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“Your brain sometimes forgets to tell your lungs to breathe.”
There they go again, blaming everything on my brain. This time it’s a Lung Specialist. Sure he’s gonna take my lungs’ side, that’s what he’s been trained to do. What’s wrong with my lungs that they can’t just breathe, without bringing my much maligned brain into the situation? They’re standard equipment, aren’t they? It’s not like they were just added to the body. They should know the routine by now. Breathe, breathe, breathe, and breathe. What’s so hard to remember? If you have been following that routine for 63 years without any interruption, do you really need somebody to tell you when to do it again? Lungs, take some responsibility for your own actions. Don’t blame my buddy, the brain.
This isn’t a new thing, casting aspersions on the functionality of my cerebellum. It started as far back as my infancy. When I was four or five years old, my mother said, “What was your brain thinking, telling you to draw on my dining room wall with a crayon?”
In fact, at the last family reunion, there was finally no discernable twitch when my sister reminded her of the episode.
That was just the beginning. Not only would my mother constantly make disparaging remarks about my cerebral cortex, but soon my father began to pile on. “Boy, did you put mud in the gas tank of my car? Did your brain tell you that was what went in a gas tank? What were you thinking?” I guess I was looking for an alternative fuel source. You see, my brain and I were ahead of the curve on this fossil fuel thing. We were searching for a solution in the 50s, years before it would become the in-thing to do. In fact, if my research into utilizing mud as an alternative fuel source had been allowed to achieve fruition, maybe we wouldn’t have the problem with oil spills in coastal waters. Perhaps if a mud rig in the Gulf of Mexico exploded, then the repercussions would merely be that the remainder of the Redneck Riviera would look like Galveston.
Shortly after my entrance into the educational system, my parents were joined in their constant diatribes against my buddy, Grey Matter, by teachers. “2+2 is 4, not 22! Why can’t your brain understand that?” I felt like Charlie Brown, “Why is everybody always picking on the two of us?”
When I was twelve years old, coaches joined the “Blame it on Jim’s cranium consortium”. “When you catch a pop-up, remember to use your glove, not your forehead. Hasn’t your brain figured that out yet?” Actually, I quit my first Little League baseball team out of loyalty to my pal. The coach said, “Martin, you’re a great hitter, but your brain is worthless on this team.” I saw the writing on the wall. If he didn’t want my buddy, then he didn’t want me. We were a team, like Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello, The Marx Brothers—actually the Marx Brothers came along in my puberty, when we were joined by a third member.
“The Marx Brothers”, Braino, Goofo and Pinko became preoccupied with the female gender. And the onslaught against us began to intensify. “Jim, what was that useless confederation of lobes thinking when you mixed red phosphorus and potassium chlorate?” I don’t think our chemistry teacher, Mrs. Swartzenheimer, wanted to hear, “Judy Lustgarten’s bountiful breasts”. Actually, I was trying to cheat Zippo Lighters out of a little money by creating my own lighter. I would have been successful, but my useless confederation of lobes caught sight of those magnificent mammaries and he was no longer a participant in the experiment. He was the only one that knew the ratio and he was preoccupied. Fortunately, the HAZMAT team was close by and the classroom wasn’t totally destroyed. I overheard the team leader ask Mrs. Swartzenheimer, “What caused this explosion?”
“One of my students wasn’t using his brain.”
Not using his brain? I’d like to see her try to get him to cooperate when “Lusty’s” breasts are around.
I did nothing wrong, but there I sat with Braino, waiting for the principal. Mr. McGruddy asked, “Martin, why are you in my office again? This is the fourth time this week and it’s only Monday. What brainless thing have you done now?”
What did he mean implying that my buddy didn’t exist? That morning, he was blaming the whole “food fight in the cafeteria” fiasco on him and then he wants to pretend he doesn’t even exist. That’s why I had a hard time understanding adults---my Braino didn’t even try. He just hummed a happy tune.
As we became older, Pinko and Braino formed a tighter bond and many things they did didn’t concern me. Like when they formed a coalition to maintain proper blood-flow. It seems that my brain had scanned an article on brain hemorrhaging and became overly concerned that may happen to him. Pinko promised my brain that from that day forward he would never allow enough blood to get to him that it could cause a problem.
In our early 20s, Pinko even tried to help Braino with the burden of thinking. That was definitely a mistake. Once I had to explain to a supervisor why I had told a female co-worker in our office that she had a beautiful ass. Later that week I asked her if she fooled around. When she said no, I asked if she would stand still while I did. I had to attend two weeks of Sexual Harassment classes and we determined that Pinko could no longer do any thinking.
I had another boss that seemed to enjoy blaming Braino. In fact, he enjoyed it so much he often maligned him unfairly. When something didn’t go right in the office or our quotas weren’t met, my boss would blame Braino. He would tell his boss, “Well, I put Martin in charge of that, but his tiny brain couldn’t comprehend my instructions.” The guy was a goof-off and he was blaming my head honcho. I guess he saw how easy it was and Braino didn’t seem to care. He and Pinko were always planning their next visit to Club Hoochie Koo. Eventually my boss’s ineptitude was discovered when he made an official written reprimand of me and my brain. It seems he and his brain were mistaken and it cost him his job. Wonder what his “tiny brain” was thinking?
When I got married, the three of us grew even farther apart, but they were still my buddies. We had been through a lot together and the bond was still there, but it seemed like Pinko and Braino would never grow up. Shortly after my marriage I quit thinking about women all the time, but my brain and his new “best friend” remained preoccupied. We still hung around together and often my wife would find fault with Braino. She seemed to like Pinko as much as I did, but Braino she never really cared for. Similar to my parents, teachers, coaches and bosses; she cast aspersions on him constantly. “That brain of yours is going to drive me crazy. You were out until 2:00 in the morning. Didn’t it dawn on your grey matter that you should call me and tell me you were going to go out with the boys?” One of her more frequent rants was, “Can’t your brain remember a simple thing, like the date that we got married? Or my birthday?”
My wife and I grew to love each other more and more and my friendship with Braino began to wane. He just never seemed to mature, but he was still my buddy. I guess in some way I felt sorry for him. People always seemed to blame him for everything, so I felt I had to stick with him. We had been together for 63 years, how could I desert him now.
Years later, he and Pinko grew farther apart also. Pinko just seemed to lose interest in the things Braino still loved to do. In fact, Pinko has become a shell of the pal I once knew. He rarely gets excited about anything and just spends his days in a lethargic state, totally disinterested in life. Even my wife has commented on it. I think she and Pinko really bonded over the years and she hates to see him like this.
In fact, with the newly discovered condition of my brain forgetting to tell my lungs to breathe, the other night I thought I was having an “out of body” experience. I woke up choking—breathing seems to be something that our bodies want us to do constantly--- and I saw a white light, it looked like Lusty Lustgarten kneeling at the end of the light. It turned out to be my wife with a flash light talking to Pinko.
I guess there’s nothing I can do. I can’t keep waking up choking. I’m going to have to tell my brain that he is falling down on the job. He probably forgot that the lungs were lazy and forgetful. I‘ll remind him that he has to constantly keep on the lungs to breathe.
How am I going to break it to him? How do you tell a friend that if he can’t do his job, they’re going to bring in a machine to do it for him? Hopefully, I will never have to have this conversation with Pinko.
Ike is a freelance writer living in the Memphis, Tennessee area. His articles are humorous anecdotal essays on Southern idiosyncrasies and stories about a crazy adolescent trapped in a geezer’s body.
His book Booming to 60, is a Baby Boomer’s guide to Geezerdom.
www.boomingto60.com
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Ike Martin is a freelance writer living in the Memphis area. His latest book Booming to 60 is a Baby Boomer’s guide to
geezerdom www.boomingto60.com
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