I go on and on about the stuff I can’t remember, but the stuff that stays in my mind is almost as frustrating as the stuff that doesn’t. I can’t remember what I’m doing at any given moment, but I can’t forget how the hosts of the Home Shopping Network in the nineteen eighties would toot a bicycle horn to indicate approval. “That deserves a toot!” they would gush about a product testimonial. Toot toot! Or people would call up to buy a hideous Capodimonte figurine and say, “Can I have a toot for my mother-in-law, Bernice?” and off they’d go again. I know this because my mother was obsessed with shopping via television in that primitive era before the world wide web came along. Do they still call it the world wide web? WWW? Wicked Witch of the West? Wimbly wambly wobbly? See, now I don’t remember where I was going with all of this, but I can’t get the song “Pufnstuf for Mayor” out of my head, which I have not heard since nineteen eighty-two, nine years before I was born.