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Brain Drain
Steve Rushin
March 01, 2004
Some minds are steel traps. My mind is a lint trap, retaining only useless fluff, so that I know why .406 is important, but not why 1066 is. If you were to remove, with a flourish, the top of my head—like the silver dome from a serving tray—what you'd find underneath is potluck: batting averages, song lyrics, palindromes, advertising jingles, trivia questions, jersey numbers and movie dialogue. They're all strewn about the ransacked room of my brain, which resembles, in content and cleanliness, Oscar Madison's office.
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March 01, 2004

Brain Drain

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My two passengers, Sue Bird and Rebecca Lobo, looked at me with pity and contempt, knowing that I could instantly conjure their UConn uniform numbers but not the number of a boundless garage in which I'd left my car three hours earlier.

There's a scene in Jaws in which Richard Dreyfuss pulls, from the belly of a dead shark, a license plate, an old boot and a crushed beer can. That garbage-filled shark is my brain—never yielding the location of my car keys but rife with random refuse that won't biodegrade until I do: the score of Super Bowl IX, the roster of the '86 Celtics, the phone number of my first apartment. I have only to reach in and retrieve these things, though why on earth would I ever need to?

Beyond that, I cannot tell you anything about the human brain. Unless you mean wrestler Bobby (the Brain) Heenan. Him I can't forget.

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