The Beginning
After reading a ton about neuroscience, I've decided to start a blog chronicling a self-experiment. For the next 40 days, I will be attempting to accomplish 14 goals, leveraging all that I have learned about brain function. I suppose this is not really that big of a deal for a guy who once taught Nixon to fly.
I started with 13 goals, but during a casual conversation, my daughter Jess threw in, "Hey, while you're at it, you should add eating more slowly to the list." I was already mildly concerned about hitting my 13 original goals. So you can imagine when she pitched that curve ball, I had to think twice about it. Many of you know that the world record holder for eating fast is Barbara Lilian Freeman, and though I have challenged in the past, I've never been able to achieve her mastication prowess.
Now here was Jess, in the middle of my shot at glory, suggesting I give up one of the secret goals I've harbored for years: beating Babs. If you've ever witnessed Barbara wrap herself around a piece of Portillo's famous chocolate cake, you know what I'm talking about––she's pretty much untouchable. Of course, being raised in a family of eight gives her a distinct advantage over someone like me, who was raised by in a family of jealous wolves. The latter never got over the opposable thumb issue. Despite my rather petite mouth opening (this can be scientifically verified by one Dr. Powell of Stanford Hospital fame), I still routinely managed to outgum the rest of the pack.
Still the number 14, from a kind of feng shui point of view––even numbers and so forth––has a certain appeal. So eating more slowly is now on the official list. Yes Babs, you stand alone as the undisputed champion. You are like the Mike Tyson of fast eating, except of course you would probably think twice about dining on human ear.
When one creates a self experiment of this limited magnitude, a lot of things play out in your mind. Is this really just a shameful attempt at immortalization? Is all of this driven by the realization that I've long ago passed the halfway point in my life?
Mortality is a funny thing. When I was in my thirties, an old family friend approached my dad at a backyard barbeque and, in all seriousness, asked him this question: "Whatever happened to Robb Best?" Kind of an existential mind blower given that fact that I was standing no more than two feet away at the time. My friend David Michael Freeman glanced over at me with an entirely appropriate look of disbelief, while my own mirror neurons fired back like the 16-inch guns on the USS Iowa.
Interestingly, my father never answered the question.
Perhaps even more interestingly, this mortality episode occurred at roughly the same time I taught Richard Milhouse Nixon to fly in a dream.
We were in the backyard of my childhood home and I was hovering about twenty feet off the ground, using the sweeping hand technique familiar to those of you who dream fly. It's all about hands close to the belt, palms facing down, fingers extended at a 90 degree angle, fluttering ever so gently; think happy butterfly.
Nixon, for all his sweaty upper lip effort, was struggling mightily. "Just watch my hands," I said, trying to coach him. "It's not that tough: happy butterfly, Dick, think happy butterfly." Here was the guy who opened up China, who spoke for the silent majority, and who reportedly wasn't a bad bowler, but despite that resume, he couldn't dream fly worth a shit. The guy barely got off the ground. Still, I guess technically, he was flying.
In his final days in the White House, Kissinger reports Nixon was beyond the well-documented Lincoln 'melancholy.' Tricky Dick had descended into a MacBethian madness, ruminating around the hallways, beseeching the portraits of past presidents for advice, for solace. He was a man trapped in his own five o'clock shadow of despair.
So now here I am, like Nixon, a prisoner of my willingness to put this experiment out there and live with the public consequences of my folly. For those who wish me the best, or even for those who secretly enjoy a good train wreck, I appreciate your readership. For the latter, I leave you with this to ponder: Remember who taught a sweaty ex-president to fly?
I started with 13 goals, but during a casual conversation, my daughter Jess threw in, "Hey, while you're at it, you should add eating more slowly to the list." I was already mildly concerned about hitting my 13 original goals. So you can imagine when she pitched that curve ball, I had to think twice about it. Many of you know that the world record holder for eating fast is Barbara Lilian Freeman, and though I have challenged in the past, I've never been able to achieve her mastication prowess.
Now here was Jess, in the middle of my shot at glory, suggesting I give up one of the secret goals I've harbored for years: beating Babs. If you've ever witnessed Barbara wrap herself around a piece of Portillo's famous chocolate cake, you know what I'm talking about––she's pretty much untouchable. Of course, being raised in a family of eight gives her a distinct advantage over someone like me, who was raised by in a family of jealous wolves. The latter never got over the opposable thumb issue. Despite my rather petite mouth opening (this can be scientifically verified by one Dr. Powell of Stanford Hospital fame), I still routinely managed to outgum the rest of the pack.
Still the number 14, from a kind of feng shui point of view––even numbers and so forth––has a certain appeal. So eating more slowly is now on the official list. Yes Babs, you stand alone as the undisputed champion. You are like the Mike Tyson of fast eating, except of course you would probably think twice about dining on human ear.
When one creates a self experiment of this limited magnitude, a lot of things play out in your mind. Is this really just a shameful attempt at immortalization? Is all of this driven by the realization that I've long ago passed the halfway point in my life?
Mortality is a funny thing. When I was in my thirties, an old family friend approached my dad at a backyard barbeque and, in all seriousness, asked him this question: "Whatever happened to Robb Best?" Kind of an existential mind blower given that fact that I was standing no more than two feet away at the time. My friend David Michael Freeman glanced over at me with an entirely appropriate look of disbelief, while my own mirror neurons fired back like the 16-inch guns on the USS Iowa.
Interestingly, my father never answered the question.
Perhaps even more interestingly, this mortality episode occurred at roughly the same time I taught Richard Milhouse Nixon to fly in a dream.
We were in the backyard of my childhood home and I was hovering about twenty feet off the ground, using the sweeping hand technique familiar to those of you who dream fly. It's all about hands close to the belt, palms facing down, fingers extended at a 90 degree angle, fluttering ever so gently; think happy butterfly.
Nixon, for all his sweaty upper lip effort, was struggling mightily. "Just watch my hands," I said, trying to coach him. "It's not that tough: happy butterfly, Dick, think happy butterfly." Here was the guy who opened up China, who spoke for the silent majority, and who reportedly wasn't a bad bowler, but despite that resume, he couldn't dream fly worth a shit. The guy barely got off the ground. Still, I guess technically, he was flying.
In his final days in the White House, Kissinger reports Nixon was beyond the well-documented Lincoln 'melancholy.' Tricky Dick had descended into a MacBethian madness, ruminating around the hallways, beseeching the portraits of past presidents for advice, for solace. He was a man trapped in his own five o'clock shadow of despair.
So now here I am, like Nixon, a prisoner of my willingness to put this experiment out there and live with the public consequences of my folly. For those who wish me the best, or even for those who secretly enjoy a good train wreck, I appreciate your readership. For the latter, I leave you with this to ponder: Remember who taught a sweaty ex-president to fly?
Check out Robb’s new book and more
content at www.bestmindframe.com.
Dear Robert (rhymes with Colbert),
ReplyDeleteLoved the blog. And good luck with the 13 now 14 goals. Interesting that your own daughter of all people would throw in the insidious last goal ('chew more slowly') to undermine your quest for immortality. Perhaps she thinks its her job? As a true friend I won't be suggesting a 15th. Because I do hope you become immortal, and then you can let the rest of us know how it is, and we can decide if we want to join you.
I have every confidence that you will be able, with neuroscience at your side, to accomplish the original 13 goals. Although given the scope of those 13, I'm not sure you're going to have much time for eating. But should you have time for some 'slow chewing', I have a suggestion as to how to approach that elusive 14th goal. All you cc's are welcome to try this as well. (Hi, Barbara.)
The approach to 'chewing more slowly' is called Total Chewing. The idea is to have all of you chew, not just the mouth. By all of you, I mean all of you. So, yes the mouth, but also the rest of the body (you took anatomy so you can fill in the blanks here - but don't forget your hernias and the hardware in your jaw). And not only your body, but also your mind, your soul, your true nature, the ego, id and superego, and memories from 4th grade. Again, all of you chews. That should slow you down. I'm not sure of the ontologics behind it, but it is simply hard to chew quickly while Total Chewing.
From the mystical point of view, the whole universe is chewing your food anyway. It's just a matter of recognizing it. And not only does this slow the chewing down, but it's also just a whole lot easier. And dare I say fun. Think about that the next time you have an Italian Beef.
Good luck on your experiment. Your blog will save it for posterity or until the Interwebs goes night-night.
Your friend,
Mr. David Michael Freeman
I'm doing my part in support of the illusive 14th goal.
ReplyDeleteNo one can accuse Robb of having a greater role-model in his life for slower eating than me.
Anyone who has tried to sit down at a table, put a napkin on their lap and pick up their silverware before Robb is completely done with his meal can attest to his speed.
Anyone who has had to sit patiently and wait while I finish the last three quarters of my meal can attest to my "leisurely appreciation" of food.
If it is true that opposites attract, then it is on the spectrum of rate-of-eating that Robb and I experience the most opposite of attractions.