FUNCTIONAL FIXEDNESS: THE BIG FIX

MY BOSS, IAN

MY COLLEAGUE, REBECCA

As we ramble through our lives, for the most part, we are functional and we are fixed in our ways. And this attitude and condition for which most of us endure is called FUNCTIONAL FIXEDNESS, the practice of repeatedly using the same “go-to” strategy for repeatedly particular situations. This behavior of being biddable, this functional fixedness, results in a kind of cognitive paralysis, so to speak.  I shall explain.

Functional Fixedness reflects the cognitive bias of having the tendency to see objects as only working in a particular way. For example, to play your chess pieces in the same opening strategy again and again would be falling into the trap of functional fixedness.

Factoid:  Most people settle and pass within 100 miles of where they were born. Even those that moved several times average no more than 750 miles from their birthplace, the only significant outliers being those that switched either coasts or countries.

Living a quiet and unassuming life has the qualitative benefits of peace of mind, but living as such makes for a delusional cockaigne of contentment. Quaint and idyllic peace makes for great local neighborhood awareness, but offers one a very limited inquiry and reflection of national or international affairs. Residing in the same home for thirty years, working the same job for thirty years, and hanging with the same coffee klatch for thirty years, is a perfect example of functional fixedness. 

Fundamentally there is nothing really wrong with being afflicted with functional fixedness.  Neither is there anything untoward ethically or morally being trapped in a lifestyle of functional fixedness. Continual behaviors such as watching Monday Night Football, gathering with the gang for Tuesday tacos and Wednesday wings, every Friday eating fish 'n chips, hanging at the bar every Saturday, and dressing Sunday go-to-meeting for church.  There is nothing too disturbing about going on the same annual Mexican vacation, and it is certainly within the realm of reality to meet with the same ol' buddies for a morning java or a round of weekend golf.

To me, the only real torment of functional fixedness is the real fear of falling into a dull and diluted lifestyle.

Functional fixedness, to me, means living the dream in a very vanilla-like construct.

I must take a moment now to make a literary move toward a metaphorical game of chess. For my daytime contract working with young offenders, this time around I’ve added Pawns and Punches, chess games in the morning and Muay Thai boxing in the afternoon (see my blog entry, PAWNS AND PUNCHES: THAT’S LIFE, SEP 23-2018).  All chess nuts know that chess is as much a game about psychology as it is about strategy. It is a game of psychological warfare, one that is played more with the mind than with the pieces.  (I cannot say the same for Muay Thai.) 

Factoid:  Life is not a game and, therefore, when I compare it to a game of chess; I am essentially reducing the worth of any life while availing the value of chess.  Almost ashamedly then, because of the endless replications and my elevation of chess thereof, still, there are certain common points that benefit both chess and life. 

For example:  In chess, letting emotions guide your game can only lead to disaster.  Nobody likes a poor loser and few people, not even the majority, will applaud a trumpeter. Just as certain, nobody appreciates the rage of the unruly.  

The BIG fix:  Keep calm and carry on.

Another example: Moving the same chess piece more than once in the opening is failing to see the forest for the trees.

The BIG fix: Make a concerted attempt to grasp the importance of the main issue rather than waste your energy on excessive attention to details.

Another example:  Thinking and thinking and thinking about your chess pieces and maneuvers.   

The BIG fix: Don’t overthink, just do it.

And yet another chess example:  No center play is a strategy for losing.

The BIG fix:  At your center you have your answer. Know who you are and know what you want. (Lao Tzu)  Treat yourself with the greatest of respect. Your body is the only place you have to live and you’re only issued one model, and with the proper care and nutrition, that model can last up to 100 years.

Pushing too many pawns in the opening moves is a really bad chess strategy.

The BIG fix:  Avoid overextending yourself.   Learn to say no. There were years in my life when I overextended. During the weeks I would work all day and would do my grad studies all evenings.  Come the weekends I come to hate Saturdays, because on my scheduled recreation time on Saturdays, I used to coach two elite soccer teams (as a volunteer) and teach a swimming class at the YMCA (also as a volunteer).  Since those yesteryear Saturdays, I’ve learned to say no and learned to focus on only the few things that are truly joyful in my nature – mainly guitar busking and portrait busking.

Now I’ll offer some BIG fix psychological tips for winning in chess and in life and in all things betwixt:

• Monitor your reactions to early mistakes.  When you lose a crucial piece of anything, keep cool and keep playing YOUR game.

• Recognize the time factor.  Some people rush, some people dawdle.  If you want an advantage, or rather not want to be on another person's clock, know that you have the power to speed up or slow down.  You are the one in charge of your game.

And what would a busking blog be without posing some busking examples of functional

fixedness!

• Strumming and singing on the same quiet and unattended street corners hoping for that big windfall.

• Strumming and singing the same tunes over and over again.

• Strumming and singing at the same times over and over again.

For the longest time in the months of winter I sat at an indoor mall, sketching no one, my big sign stating: PORTRAITS $20.  My new sign states:  PENCIL PORTRAITS – PAY BY THE MINUTE. YOU PICK THE PRICE!

Avoiding the trap of functional fixedness has improved my sales!  (Yes, I am a mercenary busker!)

To close, here are some rules from chess that I have inductively applied to my bildungsroman life, in my continuing effort to escape my functional fixedness:

• Play your own game … everything you do is your own game.

• Never underestimate people … especially your opponents.

• If you can’t stand losing ... don’t play.

• NO DISCIPLINE – NO HONOR.

Marching in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE are Travers and Sila hiking in China:

SILA EATING PINE NEEDLES

TRAV AND SILA FOREVER ESCAPING FUNCTIONAL FIXEDNESS!

PAWNS AND PUNCHES: THAT'S LIFE

In my ever delusional condition I fancy myself as a snappy-title guy – all my blog titles attesting to this true confession. Today’s title, PAWNS AND PUNCHES: THAT’S LIFE, is in reference to a couple of ideas I’ve added to my program of working with Young Offenders. (In a past blog I bragged about this program addendum as KNIGHTS AND KNOCKS: CHESS AND MUAY THAI MASTERS, August 13, 2018.)

PAWNS AND PUNCHES in reference to the game of Chess and the sport of Muay Thai that I’ve incorporated into our reducing recidivism program for Young Offenders. KNIGHTS AND KNOCKS, I thought was a rather clever reference, but PAWNS AND PUNCHES, is less abstruse, and a better metaphor. I shall explain.

Pawns, having a value of one, are the most common yet least valued pieces in the game of chess.  Chess piece pawns can easily be identified as being the olla podrida, mix of common citizens of any country on our planet. We are merely pawns is a common expression relating the futility of anyone’s real power; that is, anyone who is accursedly competing in the commercial system of our everyday existence. This metaphor of being powerless is commonplace and has been around for some time. You can’t fight city hall … You can’t beat the system … and my favorite, “Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage” (The Smashing Pumpkins).

And now I’ll explain the Punch/es in my snappy title. Punching, I must confess, is my favorite practice in Muay Thai.  (I quite suck at the kicks. I’m just not a kicker. In high school I took some karate and sucked at kicking. As a young man I took karate again and still sucked at kicking.  In the practice of Muay Thai I still suck at kicking.) Punch, as pawn, is a commonplace metaphor relating to our sufferings and routines in life. I’m just punching the old time clock … I don’t want to be anyone’s punching bag … and my favorite, “Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth” (Mike Tyson).

This is all good but how do pawns and punches relate to me, and even more importantly, how do pawns and punches relate to busking?

In my day and evening jobs I am a worker bee or a deck scrubber, either metaphor is apt. In daylight I am under contract working with Young Offenders and in evening light, typically, I am (usually) under contract as an instructor in the Faculty of Psychology. Both of these jobs I love, love, love but both my reflective and introspective self knows that I am still just a rat in a cage. Saying this, dear readers, I AM NOT IN A RAGE!

In phenomenological and delusional fashion I can make perfect sense of my daytime and evening jobs. Working with young offenders has always kept me physically fit. On a previous and similar contract, I had these young guys running outdoors daily, for a minimum of five miles, rain or snow, or shine. Whether the temperature was 30 above or 30 below, we ran. Windy or windless we ran.  And after our run we lifted weights every day save for Friday. Friday we took over the pool and I gave swimming lessons. This was my work-a-day exercise regimen for seven years!

These days I’ve calmed down. We walk to the gym daily, spend a half hour on weights, then practice Muay Thai (punches only), and then shoot some baskets.

In my past contract working with young offenders I introduced Mac computers, which at the time, purportedly were user seductive rather than just user friendly. This second time ‘round with young offenders I’ve introduced the game of Chess and the sport of Muay Thai. I did not know how to play chess but not-so-strangely, so far all of our young offender students do know how to play. They learned the game in custody. Because we are dealing with the highest risk of the young offender population, all of our students have been in custody for at least a few years, and therefore have a few years of chess playing experience. 

Factoid:  Not any of the staff (including me) knew how to play the game of chess, and so we now rely on the students to be actually teaching us. Anthropologist, Margaret Mead, predicted the evolution of a new kind of culture that she called prefigurative.   Her prefigurative culture was one that was future-oriented, and of which the cultural transmission was predominantly from the youth to their elders. In my daytime contract, I am working in a Margaret-Mead-defined prefigurative culture.

Meanwhile … back to busking.

I remind you, readers, that I am but a faux busker; my busking is but a sidequest. By self-design I have temporarily freed myself from the prosaic life among the pawns and the accompanied pedestrian punches. Being a busker I am certainly not representative of the Americano middle-class pawn, and I am certainly not punching the clock. However, one could argue that I am even lower than pawn strata, having to rely mostly on the pawns to toss the coin into my guitar case. And one could also argue that even though I am not punching a clock, I have to be on the clock to strum out a living.  Eking out a living by busking does demand a very middle-class (protestant) work ethic.

PAWNS AND PUNCHES:  THAT’S LIFE reflects one of my favorite adolescent dialogues in the ilk of Samuel Beckett’s theatre of the absurd, of which I studied later in life as an emerging adult in university English literature classes.

“That’s life.”

“What’s life?”

“A magazine.”

“How much does it cost?”

“Ten cents.”

“All I’ve got is five cents.”

“That’s life.”    

Running in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE this week is Gary, my colleague and former NHL’er, who just ran his first marathon.

GARY ON THE RUN

Ever the narcissist, I just had to show off my LITTLE medal, from my first marathon in 1989. 

 

MYSELF AND GARY HOLDING OUR MARATHON MEDALS

MARATHONS are 26 miles. Lifetimes for humans are 100 years, giving (20) or taking (10). Completing a marathon takes an average of four hours (the winners finish in two hours). Completing a life takes an average 78 years for males and 82 years for females. Completing a marathon, the faster you finish the better the performance; completing a life, the slower the finish, the better the performance.

I am 67 years old.  According to the above statistics, I have just 11 years to my finis. 

YIKES … I'D BETTER GET RUNNING!

ANATOMY OF A BUSKER: CAP-A-PIE BODY PARTS

BARON BUSKING AT THE RIDER GAME

Flaunting my busking alterity when solitarily street performing, I actual make a buck or two for what I do.  I am not a brutto-tempo busker -- I am a faux busker.  Only when my world is windless and when the sun is shining and the air is summery am I a busker.  And the physical features I convey whilst I thrum on my 12-string, drone on my didge, or draw portraits are always the same.

Never do I don a cap or any other form of headgear.  I’ve a shock of steel-grey hair and so the sun on my noggin is not an issue.  Factoids:  By design my hair is always messy.  My fashioned look is in line with my notion of the quintessential Bobby Dylan busker.  For more bean information I should also write that I wear black sunglasses, and usually sport a five o’clock shadow.  I love this look and believe that I exhibit and connote emprise, adventure, discovery, and romance for my consumers and other passers-by.

Over my upper torso I always don a white tight T-shirt, and I shall explain why.  I am ruggedly handsome and reside within a ripped body of just nine percent body-fat.  I guess it is rather needless to say that in my busker alterity I am vain and narcissistic.  (These very well could be my principal traits in my auxiliary counselor life, but any breath I take beyond busking such idiosyncrasies certainly are not as apparent.)  I love the testosteronic display of bulging biceps when I slap my guitar strings (I’ve not slapped any leather to date).  I’ve no tattoos -- I’ve ringless fingers and callused fingertips. Furthermore to brag, I do not have a pot for a belly.  This, dear reader, is the skinny why white T’s are my standard upper stock.

Worn and faded Levi blue jeans are my standard lower body stock.  Since the 1800’s Levis have epitomized the American West.  Supporting my rodeo look, looped around my 31 inch waste I cinch a wide leather belt complete with a shiny cowboy buckle to accessorize my buskaroo persona.  Factoid:  I’ve over a thousand busks under my belt and have yet to shoot someone in the back! 

Continuing my deceit and conceit, I have a delusional fancy as being a hatless and horseless cowboy.  I have real roots in Clay County Missouri, and I was shot off a horse while galloping over a bridge on Notekeu Creek.  And so far, this cowpoke misapprehension has served me very well.  (Read more of my cowboy credentials in the margin of this blog.) 

I am a real cowboy just as I am a real busker – I’m not!  

My cap-a-pie base is always size 12, steel-toe, black or brown, high leather work boots.  When busking, rather than pound leather, I pound pavement.  If wishes were horses all beggars would ride, but the side benefit of busking is the walking.  Walking keeps me willowy.  Factoid:  I used to bedeck cowboys boots but it was always a painful experience.  Work boots have become my signature foundation when walking tall in both my cowboy and counselor lives.

To close, Pilgrim, here are my sidekicks riding in this week’s CHAUCERIAN PARADE:

MY NEW COLLEAGUE, JORDAN

MY NEIGHBOR, MOHAMED

CHARLIE AND HIS DOG SHARING MY BUSKSPOT!

JOSEPH AND HIS RAT SHARING MY BUSKSPOT!

THE CHILD FAMILY PORTRAIT:  L-R SELF, NATIKA, EDEN, BARON, CAROL, TRAVERS