Other than being convicted of serial infant cannibalism, nothing is more embarrassing to an Older American than forgetting his own name.
I attended last year’s Metropolitan Opera gala dressed as – like I’m supposed to remember? Wait… Richard Nixon? Soon after lapping up all the vodka from the booze pit, a familiar face approached me with his hand extended.
“Hello, my name is William Jefferson Clinton. What’s yours?”
Oh, fuck. “My what?” I said to gain a few seconds. “Ha, ha,” I clucked. “By the way, who is the delightful twelve-year-old you have with you tonight?”
“Bridget’s fourteen,” he barked, showing his fangs. “So?”
“So?” I replied. “Oh, my name: first or last or both. First name last or first? Middle name, or just the initial?
“Just tell us your name, asshole,” Bridget squeaked.
I had to improvise. “Jesus Christ!”. I screeched, and ran off kicking waiters out of my way.
“That dog don’t hunt,” Clinton said. He grabbed the brat and kissed her fully, fully, down her young gullet. “Is that all you ever say?” she tried to utter through the rare beef of his tongue.
I ran blindly into a restroom full of women. What are they doing stinking up the male toilet?
“Get the fuck out of our female toilet,” the women shrieked as they threw tampons at me.
I staggered back into the lobby. I bumped in to a huge black man inside an even larger black man. The woman he carried fell out of his mouth escaped.
“Sorry about fucking with your conquest. This shouldn’t take too long, sir, dear sir! I am a man in desperate need of a toilet or one of those stand-up doo-hickies – “
“Crazy motherfucker!” He whacked me upside my head and I crumbled. Yes, your poor old author had had enough. I crawled back to my apartment and gulped down a can of lighting fluid.
See what happens when you forget your name?
This evening was a real setback. I laid on my couch for three weeks staring at the ceiling. I haven’t worked in over a year which made that easy.
One morning a roach fell on my face and he carried three thoughts:
1) I must save the world.
2) I must fight for the future of our democratic government.
3) I must create a method for our dear forgetful ones that will engrave their name, their destiny, the foundation of their being, forever on their brain.
I call these sacred principles “The Three Musts”.
Now as far as the first and second “Musts”: hell, I’m over 70 years old. You think I got the time and energy to do that shit? Leave that to others as long as I get credit for coming up with the “Musts”. Others will delightfully finish the work guided by my inspiration.
As far as “Must” #3: Pick one or more of the three methods listed below. Your father can blow away 90% of your brain tissue with a shotgun and you will still remember your name.
1) Have your name tattooed where the wrist meets the hand on your LEFT hand. When asked your name, scratch your nose with your LEFT hand in such a way you can read the tattoo.
2) Whip out a business card and give to the person. Have it read “Dr.<Your Name>, Wizard of Podiatry”. That way if somebody has a stroke, nobody comes running to you for help. Now if they bust a bunion, tell them you don’t want to get sued and walk away.
3) Ninety-nine percent of the time it doesn’t matter what name you tell them. They’re going to forget it anyway, so make something up. “Porky Pig” is too whimsical. Avoid surnames like “Stalin”, “Dahmer”, or that German guy with the stupid moustache.
If all else fails scream “Jesus Christ” and take off. Don’t stop at a restroom, just get the hell out of there.
Your name will then pop into your mind at the first red light. Ah, good. You are then allowed a brief chuckle. Brush off the irony and let the bitterness bleed through.
Or forget the chuckle. Go home and get drunk.