I’m reading the David Baldacci novel “Memory Man.” The main character has a condition, caused by a football injury to his brain, where he remembers everything that ever happened to him, everyone he met, every situation.

That’s a lot of crap to store in your cranium, but our brains seem to come with a pretty big grey matter drive on which to store things.

I don’t have that condition but I do have an inordinate ability to remember arcane details, yet I can’t remember someone’s name 20 seconds after meeting them.

For instance, I can remember routes and roads and directions in towns I’ve barely passed through. My CNN Detroit crew once named me “Rand” for mapmakers Rand-McNally.  The most extreme case was while we were passing through Findlay, Ohio. Chester, our videographer said he was hungry. “Oh, make a left at the next light. There’s an Arbys.”

Instead of thanking me for the tip, Chester’s face became all contorted as he semi-angrily says, “why! why the fuck would you know that? why would you know there’s an Arby’s in Findlay, fucking Ohio?”

“Oh,” I calmly replied. “we did a story there 10 years ago.”

“No!” yelled Chester. “No one remembers that stuff! That’s not normal! But I am in the mood for a roast beef, curly fries and a Jamocha shake.”

But this was actually normal for me and I used to joke that it would be great if our brains were equipped with spit valves, like trumpets. When you used a useless piece of information you’d been storing for too long, you pulled the valve and it left your brain and made room for new information. In fact, Chester and I didn’t even have to say it. When I spouted forth with such content, we both just looked at each other, reached behind our noggins and made a pulling gesture, as if we were activating our brains’ spit valves.

Oh, to this day, I’ll remember little incidents, colors, songs, phrases, situations that really never needed to be withdrawn from my memory bank. I can’t do it on demand. Something has to trigger it. Sometimes those recollections surprise and delight. Often times, however, the unwilling victim of my uncanny recall will roll their eyes and just say “spit valve.”

But to not have that mental spit valve, as someone with the condition described in “Memory Man” wouldn’t really bother me. Who knows. You never know when you’ll be in Findlay, Ohio again…and hungry.

When I was in the Boy Scouts, we also took part in the neighborhood Memorial Day parade. The parade was a mile long and included the Boy Scouts, Cub Scout, Girls Scouts, Brownies, Sea Scouts, police and VFW members, and of course, the school marching bands. We marched for 5 miles on our main drag in eastern Queens, Union Turnpike down to Hillside Avenue next to the Cross Island Parkway, to the VFW hall. We were about 1.5 miles from Belmont Raceway. Almost all of our fathers and grandfathers, and some moms and grandmothers, served in either WWII or WWI and we pounded the pavement just for them. It was hot and uncomfortable in those uniforms and several times we were tempted to doff our constricting neckerchiefs, but you don’t do that in a parade, especially one honoring our war vets. After all, being a little hot under the collar can’t compare to the sacrifice these brave souls made. By the time we trudged those last steps to the VFW hall some of the scoutmasters would tease us by saying, “OK boys, time to walk back home!” before they loaded us in the cars. But not before they went inside for a couple of cold ones…and we were stuck with soda. It was a great day.

I came across two stories this morning about uncommon longevity. There’s Jeralean Talley, a Michigan woman who is celebrating her 116th birthday this weekend, making her the oldest person in the world. Then there’s Mark Behrends, of Nebraska, a relative youngster at 110, certified as the oldest guy in the Cornhusker State.
These stories are always uplifting and you can’t help but feel great for these so-called Super Centenarians. The aspect that always fascinates me, however, is the section on why they think they’ve lived so long, aside from the obvious reasons of not standing in the path of an angry elephant, wandering blindfolded into a shooting range, or yelling Sean Hannity’s name in a crowd.
In Ms. Talley’s case, she cites the fact that she fishes once a year, bowled till she was 104, is happy and leads a pretty calm life.
On the other hand, Mr. Behrends is thrilled to claim he owes his longevity to his routine of quaffing a beer every day.
It got me wondering exactly what the secret to long life is because there seems to be no rhyme or reason to it, aside from the pragmatic theory, and probably the right one, that genetics has a lot of say in the matter.
In the past I’ve read stories of centenarians who brag they either smoked every day of their adult lives, had lots of sexual partners, did whatever the hell they wanted with no regard to how long they’d get to do it before their life’s curtain fell.
The textbook case of “it doesn’t matter” is that of the late Jim Fixx. His book “The Joy of Running” was credited with starting the jogging craze. Indeed, at age 52, while jogging, Fixx died of heart attack. Guess jogging’s not the answer.
Certainly there are things you probably shouldn’t do if you hope to lead a long life. The person mentioned earlier notwithstanding, smoking will kill ya. So will overusing any sort of drug or alcohol and allowing yourself too much stress, since that put a real strain on your heart and circulatory system.
It seems the common denominator here is simply feeling good about your life, doing what makes you happy, having loving people around you, and not falling victim to second thoughts.
For some that’s a pretty tall order, since many of us take great joy in being miserable, at least part of the time.
I really don’t know what the secret is but I’m not one to disregard results. So starting tomorrow I’m going fishing and bringing along some beer.

I would have given anything to sit behind the desk. Just once. Maybe I’d be good at it and they’d pay me to do it again. Or I would emulate Pat Sajak or Chevy Chase. I’d been a morning drive time radio announcer and thought I was funny. I wasn’t. My radio career was as successful as the electric fork. Even when I doubled the rating at my station in Tucson, Arizona, the jealous program director busted me back to afternoon drive time. I worked that shift for two weeks before jumping to television where I stayed for another 22 years.

It was at that first television job at KGUN, Tucson, where my talk show fantasy was exposed. I’d watched Steve and Jack and Johnny and even Joey…Joey Bishop. I love words. They each knew how to instantly choose the right ones. Not just the right ones to get laughs, but the right words and phrases as part of otherwise tedious repartee’ with starlets and harlots and egotistical actors and athletes. They were savants of the  extemporaneous enunciation.  Then there were the comedians who made their bones on those, and the Ed Sullivan shows. Woody Allen, Mort Sahl, George Carlin, Myron Cohen. Words. Perfectly lined up.

So it was the spring of 1980 when I found a guy named Franco Damonico. He worked at local car dealership and had broken the Guinness World Record for number of jobs held by one person. It was something like 367. That was a viable feature by itself. But Franco was more than a serial employee, he was a character He had bushy, salt and pepper hair and a personality that sucked you in so you couldn’t say “no.” To show you how well a car he was trying to sell you was taken care of, he’d flamboyantly pop its hood, remove the radiator cap and take a dropper from a bottle marked “Vitamin E” and drop some of the liquid, probably just water into the radiator.  “See!,” he’d announce with his devastating smile. “We treat it with the love vitamin so you know it’ll love you back!”

Whatever. He was entertaining and made a good subject. So much so, for my grad school magazine writing class I decided to conduct a much more in-depth interview with him.

So we sat around for a couple of hours in his tiny office in a trailer at the dealership on Tucson’s busy Speedway Blvd. In the course of the interview we traded fantasies. His fantasy was to make as many people happy in the world as he could. That’s why he changed jobs so often–to meet people and make them happy with his always completely-full outlook on life. I mentioned I’d give anything to be the guest host just for one night on the Tonight show. Then we moved on with the interview and I never gave it another though. It was just two guys bullshitting.

About a month later an envelope show up in my mailbox. The return address was just a giant “Tonight.” Did someone send me tickets to the show? That would be cool.

Then I opened it to find the letter shown here. It was basically a very gentle rejection note thanking me for my interest in being making an “appearance” on the Tonight show and but after “consideration” I didn’t make the cut.  I couldn’t figure out what was going on until I remembered my conversation with Franco Damonico. So I called him.  “Yeah!” he laughed. “I told you. I like to make people happy and I wanted your fantasy to come true! Sorry it didn’t work out, you woulda killed!”

Well..I don’t know about that, but I would have taken that shot in a heartbeat. My first guest would have been Franco Damonico. Wonder what he’s doing. I hope it something that makes him happy.

There was a rather long story in today’s Detroit Free Press about the slow demise of bowling in this country. This makes me said for a few reasons. For one, where else can you rent an item of clothing that tells the whole world what big feet you have. Nothing like taunting Big Joey who stuffed his oversized dogs into a pair of size 13’s straining the laces to the point of stripping the aglets from the ends. We all knew he wore size 13’s because it said so on the back of his shoes.

The first place I ever bowled was a place on Long Island called New Hyde Park Lanes. It’s where my father played in a league and it was pretty hot stuff that he had his own ball and didn’t have to slum it by using one of those hundreds of anonymous scratched, black balls on the racks. New Hyde Park Lanes never bothered to modernize. The ball return was a track along the surface between lanes, not the standard underground return. Until we were big enough to handle a regular bowling ball we were banished to the arcade version in the corner near the bar that used smaller duckpin type balls that had no finger holes. It was a big day where dad declared us ready to throw gutter balls using a real bowling balls where you stuck in your fingers after glopping sticky stuff on your thumb so it didn’t slip out. I actually still have an old jar of that stuff. See photo.It’s long been petrified.

In our neighborhood of eastern Queens near the NYC/Nassau County line, the biggest bowling even was the opening of Sterling Bowl. It was completely underground–56 lanes and thorougly modern. The only thing above ground was a small entry building. To get down to the lanes was a cascading open staircase or an elevator. This place had it all. About a billion balls to choose from, shiny, laquered lanes and an awesome bar and bartender named Jimmy.  As we got older Jimmy and his bar became a more important aspect of our Sterling Bowl visits than the actual bowling alleys. Jimmy liked us and bought us free drinks for every two we paid for and he provided a constant supply of salami and crackers.  When I’d tell my mother the gang and I were going to Sterling she’d say, “Bowl well!” Except we never set foot on an alley or threw a frame. We did score with Jimmy, enjoying the free drinks and snacks we earned by tipping him well.

Here’ in Michigan, my son and I enjoy bowling a few times a  year at a fine establishment in Commerce Township called Wonderland Lanes. My son has autism and the owners of Wonderland are huge supporters of autism awareness and hold fundraisers there a few times a year. One time the late owner took such a liking to my son he let us bowl for free. This is the part of bowling I hate to lose.  Bowling centers, or alleys or lanes, or whatever you want to call them aren’t just places to participate in bowling, they’re community gathering spots, safe places to meet friends, make new ones, grab a beer and relax. No pressure. It’s nice to see some perceptive business owners incorporate bowling alleys into their restaurants and movie theaters, but the traditional neighborhood bowling barns are headed for their final frames, according to that story in the Free Press. Let’s hope not.

I still use the bowling ball and bag my late father bought from a store in Manhattan forced to close when they grabbed the land to build the World Trade Center. It has his initials embossed in the ball. I may not ever bowl 300, but every time I use it I love knowing my fingers were where his were.

But that’s bowling. A heavy ball you stick your fingers in, rolling down the alley, aimed at knocking down those 10 pins., getting high fives and maybe a kiss from your girl if you succeed.  A simple game that only required a ball, some friends, a beer close by and shoes that gave away your size…and a bartender in the lounge who may buy you back a few drinks and set up some free salami. We can’t lose that.

Of all the news stories that took me slightly aback in the last few days, it was the news that the Jerry Lewis Muscular Dystrophy Telethon was ending. Oh, it hadn’t really been a true telethon in years, with Lewis suddenly being banished in 2010 and the once 21-hour marathon broadcast eventually snipped down to a scant two hours. I honestly hadn’t watched in a very long time but still, the end of the line for the program that started when I was four years old triggers a fond memory of my personal involvement with the show, sort of.

During the telethon’s heyday in the 60’s Jerry Lewis asked kids to help his “kids,” those suffering from Muscular Dystrophy, by holding fundraising carnivals. My friends and I jumped right in and organized what we thought was a can’t miss selection of carnival games that we’d set up in the big grassy area of our immense apartment complex in Queens–Glen Oaks Village. Glen Oaks, which still exists, is so big it has its own zip code. Well, wouldn’t you know it, but some other kids from across the street got wind of our plan and decided to hold a competing carnival. The bastards! They were better funded than my group had a ringer who was a whiz at arts and crafts and they came up with fancy tickets and more elaborate games. To rub it in, they decided to hold their carnival on the same day, less than 100 yards, from ours! We were devastated. Our version of skeeball looked like pauper’s playthings compared to theirs. We made due with wiffle balls wrapped in duct tape while the fancy lads from across the street managed to wrangle actual skeeballs from a neighborhood arcade. It only got worse. Neighborhood kids lined up to play their games while we sat dejectedly at our booths lonely and defeated.

At the end of the day the bad guys raked in about 50 bucks and all we managed was a paltry 50 cents. My father felt sorry for us and chipped in a buck. We were ashamed to send in a check for $1.50 to Jerry Lewis but we had to do something with the money. So, in exchange for assorted pocket change and my father’s buck, my mother wrote out the $1.50 check and we sent it in and licked our wounds.

About a week later the mailman shoved an envelope through our mail slot with the return address: Jerry Lewis Telethon. It was a large envelope. Inside was a beautiful certificate with Jerry Lewis’s signature on it congratulating us on contributing to the fight against Muscular Dystrophy. Along with it was a short letter signed by Jerry thanking us for our efforts and making it clear every contribution made a difference. I know I have the certificate somewhere..I think.

The experience always stayed with me all these years and probably is the reason why I’ve continued to believe that if the cause is right, the effort is sincere and you tried your best, the size of one’s contribution isn’t what matters but the fact that you cared enough to give it a shot is appreciated. Besides, as the old joke goes…it couldn’t hurt!

It was opening day of fishing season Sunday, which was something I didn’t know when we put our kayaks in the water. Every 7 feet was another group of fishermen all dressed in rubber and camo standing in the middle of the river with their heads down and eyes aimed at the water. As we floated by they would look up and ask us hopefully, “see any fish?” But alas the river was fishless. However, as we passed by perhaps our fourth group of luckless anglers I saw what looked like a trout about a foot long dart by my boat. “A fish!” I shout, thinking this is helpful to the guys we just passed. But instead of gratitude they gave me a look that said, “and what the hell do you suppose we should do, tackle it?”

So we continued our trip upriver where we encountered the largest group yet—a half dozen losers with their lures or bait or whatever you stick on the end of a hook in order to coax a fish into biting it. “See any fish!?” one called out. This time my answer was more optimistic. “Yes! A big one about a quarter-mile back!” “Great!” one called back. “Any closer?” At that point I’m thinking I caught more with my two eyes than those guys caught in two hours of standing with sticks and string with hooks n’ stuff on the end of them dipped in the fast moving current.

At that point we decided the river was too clogged with this crowd of rubber/cammo’d bipeds and turned back downriver. Very shortly we encountered a new group of fishermen. As we stopped to chat with them it became apparent we were not on the same page. I mentioned we had seen several other fishermen upriver. My partner didn’t quite hear me and added, “yeah, they had a bunch of them on a stringer!” Horrified and thinking we had described an outtake from the movie “Deliverance,” the fishermen abruptly and wordlessly returned their attention to their rods, and eyes to the river. Our little episode might not have measured up to one of Hemingway’s famous fishing tales such as “The Big Two-Hearted River,” but after encountering so many wet guys with empty buckets and bass-less stringers, we might have written “The Shallow Heartbreak River.” It was just one of those episodes you catch…and release.

Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! People can be such sheep. I realize I’m going to stir up some deep-seated beliefs here but I’m going to come right out and say it: I’ve done a comparison test of which the results may surprise some, be considered heretical to others, and to a very special few, admired as utterly heroic.

I’ll just come out and say it. I prefer Whataburger over In-N-Out. There. I said it and I won’t take it back. Ever. I came to know Whatatburger back in late 1970’s when I lived in Tucson, Arizona and became reacquainted with the chain after a couple of recent assignments in Texas. The most recent, this weekend’s trip to Dallas where I stuffed a delectable double bacon-cheeseburger through my pie hole.
For years I’d been listening to people have oral orgasms over In-N-Out and read stories that would award the chain the Congressional Medal of Cheap-o Comestibles. By the time I finally tried one of their vaunted Double-Doubles and a shake I fully expected to have to smoke cigarette  afterwards and call the store the next morning to thank it for a good time. But I didn’t. It was fine. It was fast food, the store was congested, not that clean, I waited forever for my food and smoking’s bad for you anyway.

My last two trips to Whataburger were completely different. I don’t smoke but in expectation of perfection imagined myself the Marlboro Man about to leave the joint with a satisfied swagger. I wasn’t disappointed. The food was delivered quickly by a very courteous server, the burgers cooked just right and about the thickness that said “chomp down boy, this is gonna put a shiteatin’ grin on your face.” It did. While many of you know I lead a condiment-free life, I couldn’t help but be impressed that, not once, but twice, a server came around with a tray bearing pods of every variety of ketchup and mustard worthy of sitting on a Whataburger, which my co-diners pounced upon anticipating a condiment high.

Oh..did I mention Whataburger’s onion rings? Now I did. Crispy and just the right ratio of grease and actual onion. Fries? Ha! I fie on your fries!

Now I realize you In-N-Out sheep who coo over their private stock of burger meat on the hoof and the imagined perfection of their discs of meat patties may unfriend me on Facebook or launch other such social sanctions, but will not retreat on iota. Oh In ‘n Out is fine ‘n dandy, but as the old commercial  by the late Mel Tillis once pronounced, “It’s more than a hamburger…it’s a HAM-burger!” Watch.