Memory Prioritization (or: Huh?)

In my last entry, I took a swipe at Toby Keith, insinuating that he often sacrifices quality for quantity in terms of his music. What I mean by this is that he cranks out an album a year like clockwork, but with only two or three good songs on each. The rest are - and how can I put this delicately? - basically steaming piles of ineptitude.

But this isn’t really about Toby Keith. It’s about how my brain uses a terrible prioritization algorithm when determining what I should remember. I’ll get to that soon.

Anyway, after making fun of Mr. Keith, I began to browse some of his older albums on iTunes, as his earlier work doesn’t suffer nearly as much as his current stuff. As I did, I came across the song “Jacky Don Tucker”. This was on one of his albums I owned a long time ago. I hadn’t heard it in probably over a decade – it wasn’t a single, so they never play it on the radio – but it didn’t stop the following from rushing into my head:

“Jacky Don Tucker was my daddy’s little brother, and at seventeen he jumped the fence…”

Whoa. I was remembering the lyrics.

“He joined a rock 'n' roll band, put a tattoo on his hand, my Granny said he never had a lick of sense…”

Yup. My brain had stored the lyrics away for safekeeping, just in case an important situation ever arose where I'd need them. ("If you can sing "Jacky Don Tucker" I'll give you a million dollars!")

“By the time he turned seven started stealin' watermelons, playin' house with the girl next door…”

Now, this wouldn’t be a big deal as long as I’m also able to remember important information. However, when somebody introduces themselves to me, their name floats off into the ether as soon as it rolls off their lips, and I'm left calling them “Ace” or “Sport." This can get awkward, especially if it’s Santa.

“Drinkin' muscadine wine by the time he was nine, sneakin' out and smokin' cigarettes under the porch”

Obviously, my brain has no idea how to prioritize. For some reason, it believes song lyrics are incredibly crucial pieces of information that need to be stored away in the heavily-guarded, Fort Knox portion of my memory. Other information, however, such as my zip code, the dates of birth of my immediate family, and why I became a Detroit Lions fan, have long-since been discarded, presumably to make room for more song lyrics.

I can only presume that this extends beyond music, and that it’s also only going to get worse. Assume for a moment that I have a finite amount of memory to work with, and that it’s already been maxed out. As I continue to learn, how will my brain prioritize what to throw away in order to make room for the new stuff? Will it be something useless, or something important? Could I one day be asked for my social security number and fail to remember it, all because my brain decided that the opening monologue from the Gunsmoke radio program was more important? (“Around Dodge City and in the territory on west, there's just one way to handle the killers and the spoilers, and that's with a U.S. Marshal and the smell of gunsmoke…”)

Could I one day forget where I live, just because my brain decided it needed to hold onto a few random facts about the NES game Super Techmo Bowl? (I.E. You could only rush for 4092 yards during the season with any given player before the game stopped counting.)  

The scary thing is, if this is already happening, where am I going to be 10 years from now? Imagine if I have kids! (“Hey there, Sport!”) Heck, what about 30 years from now? My best guess is that I’ll be the guy wandering around town singing obscure jingles from his childhood but who forgot to put on pants.

Maybe there are methods to train one’s brain to remember important information. However, that sounds like a lot of work, so I think I’ll just let things run their natural course. In a worse case scenario, I won’t be able to remember where I parked my car, even if I’m inside of it, but I’ll still be able to sing “Jacky Don Tucker” in its entirety.

“He was a melon stealin', cop-a-feelin', daredevil fool
 A do-it-anywayin', playin' hooky from school
 A water tower poet class of '73, he'd say by God you better know it if you're runnin' with me
'Cause I'm skinny dippin' finger flippin' son of a gun,
Play by the rules, you're gonna miss all the fun”

I guess that's not all bad.