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.