By Al Batt, Tribune columnist

AAARRRGGGHHHH!

It’s happened to all of us.

Sometimes our minds keep secrets from us.

I run into someone I know and I am unable to remember his name.

I’m devastated when I am not capable of recalling someone’s moniker. I have difficulty forgetting the fact that I am occasionally unable to remember someone’s name.

Being able to speak another’s name is so very important. No less of an authority than William Shakespeare said, &uot;There’s no sound so sweet as the sound of one’s own name.&uot;

It’s not all my fault. The guy should be wearing a name badge.

Maybe we all should get our names tattooed on a prominent spot on our bodies?

I know I know him. I’m pretty sure he has a name. I’m equally certain that I’ve called him by his name in the past, but now I’m like a satellite having trouble on re-entry. He is definitely someone worth remembering. I remember his face, but the name is gone. It’s embarrassing.

The brain cell in charge of recalling names has stepped out of his cubicle.

I have suffered a brain cramp. My mind has encountered some foggy weather. I have left my memory in my other pants.

The canaries have fallen off their perches in the mineshaft of my memory.

I feel like a non-qualifier in the remembering for distance and accuracy competition.

The name of this man has performed one of the greatest vanishing acts since Judge Crater or Amelia Earhart.

It makes me feel stupid. At least it makes me feel stupid for my age. And I really don’t need any help in that area.

The sad part is that I remember not being able to remember before.

I have called folks and forgotten who I was calling.

My mother told me that by the time we reach a certain age, we know so many people that it’s impossible for us to remember all the names.

We smile and say things like, &uot;How you doing, buddy?&uot; &uot;Good to see you, pal,&uot; &uot;What’s up, guy?&uot; or &uot;How about this weather?&uot;

We become a bee saying to the rose, &uot;Hi, bud.&uot;

I stall while spurring my memory banks.

It’s like swallowing film and hoping that something develops.

My mind holds its own Easter egg hunt for names.

We talk and then I listen, hoping that the nameless individual will offer a clue that will reveal his true identity.

Sometimes I just wait patiently for the Name Fairy to appear.

Other times I run through the files of names piled haphazardly in what acts as my brain.

I had been meaning to catch up on the filing, but I put it off.

I know men who can name the entire roster of the Vikings’ football team, including nicknames and uniform numbers, but cannot be relied on to remember the name of their mothers-in-law if you spotted them the first initial of the names.

We continue to visit with my good friend.

The one whose name I cannot remember.

I need a service dog with a photographic memory.

I run through the alphabet. I do my ABC’s while furiously thinking of names beginning with each letter in the hopes this exercise would jog my memory.

The irony is that there is some horrible defect of the human brain that doesn’t allow us to forget the names of those people who we would love to forget.

I’ve found the best method for me is to let my mind go completely blank. This is the condition it typically finds itself in, so this state is easily accomplished. I erase all mental pictures and shift my thought process into neutral.

The only problem with this method is that I sometimes have a bit of trouble with my transmission and am unable to shift it out of neutral.

I sporadically make the mistake of shifting it into park instead of neutral. That causes me to retire to the nearest sofa for a nap&045;er, meditation. This brings about no end of mortification for my poor wife whenever this condition transpires in the vicinity of a furniture store.

How does one make one’s mind go blank?

Think about televised fishing.

Now I know that forgetting things is a lifelong burden of the creature called a human being.

I didn’t get a perfect score on every test I took while I was in school, so I’ve been forgetting things all my life.

I don’t need a grocery list.

I need a name list.

Now where did I put that packet of forget-me-not seeds?

(Hartland resident Al Batt writes a column for the Tribune each Wednesday and Sunday.)