Memory, and lack thereof

I've already put up a partial list of things I cannot do, but this entry will cover one very specific area that puzzles me.  Despite the fact that I have an otherwise good memory unaided by ginko biloba, there are a couple of things I am constitutionally incapable of remembering.

For example, I'm pretty good with dates.  I remember birthdays, anniversaries, historical dates.  I'm no Marilu Henner -- thank goodness -- but I do all right when it comes to recalling important dates.  Phone numbers are another piece of data that I can recall pretty easily.  Courtroom numbers, schedules -- these can be challenging sometimes, but not typically.

Sports trivia I'm pretty good at.  Give me numbers -- 1908, 511, .406, 56, 755* -- and I can tell you the reference.  I can remember memorable series, playoff games, wild events.  I remember certain things, like Whitey Lockman being on second base when Bobbie Thomson hit his shot heard round the world.  I can recite in vivid detail how the US was screwed in men's basketball at the '72 Olympics.  I can recall what I threw to certain batters in certain situations.

But ask me to sing a song lyric, name the artist who sang it or even the name of the song and I'm toast.  I'm one of the people the admen use for the funny commercials where people make up lyrics to songs and swear they're the right ones.  Part of this is my hearing deficiency.  Part of it is that until I graduated high school, I never owned a record (CD for those of you from later generations, the internet for the rest).  Sure, I like music, but for whatever reason, I struggle to remember this stuff.  Ask me who helped stop Joe DiMaggio's 56-game hitting streak with a diving play at third (Ken Keltner -- and my own Mother was only nine in 1941) and I'll readily answer you.  Tell me who scored the tying goal at the end of the first period in the Miracle on Ice in 1980 and I'll tell you Mark Johnson.  Just don't ask me to recite any Elton John song lyrics, name any Beatles albums or describe Dave Matthew music.  And gangsta rap?  Um, no.

Considering that my job requires me to have an ever-changing roster of facts and statutes not only at the tip of my finger but also to have the ability to analyze them and apply them properly, it's shameful that I can't remember songs that I hear often on a weekly basis.  I love music; that's not the problem.  It's not like colors, where I could give a rip about the difference between chartreuse and mauve (for the record, I spelled chartreuse correctly without having to look it up first...but the only reason I know it's correct is because I looked it up since I wasn't sure...).  For whatever reason, I don't process music well.

Add to that the absolute inability to remember a joke.  I love cleverness.  I love the sly turn of the phrase, the well-worked wordplay.  Wordsmiths I appreciate more than one can know.  But I cannot remember a joke beyond the two or three that I've memorized.  Although not exactly on the same level, they're barely a notch above Knock-Knock quality.  And frankly, I don't remember any of those.

I revel in the finery of a deliciously naughty limerick.  I applaud the bravado of a well-turned chiasmus.  Double-entendres make me giggle like a child.  But I cannot remember a joke.

(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles