My Stupid Brain

  While we sleep, our brains continue to work. That's just basic high school biology. They keep our heart and lungs working, and continue to interpret the information being relayed through our senses.

   Often this information makes it into our dreams. So, those voices outside your window are assigned to people in your dream. That motorcycle backfiring outside your window becomes a gunshot. That gunshot outside your window also becomes a gunshot.

  A few weeks ago, I awoke from a dream with a sore neck and shoulder. I had somehow ended up with my right arm trapped beneath me as I slept, causing mild trauma to my 42 year old muscles and ligaments. Then I began to recall the dream.

  I was at Philadelphia's center city Turf Club. It's a combination restaurant & off track betting parlor. Although I haven't been there in years, I used to go there often when I was working near there 15-20 years ago. It's place that holds some indelible memories. So, it's a reasonable place for my dream to be set.

  I was standing at the bar, staring up at a TV, watching a race I had bet on. As the horses came down the stretch, my horse surged to the front, only to be caught and passed right at the wire. A heartbreaking loss. In frustration, I furiously pounded my fist on the bar with such force that a shock wave travelled up my arm, and tore my shoulder from it's socket. First the joint cracked, then the muscle and skin tore. My severed arm dropped to the ground.

  Panicked, I reached quickly down to retrieve it, catching my chin squarely on the bar. My neck tore open from front to back exposing my windpipe. My head remained attached to my body only by a few inches of skin and tendon around my spine. A Fishtown necktie.

  Next I was in a hospital bed. Bandaged and braced from the chest up. Then, I woke up.

  As this dream came rushing back to me, I realized that the dream was my brain was trying to interpret the shoulder and neck pain I was feeling. This was the story it came up with.

  This is the brain I entrust my life to. This human mind. This miracle of evolution. This most sensitive and sophisticated biological instrument. It felt a bit of a twinge and said "Hmm. Neck and shoulder pain? I'll bet I know what happened there."

  I imagined trying to explain to my brain, just how far off it was.


ME:    Brain, you are not even close. Are you serious with that?

BRAIN: HA! Right. I know you too well. You and those horses. You
       were at the Turf Club, weren't you?


ME:    Are you my brain or my comic strip wife? Should I call you
       "Pet?"


BRAIN: Touche'


ME:    I wasn't at the Turf Club! I was just lying on my arm!
       Come on. You're supposed to be all about logic, right?


BRAIN: (shrug) I think it's pretty plausible.


ME:    Did you just shrug?


BRAIN: Yeppers.


ME:    Look Brain, you must know I wasn't at the Turf Club,
       because you are with me, literally, every single
       moment of my life.


BRAIN: Hmm. I can't quite remember if we were there recently.


ME:    I had a tiny pain, and this was the scenario you came
       up with? A severed limb and and near decapitation? Really?
       You don't think you're overreacting?


BRAIN: It's kind of my job to consider all the possibilities.


ME:    Besides, Brain, look. My arm? Still attached. My neck? No
       scars.


BRAIN: Okay, I guess maybe it didn't happen that way. Although,
       they can do amazing things with cosmetics these days, so
       I'm leaving the door open.


ME:    WHY WOULD I LIE TO YOU ABOUT THIS?



 I thought my brain had learned the lesson. But a few nights later my upstairs neighbor was having a small gathering. Through the evening occasionally their voices would rise with excitement and laughter. It continued off and on as I drifted off to sleep.

 I dreamed I was standing with a crowd at a casino craps table. Cheering and shouting as the shooter cupped, shook, and threw the dice. "Come on seven! Come on eleven!"

 I think my brain may have a gambling problem.

Wade, Bosh, James Demand to be Traded to Lakers

Miami - In response to a disappointing 10-8 start, the three star players of the Miami Heat, LeBron James, Dwayne Wade, and Chris Bosh are demanding that general manager Pat Riley trade them to the defending NBA champion Los Angeles Lakers.

During a 20 minute press conference this morning, in which the three frequently spoke over each other, actively struggling for control of the single microphone, James said, "we now think that playing for the Lakers would give us the best chance at an NBA championship."

Swatting away Bosh, he continued, "I'm beginning to question the Heat's commitment to winning. I mean,they've got three of the best players in the NBA and they send us out there with Zydrunas Ilguaskus? Don't get me wrong, I love the guy, but since when is moving like Frankenstein a good quality for a basketball player? Come on. Give us something to work with."

Bosh, stretching over James' shoulder added "We're the stars, but we need a supporting cast! We're human. There are going to be a lot of nights when the three of us all have a bad game at the same time. A lot. Then who do we rely on? Eddie House? Give me a break! Thanks, Pat Riley. Some teammates we have here."

The three are noticeably absent from the Heat's official 2011 team portrait. "we didn't want to dilute our brand", Wade explained as James handed over the microphone in fear of Wade's icy stare, "we are really our own team now. We call ourselves 'Le Boshade!' James quickly called the others to confer privately for a moment, before Wade looked up and added "We still might change that."

James demanded the microphone back and chimed in, "I really think that (Lakers stars) Kobe and Pau are the missing pieces the three of us need to win it all. I'd like to take my talents to Hollywood, but it doesn't really matter if we go there, or they come here."
 
Bosh again over James' shoulder interrupted, "Although if we go there, we would get to play for the West in the All-Star game,which would give us a better chance to win." Wade and James nodded in agreement. "Also, L.A. is a good place to just chill."

Wade ripped the mic away from James, then while rubbing his shoulder and wincing said, "The thing about playing with Kobe and Pau is, like Chris was saying, on those nights, those many, many nights, when the three of us are all having a bad game, Kobe and Pau can step up. That's how a team is supposed to work. I mean, I like Juwan and all, but come on. He's like 50 years old! Not a great teammate."

Before leaving, the three hinted that they might be interested in playing professional baseball for the Yankees. "That would give us the best chance at a World Series title, even if we just sit on the bench all year", James said. Conceding that they are "not very good baseball players".

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Historian Revisits Minnie. "Not A Moocher"; Other Surprises.

   Historian Bert Blyleven of the University of Chicago takes on a biography of the ephemeral depression era figure known for decades as "Minnie the Moocher". Speaking about his new book, Blyleven said "Her nickname, 'The Moocher'? Totally unfounded! There is quite a lot of evidence to support the assertion that Minnie never took a dime from anyone after the age of 25.

   "Minnie actually made quite a good living working the carnival circuit as a professional goldfish toss player. Not only was she NOT a moocher, but she was often very generous. For example, on numerous occasions, she housed and fed her good friend San Francisco Fan. Fan was often having trouble with her man, who had a gambling problem.

   "Don't forget, after being arrested for kicking the gong around, it was Minnie who gave Smokey the bail money. Why she didn't simply give it directly to the sheriff, I have not been able to ascertain.

    Perhaps the most serious accusation against Minnie, is that she was a red hot hoocie coocher. Blyleven says he finds no reason to think so. "Minnie was really pretty alright. Contemporary accounts have her variously baking for children, helping elderly neighbors, and even doing volunteer work. I hope that my book "Minnie the Pretty Good Lady" will help to set the record straight. I think that most of these accusations are a result of rumors started by her on again, off again boyfriend, Smokey, a cocaine addict."

   Blyleven has already begun research on his next book, in which he asserts that Napoleon was actually well over six feet tall, and made "a hell of an omelet."

Mitch Albom Announces New Book: "Dying to Die!"

Sports writer turned chronicler of death Mitch Albom announced on Wednesday that he has signed a deal to write a new book titled "Dying to Die!" It will mark the fourth book in his death-fetish series, along with Tuesdays With Morrie, Five People You meet in Heaven, and Have A Little Faith.

Albom spoke to reporters on conference call, saying "Dying is seriously now my favorite thing. I am really looking forward to my own death process very much. I'm a little worried that I could be cheated out of the process by some sudden incident like a car accident or something. I may start smoking Luckys to hedge against that possibility.

"I think mostly I'm looking forward to the marveling at life's cyclical nature, and just the onset of a general wistfulness. Also, can't wait to find a young 'me' that I can pass on all my life lessons to. In fairness, most of my life lessons will really be death lessons.

"Also, I'm feeling rather competitive about it. I know all the best strategies for dying well. I am going to be so good at it. So good! I wish there was some sort of league I could join where medals were awarded posthumously.

At age 52, and in apparently good health, Mr Albom looks forward to a long illness someday, and ultimately being survived by his wife, Janine.