Marilu Henner Syndrome

I remember everything. EVERYTHING.

People are constantly amazed when I tell them of some insignificant conversation we had decades ago. "How can you remember that?!" they ask.

For years I thought it was just because I had a good memory. Or that so few little things of genuine interest actually happens to me that my brain will hold onto anything.

Of course this isn't of any particular use, much alike being an expert in pop-culture trivia, but it is important personally because it is usually attached to good memories.

Example - One of the places nearest and dearest to my heart is a stretch of riverbank out in the country just outside of downtown London. I've always known it as 'The Spot.' The perfect place for a two-man party, small get-togethers or taking the family with a bucket of KFC - or just a solitary quiet walk with the dog.

I've been going to that spot for about 35 years now with four different people and can remember what each of them said of the place on their first visit.

I was introduced to the place by my friend Al when I was about 20 and new to town. We went there because we had gotten kicked out of the Shitty-View Restaurant for not ordering more than one coffee apiece over a two hour period and it was a nice secluded place to get high. As we stood under the big maple at the Spot, I commented on how it looked like a perfect tree for climbing. Al replied that he had been coming to that specific place for about half his life and that was the first time anyone had ever made that observation. Being a former Junior Forest Ranger, I took that as a compliment.

Second time was with Herman G. We began going down there annually - rain or snow - a few years after that. The first visit was with his aging dog Myrtle. And one of his dogs has always joined us - Ben, Badger and now Gracie. We made our way along the woodline at the end of the soccer field, down the slope next to the big willows, hopped the creek (there was no footbridge then just strategically placed rocks,) turned a left at the giant anthill and then followed the crick up to the river where there were still two rocks for sitting on at the river's edge. "I just want you to know," Herm said with mock solemnity. "I can tell that this place is special to you and if you have been here before with other people - I understand." And then giggled in that Herman way.

When Butch McLarty joined our little group, as I was giving him directions on how to get there and describing the terrain, Butch - a Cavendish kid - recognized it immediately just by description alone - "Oh, you mean the 'Gilligan's Island Lagoon.'" And in the middle of July, that's the best description I ever heard for the spot.

And lastly, Kid Dork joined us one spring evening. When he was asked to come back out for our autumn get-together, his email response was - "Wow! I'm invited back. Must've been the cologne."

See - I remember EVERYTHING. In vivid detail. As if experiencing that moment all over again. Although, the other night after drying the dishes, I forgot where the frying pan belongs and put it in the refrigerator.

Jack Kerouac was the same way. He'd visit his childhood friends and remind them about some football game they had as eight-year-olds. No one else remembered of course. And so they gave him the nickname 'Memory Babe.'

Apparently, this isn't just a form of a selective or sentimental memory. No, it is officially called 'superior autobiographical memory' and was first diagnosed by neurobiologist James McGaugh in 2006. That, according to an article I read recently about former star of 'Taxi' - Marilu Henner, who has a whole book out on the subject. "I can rattle off almost every time I've seen you," Henner said in the article. "It's like putting in a DVD and it queues up to a certain place. I'm there again, so I'm looking out from my eyes and seeing things visually as I would have that day."

Well, heck - I can do that! I remember everything. In vivid detail (I wrote that same description three paragraphs above incidently,) and if you don't believe me, just scroll down to the blog post below and read about my first encounter as a three-year-old with Mr. Peanut. I even remember how the snow was falling that night.

EVERYTHING. Except for where I put my car keys. Or what I originally came into this room looking for.

It's not the sort of memory thing like 'Do you remember where you were when Kennedy was shot? Or Lennon? Or Elvis, depending on your age and how much importance you attach to such events. Anyone can do that. Or make it up.

Although, for what it's worth - the day Kennedy was shot, I was in Grade 3 at Prince Charles Elementary in Windsor, Ont. Shortly before school was dismissed for the day, Mrs. Kraut made the announcement to our class. Being about eight years old, I certainly didn't know what to make of it - but what I remember was walking home and just how overcast the whole sky was - dark, gloomy, ominous. End of the world type of a sky.

I suppose that's why I've never had the urge to keep a journal or diary. That plus the fact that on most days I don't have anything worth recording for posterity. But it is nice to know that - thanks to Marilu Henner, I now understand why I am blessed or cursed with this rare memory disorder - although I do approve of the word 'superior' in the term. It also means that for the rest of my life, I realize that every time I eat a meal, I will be able to tell you years from then just what I had for dinner on any specific date. And whether the mashed potatoes were lumpy or not that night.

So thanks, Marilu - I shall never forget you for this.

Because, I remember EVERYTHING! Except for what I did last Friday night. Man, was I loaded.

Mr. Peanut and Me

I made the easiest fifty bucks of my life the other day. The Boy and I were watching television and a new commercial came on for Planters Peanuts featuring their long-time spokesperson Mr. Peanut.

I pretended like I hadn't seen it before although indeed I had courtesy of the YouTube. "Listen to that voice!" says I. "Listen closely - do you know who that is - speaking as Mr. Peanut?"

Of course he didn't. So I says, "That sounds like Robert Downey Jr! Yeah, listen - that's him alright. That's Robert Downey Jr!"

"Yeah, right!," The Boy replied - as dismissively as only a 16-year-old could. "Why would an actor of Robert Downey Junior's stature and paycheques be doing voicing a television commercial? And as a dork like Mr. Peanut no less."

Well sir, I knew I had him there. He'd fallen for it. Hook, line and sinker. Now to reel him in. "No listen, it sounds just like he did in 'Iron Man.' Do you wanna bet? I'll bet you 25 bucks right now that's Robert Downey." ... And he was soooo sure of himself he made it double or nothing.

I guess I should feel bad about taking advantage of a kid. But I don't. He should have known better. For one thing, he knows damn well from long experience that I never bet on anything unless it's a sure thing. Number two - when it comes to Mr. Peanut, I know my stuff.

I have a small amount of Mr. Peanut memorabilia cluttering the house. You can't walk into a room here without seeing Mr. Peanut in some incarnation or other. I keep up on all things Mr. Peanut. So The Boy should have known that if I say Robert Downey Jr. is doing the voice of Mr. Peanut in a TV commerical, you can be damn sure it's a fact.

Of course, I'd heard about all this weeks ago. The news made little impact on the rest of the world. Even the showbiz media didn't make much of a deal about it when Planters announced that Downey had been hired to do the voice of a $35-million advertising campaign with a series of TV-commercials filmed in computer-generated animation and stop-motion photography and set to air over the Christmas holidays right up to SuperBowl Sunday.

But it was big news to all of us who are nuts about Mr. Peanut. Because the REAL story was not WHO was going to do the voice of Mr. Peanut. Or how much they would be paid. No, the true groundbreaking news here was the fact that for the FIRST time in his 94-year history - Mr. Peanut TALKS!

Not too sure I like that idea. I've seen the commercials and sure, Downey Junior sounds a bit like a rich former frat-boy - the type of guy you would expect to see wearing a top-hat, spats, white gloves, a monocle and carrying a cane. He's okay, I suppose, but he just doesn't strike me as Mr. Peanut.

Maybe it's a matter of his 'new look' in the animation. For one thing, they have him wearing a jacket, shirt and tie. And no pants. As you know, the iconic Mr. Peanut is not wearing any clothing other than his accessories. Not that he's naked. He's a peanut for Gawd's sake. Why would he be wearing clothes? He selling nuts.

But the thing that I'm most uncomfortable with is that he's not tall. Compared to the other 'people' in the commercials, he's just regular size. The same as everyone else.

This should not be. Mr. Peanut should always be portrayed as a towering figure. I know this first hand. You see, Mr. Peanut is the very first memory I have.

Late 1950s. Windsor, Ontario. Close to Christmas time. I was about three years old and had gone shopping (a rare excursion for us,) with my father after he got home from work. Dusk had descended as we drove to the shopping plaza. I still remember the look of the snow as it fell softly and lazily in the lights as we crossed the parking lot, my hand enclosed in my Dad's.

And then, the most wondrous of sights! In front of the Sentry department store was a giant Mr. Peanut handing out free samples. For a toddler, looking up at a giant eight-foot peanut dressed like a man it was a larger than life experience.

That was the first time we met. Years later, after quitting high-school and hitch-hiking out west with a friend in the mid-1970s, a wild wag of a performance artist named Vincent Trasov was campaigning for Mayor of Vancouver dressed in his own Mr. Peanut costume. He could often be seen on the streets of Gastown where we hung out with the street kids, junkies and artsy-types. His slogan was something like - "You're going to an elect a nut anyway - why not me?"

He was a reassuring sight for a kid far from home. Especially for one whose most vivid image from childhood was of Mr. Peanut. I've always associated that most early of memories with my father who died a couple of Thanksgivings ago. Now that I think of it, it was he who eventually wired the money for me to take the train back to Windsor after a couple of months of playing hippie in Vancouver.

But most importantly, it was he who first introduced me to Mr. Peanut on that winter night outside the department store in Windsor. It was he who encouraged me to shake his hand and get that free small plastic bag of Planters dry-roasted as my reward.

On the TV and in the magazines, there were other more 'manly' advertising characters at the time - Mr. Clean, the Jolly Green Giant, Tony the Tiger. But Mr. Peanut always reminded me of my Dad - the strong and silent type. He didn't have to exploit his size by bragging or doing heroic deeds. He let his character do all his talking for him.

I don't claim to be that good of a father. But I try and every once in a while I somehow manage to get things right.

Would my own father take advantage of his child by making a bet knowing the kid didn't know better? And then keep the money? Probably not. But as a parent I had to ask myself this - If it were me, how would I feel about making a bet knowing that the other person only bets on sure things?

And after about five seconds of deep soul-searching I had to honestly admit that if it were me, I'd like to be taught a good lesson.

Yep, I took his $50. Nuts to you, son!