A Jim by any other name

Alaska Jen finds it was funny that I remember football games that were on TV the day after each of my kids was born, but I cannot remember some trivial meaningless tidbits like, say, the name of my roommate during my second term of college.

With my son, that I would remember the football game is not much of a surprise. He was born the Saturday before a Super Bowl and the hospital extended visiting hours the next night so I could watch the big game with my first-born son. (This is where the audience is shown a placard that says "Awwww") That's a memory that will pretty much stick. My daughter, on the other hand, was born around Thanksgiving - right in the middle of the season. I'll admit that retaining memories of a midseason game between two teams I don't care for seems a bit much, but keep in mind that it was my first time doing something with my first-born child, so I feel no shame in keeping that memory, thank you very much. It's not like I remember the play-by-play (except for one play, that is).

Granted, a bigger problem is I tend to forget a lot of other things. The day after I turned 22, that little spot in my mind that is supposed to retain my current age stopped working for seven years. Somewhere during 29 it started working again and continued to do so throughout 30, then it shut off once again. Ask me on any given day (other than my birthday, of course) how old I am and I'll ask you what year it is. Fortunately I'm good at math, because I have to use it every time I fill out a state form.

I also tend to forget things on my mental to-do list. I forget to call people back. And when I do remember to write down things I need to remember, I forget to look back at the paper until sometime after the time I was supposed to have things done. I forget what's in my pockets until I leave a room. I'm reminded because I habitually check for my phone, wallet, and keys. I call it pocket Memento.

Meanwhile, I can tell you which teams played in every Super Bowl from XX to XL, who won, and, with the exception of two years, who I watched the game with. I watched Dallas clobber Buffalo in Super Bowl XXVII, for example, with What's-His-Face, my college roommate.

I am blessed with football recall. Alaska Jen and I have been friends since high school. The only reason why I remember her birthday is because it was on Super Bowl Sunday our freshman year. (I skipped her party so I could watch the game at another friend's party - his birthday was the same day.) While the date constantly slips my mind, I at least know where I can go to look it up. Of course, I never think to look it up before the date (the Super Bowl has moved back two weeks since then), so I'm always, shall we say, fashionably late with the "Happy Birthday" call.

I did call her on her birthday once - her 30th birthday, at that. A big one. But I lost all credit for making the call when I said mid-conversation "oh, it's your birthday?"

Yes, my mind is like a steel trap. A rusty steel trap.

Ms N naturally finds all this absolutely charming, just like my amazing ability to plan things at the last minute. In fact, sometimes she just can't seem to find words to properly express her feelings about how special I am. Sometimes she resorts to Spanish words that sound really nice, although it's probably for the better that I keep forgetting to look them up.

And now I've forgotten what I was writing about. It was something about football ...

Oh, yeah, names.

My first roommate was a guy named Ananda. That's a name that I doubt I'll forget. His mother was a child of the sixties and so was he, he just had the misfortune of growing up in the eighties. My third and final dorm roommate was a guy named Dave. He's the guy who, during an otherwise quiet evening of homework, broke the silence by singing "much carnage, much slaughter." Dave and his friend Curt showed up one evening with a wheelchair that they claimed they "found outside". Drexel's in West Philly ... it's possible, but I'm still suspicious. Our fraternity name for Dave was the two Greek letters Pi and Rho smushed together. "Pyro" was an interesting individual indeed, who, last I checked, became a successful computer engineer in California.

Between Ananda and Dave happened to be a roommate who I didn't hang out with much and had a very generic name. Between the Mikes and Matts and Jims and such that I've known over the years, his name has pretty much blended into my mental abyss. Of the things I've had on my mind, his name is not one of them. What can I say? I've had a busy decade.

So I was back on Drexel's campus enjoying my lunch once again when I overheard another conversation. A guy at a neighboring table was talking to a woman about people they knew. She was of Indian descent, but, based on her accent, appears to have learned English here in the states. He was talking about someone whose name he couldn't remember.

"It's one of those quick names," he said, "Like Matt or Paul or something."

Ah-ha! I thought. That's exactly what I told Alaska Jen when she was making fun of me, I just used different names. Basic generic names are ubiquitous. I remember what kind of guy my roommate was, what he looked like, what his girlfriend looked like (and, of course, how odd they looked next to each other, he being tall and lanky and she being neither). I remember things he did, music he listened to, jokes he told. But his name was one of those "quick" names.

The woman was amused by the guy's comment. Her name was a traditional Indian name. She has always stuck out.

"That's what I love about your white names," she said. "They're short; they're snappy. They all blend into the sea of white faces. It seems so much easier ... there's all the Michaels over there, and the Tims are there ..."

And then I remembered that this is exactly the reason why Alaska Jen is "Alaska Jen". Between Jenn-X (my ex-wife) Nurse Jen (who lived in the building next to mine), Intern Jen, Dakota Jen, Jersey Jen, and perhaps a few I've forgotten, I've had to come up with some way to differentiate amongst the multitude of Jens (not that I could ever confuse my ex with any of the others).

"Jen" could almost be a pronoun for "white girls born in the years following the release of Love Story", "Alaska Jen" identifies her as a unique individual.

Generic names, like generic people, are interchangeable. Find me something that a Mike could do that a Matt couldn't do just as well. Can't find a Tim? Get a Tom. (I get the feeling someone in Florida is Googling like crazy right now trying to make sure there are no "Ranger Tims" out there.)

For the record, Alaska Jen, my roommate's name was Joe.

Now what was his last name?