I’m hanging with dickbag readers more than dickbag music listeners these days and increasingly bummed about my shabby recall for books. Quoting lyrics to a verse I’ve heard fifty times is easy, but holding the opening sentence of a chapter or a book summary is a different assignment.

I complained about this to an acquaintance with heroic recall and he goes, “Do you make notes?” Sometimes. “Do you underline? Star stuff in the margins?” More and more lately. “Do you reread?” Starting to, shifting from volume mode. “Do you smoke assloads of weed?” I did until two days ago! I’m taking a break. It’s an experiment—don’t hold me to it.

Here are a few bits from Joe Brainard’s I Remember, which I started last night.

I remember how good a glass of water can taste after a dish of ice cream.

I remember planning to tear page 48 out of every book I read from the Boston Public Library, but soon losing interest.

I remember “come-as-you-are” parties. Everybody cheated.

I wasn’t familiar with Brainard, but his little book caught my eye at McNally Jackson last week. For one, it was in shrink-wrap, which is a good trick, then I turned it over and saw Paul Auster blurbin’ on the back. “One of the few totally original books I have ever read.” Two people mentioned Brainard to me, unprompted, within 24 hours of buying the book. I suspect people have mentioned him all along, but my ears weren’t in tune. I’m gonna remember I Remember!

I hit the first 40 pages before bed but the format and approach was familiar by page 2. It’s not a novel, not quite a poem or an essay. Of course I wasn’t reinventing the wheel when I wrote Most of My Memories, Age 5-11 (ABRIDGED).