’t bear to part with for sentimental reasons. Included in this collection is I Told You So, the one and only album by National B, because they’re an amazingly talented local band from Hastings, Nebraska that had long ago collapsed under the weight of the frontman’s ego. There is the rare single, “Jesus Build My Hotrod,” by Ministry, because it’s my favorite song. There’s Pearl Jam’s Ten, because it’s the first CD I ever bought. There’s Satanicide’s Heather, because it’s fucking Satanicide. 

And then there’s my copy of Nevermind, which is unique. Like every other copy of this groundbreaking album, the cover art is an image of a baby in a swimming pool, hypnotized by a dollar bill on a hook. On my copy, this iconic image is marred by a Sharpie scrawl that reads “Kurt Cobain.” This, incidentally, is not Kurt Cobain’s signature, and I’ve whiled away many an hour having to explain this to friends and dates. 

Once upon a time, a new acquaintance had given this disc to me, along with a story about a phone call from Kurt Cobain himself. Mr. Cobain, according to the tale, was the cousin of a friend (or a friend of a cousin—I doubt anyone remembers which). Since the storyteller had once lived in Washington State, it had to be true, as everyone in the Pacific Northwest clearly knew each other. Anyway, Mr. Cobain took it upon himself to mail to the storyteller four autographed copies of the hit album, which he could distribute to his friends and family as he saw fit. The details of the story were so perfect that it was clearly bullshit. But hey, free CD. 

Nearly twenty years later, the storyteller in question is still mortified by his behavior. There are a ton of reasons to be embarrassed, and lord knows that, had I done it, I would be too. Hell, I’ve got plenty to be embarrassed about, so one more event wouldn’t make much of a difference anyway. See, back then, hormones, budding mental illness, and being a teenager in general made me one of the more unpleasant people I’ve ever met. I’d undergone so many changes in my personality in such a short period of time that I had no idea who I was anymore. I had friends, but most of them were going through the same crises as I, and so they were no particular help. 

And yet, here was this kid who looked up to me so much he was willing to do something so nakedly phony to get my attention. And even though I knew immediately that this was fake, and even though my mercurial moods led me to take advantage of and sometimes resent his desire to impress, I carried this album with me through countless moves across the country. Even when I first moved out East, when I could only afford to carry the clothing on my back and a handful of small items in a box, I made sure that my copy of Nevermind was among these. 

Thousands own this album. Of these, dozens own copies signed by any member of the band. But I’m one of four people who owns a copy forged by Jonathan, and that makes me so much cooler than everybody else. 

I wish there was a way I could possibly communicate how sincere I am about this, but alas, all I can say is “Thanks, dude,” and hope he’s listening. 

By 2002, I had lived several lives in New York City. I’d been a wide-eyed tourist, a jaded commuter, an unemployed pothead, a spurned lover, the most social of drunks, and very nearly a Casanova. I’d been broke and financially stable. I’d been profoundly unsure of myself and utterly confident. I’d been introverted and extroverted. The only constant in my life was the flux. That October, I was in between incarnations when I’d left work at The New York Post (another constant), caught the B, D, Q, or F train downtown to the Thirty-third Street PATH station, and saw Jenni. 

I wasn’t looking for Jenni at that point in my life, because at that point in my life, I’d completely lost track of her. It happens. But there she was, looking exactly as she did when I’d seen her last, about eight years prior. That’s not entirely accurate. There was one difference: in 1994, she was a girl—an elegant girl, but a girl nonetheless. In 2002, she was a woman. This wasn’t an issue of appearance; it just was. 

After I stood there, slack-jawed for a minute or so, I got her attention. It took her some time to figure out who I was (like I said, several lifetimes), it all fell into place. At first things were shaky. I’d been so busy trying to find myself that I didn’t have any time for nostalgia. We had dinner a few days later, exchanged numbers, and proceeded not to call each other. 

That fall, winter, and spring, I’d tried on a couple more identities—rock groupie and on-again-off-again boyfriend—until that summer when, at the insistence of an old friend I have since exorcised, I went out to dinner with Jenni and her new friend, Jennifer. Where nine months earlier, our reunion had been confused and distracted; this time, we clicked just as we had all that time ago. As such, we quickly caught up. 

Her passion then was dancing. This struck me as kind of weird. I’d never thought of her as particularly creative, but rather, focused, inquisitive, and matter-of-fact, kind of like Alice from Alice in Wonderland. In retrospect, this was shortsighted of me. She’d always had an artistic streak—whether it be from cooking experiments we’d undertaken in senior-year English or the maligned pom-pom dance squad; what she also had was determination, with which she’d tackled the challenges laid out before her. 

We spent the summer stealing evenings away from our crowded schedules, wandering around Spring Street looking for cheap food; or walking to or from her dance studio on the border of Soho and Tribeca, during the weekends when the streets were empty; eating at a bizarre vegetarian Asian food place, discussing the absence of love in our lives; or riding the Cyclone in Coney Island with her clamped so tightly on my bicep that it is now shaped differently forever; to later that evening on the beach where we found an amateur astronomer watching Mars through his telescope, inviting others to take a look. It was like dating, but without all that messy, time-consuming, headache-inducing romance, and as before, it brought with it peace. 

But the amount of fun she and I had together was nothing compared to the amount of fun we’d had with the other Jennifer. 

For a period of time several years back, my two best friends were named Jennifer. Our lives intersected and orbited and careened off of each other as lives often do. A few weeks ago, I watched Jennifer say “I do” while Jennifer beamed proudly on as the maiden of honor. 

The bride shall henceforth be known as Jenni, as that was her name when I met her in my junior-year English class at Gallup High School. If I remember correctly (and I often don’t), she had just transferred there from Italy—in a military capacity, though, meaning she was 100 percent American with a distinctly East Coast accent. All of the boys in class were endlessly fascinated with her, and it wasn’t at all difficult to discern why. She was stunning—what with her olive skin, dark brown curls bouncing off her shoulders, and the biggest, brightest eyes anybody at Gallup High had ever seen. 

Being an antisocial, antiestablishment tool, I chose to ignore her. At least I pretended to. At one point, I distinctly recall her slipping into class wearing a leather jacket and a deep green turtleneck. The combination of that with her intense curiosity and focus, aggressive kindness, fluttering energy like that of a hummingbird, and the way her pen twirled around her thumb when she was bored made me think, “She is so cool!” Being an antisocial tool, however, led me to denigrate the pom-pom dance squad for which she was trying out, and that put the kibosh on that relationship. 

That is until a year later. For reasons I, for the life of me, cannot recall, I earned myself an invitation to have lunch with her and her mother in their large, split-level home. The invitation stretched out into a regular, twice-a-week date. I wonder what the rest of the school saw when the awkward, long-haired, grungy Jeremiah folded up into a sky blue hatchback with the graceful, classy Jenni and rode off to parts unknown. 

Something you should probably know about me: I fell in love easily, particularly at that age. See, for the vast majority of people, adolescence really messes with them. For me, adolescence dragged me outside, smacked me around a bit, gave me a wedgie, and sent me on my way. It also whispered things in my ear. These things tended to give me The Wrong Idea—this Idea being crippling crushes that irreparably damaged friendships. 

I didn’t have one of these crushes on Jenni, and I’m not sure why. She has always been one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met, both physically and spiritually. Hell, I remember how—many years later—she invited me out to the beach at Coney Island, and I thanked the lord that she hadn’t been sunbathing, because if I’d seen her in a bikini, that would have meant that it was okay for me to die. 

But I digress. The point is, I was free from my hormones to be friends with Jenni, and as such, I was able to relax in ways I couldn’t anywhere else in my life. And it was good. 

And I haven’t even mentioned our low-budget dramatization of The Taming of the Shrew wherein she played Petrucio and I played Katherine. And I won’t mention it because I have my dignity.