THE BORN LESAR

It's not easy trying to fool one's own mind

The average human brain is a marvelous organ, as complex and physiologically intricate as any cluster of organic cells ever was. My brain, on the other hand, has been described by various medical professionals, psychiatric experts and commoners on the street as 'a mushy mass of wasted protein.' See, I told you I wasn't average.

I've been thinking about my brain recently -- which is sort of weird, really, 'cuz I have to use my brain to think about my brain -- and although it's given me a few headaches that even Extra Strength Excedrin can't crack, I've come to some fascinating conclusions. I can't remember what they are, of course, because like everybody says, a mushy mass of was..., yeah, you understand.

What really got me pondering about the pea in my noggin was a late-night news show on television last week, about this dude who was mugged and beaten on the head and who then emerged after the episode as a mathematical genius where none existed before. That's right, dude got conked on the brain, and can now decipher staggeringly difficult mathematical formulas. Makes you wonder what would have happened if he'd gotten kicked in the crotch, but that's probably not an appropriate discussion for this space at this time. Yeah, I know, sometimes I bring stuff up and then think, 'Whoops.' Sure wish these new keyboards had delete buttons.

So, back to my brain, which my fourthgrade teacher was certain had been either sucked out and eaten by an alien life form, or just left at home on my dresser on spelling test days. See, I wasn't all that bright as a kid, even though my cranium was as big as the next kid's and sure to be of at least typical weight and density, but I just think its focus was someplace other than the classroom, or the general geographical area of the school, for that matter. During math, for instance, my mind was usually either wandering off to the last playground recess, or working on a devious plan to get a dead fly down the back of the shirt of the girl who sat ahead of me, without her knowing it, naturally. Such were my desires. Mostly Cs were my grades.

That story on TV last week got me to thinking (there I go again) about the real capacity of human brain tissue to adapt to what is needed. The experts interviewed on the program, who studied the man's incredible transformation, figure that as one part of his brain was damaged, another arose to pick up the slack. It just so happens that the part where mathematical function happens is the one in him that emerged more fully, and now he's capable of near-genious reasoning. Just lucky for him, I say, that it wasn't some other part of his brain that grew exceedingly effective, say the tissue that controls the sense of smell (Hey, is that the scent of dog poop at three miles away that I detect?) or the area of the cerebral cortex that determines musical appreciation. Can you just imagine, liking Barry Manilow songs and not being able to shut it off. Scary, huh?

What blows my mind (other than a really good pepper sneeze) is the notion that this heretofore seemingly normal man all this time had the capability of high mathematical function, but never knew it, and likely never would have had two thugs not clubbed him silly one night. Does that mean we all have such latent mental capacities, just lurking inside our heads and waiting for the proper stimulation to release them? I mean, think about it, does that mean that Mitt Romney could actually have a personality, if properly thumped up alongside a graying temple? Could an adequately placed cuff upside the head make my teen-aged son capable of noticing that the dirty clothes in his room have mold on them and may be creating a macro-environment capable of sustaining anaerobic life forms? Best yet, if I drop my head forcefully on my desk right now, could I possibly write something that you wouldn't show to your husband with a sneer, and say, 'Roger, he used the word 'poop' again?'

This case also raises the possibility that certain geniuses of human history may have gotten their amazing abilities via seemingly innocent cranial trauma. Einstein? Maybe his kid brother bonked him with a baseball in the back yard? Beethoven? Sister whacked him with a book when he tried to peek in her diary, I'll bet. Michelangelo? Probably toppled off that Sistine Chapel scaffolding a few times. Was no OSHA in those days, ya' know.

I'm sort of surprised I haven't had a similar experience to the man in the TV story, because I've taken some pretty decent shots to the head over the years. One time, I was walking purposefully through a low-ceiling basement and rocked my skull so hard into an oak beam that I dented it (no, my forehead, not the beam). The only difference I noticed after that was some mild memory loss, vacant spaces in my vision field, and the faint, distant sound of someone calling, 'Come on home, son. Just follow the light ...' Another time, just a month or so ago, matter of fact, I was going into my dog kennel to feed my beagle and when he tried to run between my legs to get out, I stood up and bashed by brain so hard into the metal pipe of the frame that I could hear birds chirpin.' Turns out it really was birds chirpin,' which was sort of spooky, but I had a lump on my scalp the size of a cell phone and every time I touched it to see if it was bleeding, my toes hurt. Go figure. Some other guy gains extreme mathematical talents, I get ticklish.

I've tried to stop thinking about my brain in the last few days because, well, like I said before, it knows. See, the mind is in a great position in all this, because any time you try to figure out a way to outsmart it, it's one step ahead of you. If I were to, you know, just hypothetically, devise a plan in which I was to crash my cranium into a door frame in order to increase my writing skills, my brain would find out about it and prevent if from occurring. Frustrating, huh?

So anyway, maybe I'll suffer an unfortunate accident someday soon and will experience extreme brain tissue trauma and then sudden new cognitive skill. A guy can always hope.