When it comes to the science of the brain, I take a practical approach. If you think you understand how a particular brain system works, you should be able to demonstrate your knowledge in the real world, not just the ivory tower. This was our approach to our sexual research, largely inspired by my former department at Boston University which is particularly known for technology transfer: converting theoretical brain models into real-world applications.
Boston University computational neuroscientist Frank Guenther studied the speech production software of the brain, then designed a tiny chip that plugged directly into a mute, paralyzed man's cortex, enabling him to vocalize vowels with the aid of a speech synthesizer. This was a practical demonstration of Guenther's knowledge, one that improved one man's life. I studied the memory software of the brain in order to understand and improve my own shoddy, erratic memory. But my own practical demonstration was not nearly as magnanimous as Guenther's: I tried to use my knowledge to win game shows.
In 2006, I auditioned for Who Wants to Be A Millionaire. I spent about six weeks preparing for the show, using cognitive techniques I developed from my studies. This was also the first time I collaborated with my Billion Wicked Thoughts co-author Sai Gaddam, in preparation for the phone-a-friend lifeline. He applied his own knowledge of the brain's learning systems to develop fast, reliable information retrieval software to use on his end and—just as important—a method of rapidly and succinctly communicating search parameters via linear audio communication (that is, by me talking on the phone from the Hot Seat.)
For two weeks, we practiced assiduously late into each night, a harbinger of our future efforts on desire research. Our diligence paid off, because we got the kind of phone-a-friend question that would have been tricky to reliably google in 30 seconds:
I went on to reach the million dollar question. Unfortunately, though my memory techniques worked well, I had left out an essential element of mental preparation: emotion management. Drenched in adrenalin and overwhelmed by the crowds and light and terror of losing, I lost faith in my techniques, and even though I used them to figure out the right answer to the ultimate question ("Which of these ships was not at the Boston tea party?"), I couldn't pull the trigger.
I soon had the opportunity to redeem myself with another practical evaluation of my knowledge of cognitive systems. I was invited to participate on a new show, a tournament of America's all-time greatest game show winners called Grand Slam. Featuring the top-dollar winners of several game shows from the past quarter-century (I was the odd man out, since I was the only one who hadn't won a record-setting amount), Grand Slam was the Olympic decathlon of game shows, featuring algebra problems, anagrams, backwards spelling, history questions, pop culture trivia, and much more at a breakneck pace. Opponents battled mano-a-mano as a giant digital clocks swiftly ticked down.
Determined to make up for my imperfect execution on Millionaire, I drew upon the brain and behavioral literature to develop new cognitive techniques for the math and word problems, but this time I also incorporated techniques to manage my emotions, including breath control and detachment. I also adjusted my circadian rhythm so that my peak mental activity would occur around noon, when I expected the show to tape: I went to bed at 10pm every night and woke at 5am every morning.
In the first three rounds, I defeated the most successful female game show winner of all time, the most successful male game show winner of all time, and the brainy $1,765,000 winner of Twenty-One before reaching the summit and facing the ultimate competitor, the Michael Jordan of game shows, Ken Jennings.
Unfortunately, because of host Dennis Miller's unexpected schedule change, the producers ended up taping the Grand Slam finals at midnight. My circadian strategy backfired. But sometimes you must play game 7 of the NBA finals on the road without your starting center (like the Boston Celtics in 2010), and you still need to find a way to win. I gave it everything I had. Here's the round 1 clash between me and Jennings:
I couldn't sustain my concentration. My elaborate, delicate cognitive techniques waned, while Jennings' monster talent and fierce competitiveness never wavered. I lost convincingly.
People sometimes ask if my game show experiences helped with our research for Billion Wicked Thoughts. The answer is yes. I learned how to assimilate massive amounts of information in a short period of time, useful for digesting the sprawling interdisciplinary literature on sexual desire. The Grand Slam detachment techniques aided us as we watched a variety of graphic, unconventional pornography.
But most importantly was my obsessive, results-oriented approach to decoding the brain software of memory, cognition, and perception. Theoretical understanding was not enough; I had to demonstrate a practical understanding in front of the lights and cameras with cash on the line. It fostered a no-bullshit approach to figuring out the software of the higher cortical functions. We used the same approach to analyze the software of one of the most intriguing and overlooked lower functions, sexual desire.
