Jack Lalanne, the Devil, and Me: Closing Thoughts

In 1935, Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil in order to become the greatest blues guitarist of all time, or so the story goes. Prior to his Devil deal he’d been a general pain in the ass around Greenwood Mississippi, pestering anyone with a guitar to teach him how to play. Eventually he left town, and legend has it that when he came back three months later, Johnson was the best damn blues player anyone had ever heard. Unfortunately, Johnson had an eye for the ladies and in 1938 he was poisoned by a jealous husband.

I have just concluded my experiment of attempting to leverage everything I know about brain science into accomplishing 14 goals. None of them as ambitious as the deal Johnson struck with the Devil. Unless, of course, you count goal #14: eating more slowly.

I wish I could look you all in the eye and tell you I have achieved 100% success over the last 40 days, that my experiment proves that I am the master of my destiny like fitness guru and Power Juicer pitchman, Jack Lalanne. "In 1984 at the age of 70, handcuffed, shackled and fighting strong winds and currents, Lalanne towed 70 boats with 70 people from the Queen's Way Bridge in the Long Beach Harbor to the Queen Mary, 1 1/2 miles." A feat I assume made more difficult by his skintight exercise leotard, which had to feel really yucky and weigh a ton in the water. (If you’ve ever seen a Pampers diaper bloat up in a wading pool, you know what I’m talking about.)

But alas, I am not Jack Lalanne,  nor did I sell my soul to the Devil, although it crossed my mind. I generally draw the line at doing business with the whole bifricated tail crowd. (The rare exception being the occasional foray at Wall Mart)

Left completely on my own to sink or swim, here is the outcome of my 40 day experiment.

 14 Goals

1. No more white flour or added sugar.

I have cut out white flour, sugar, and gluten at least 95% of the time. Like a heroin addict, I occasionally lapse and stick the needle back in my arm––or in my case, the hamburger bun in my cake hole––but for the most part, I've been clean.

 2. Run a mile in eight minutes.

Pulled it off, along with completing the Waconia half marathon, although the heat and humidity did have us whimpering like babies by mile marker seven.

3. Master the Tai Chi forms.

Ran out of gas on this one, and now I've got some pissed off Chinese monks going all Medieval on me. So much for Carry Tiger to the Mountain  抱虎歸山.

4. Be able to do 10 standard pull-ups.

Knocked out 7 prison style pull-ups, complete with shiv wrapped in my sweat sock, before I injured my bicep in a prison brawl out in the exercise yard (or was it knocking into the bathroom vanity in the middle of the night?)

5. Lose 10 pounds.

Fully accomplished. Now when I turn sideways you can barely see me, unless I stand against a black background, don white gloves, and wave my hands wildly.

6. Learn John Mehegan's untitled piano jazz tune.

Mastered this, and I am particularly glad Mehegan isn't alive to scold me for my occasional departure from the time signature.

7. Learn the piano scales.

 I stand before you humbled by all keys with the exception of C and D.

8. Learn the guitar scales.

I learned the pentatonic scale and two of the blues scales in all 12 keys. So I might not be Stevie Ray Vaugh yet, or even Myron Floren, but why would I be––he played accordion on the old Lawrence Welk show. (You laugh, but Myron killed on "Beer Barrel Polka.")

9. Learn a flatpicking song on guitar.

This one eluded me like a Bill Buckner grounder. My sincere apologies to Norman Blake and the 1986 Beantown Bombers.

10. Master a Blind Blake song ("Ditty Wah Ditty") on guitar.

Experts estimate that the glaciers are melting at a rate of  4 ± 20 Gt per year. My speed on "Ditty Wah Ditty" is slightly faster than that––but only slightly.

11. Learn "Rainy Jazz Blues" by Dave Celentano on guitar.

I have at least a quarter of this in the bag, although the bag appears to be made of paper and prone to ripping.

12. Practice meditation.

 I dabbled with this, but I do not pretend to have achieved perfection in the way of The Dude, Bed Bug, or Bo Paw––all manifestations of one Bob Powers, meditation master. (As proof of his zen powers: his ability to live in perfect harmony with a satanic albino squirrel.)

13. Read ten neuroscience books.

100% complete, ladies and gentlemen. I covered this one like Nancy Grace covers any story involving a southern town, a child abduction, and a toothless guy.

14. Chew more slowly.

I believe I have significantly slowed my mastication process, so I'm claiming some level of success. Mary Gleason Best may dispute that––not unlike The Donald, who still calls into question President Obama's Hawaiian birth certificate––but what can you do? Sadly, there will always be the doubters.

Conclusion

It takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at anything. It takes a  Gibson L-1 guitar and a deal with the devil to become the best blues player of all time. And it takes the Lalanne Power Juicer (with easy detachable pulp extruder) and one sassy leotard to go down in the fitness hall of fame.

I guess I naively believed my knowledge of myelin wrapping, memory palaces and deep practicing would be enough to carry me to victory, perhaps in the same way Robert Johnson believed his pact with the devil would buy him more than three years, and Lalane believed the Power Juicer was the key to immortality, one fruit smoothie at a time. (Lalanne did manage to live to the ripe old age of 96, so it appears in a head-to-head contest the Power Juicer kicks the devil's ass.)

In the end, I am left with a battered ego and a dent in my pathological optimism, not to mention sore calves. Still, the knowledge that so many of you followed my circuitous journey made it worth the effort. To all of my readers, I thank you.

I hope to see you next Friday on my new blog, “Mindframe: brain science, philosophy and miscellaneous musings."

Take care,
Robb