This is the website for the Official DC Rock, Paper, Scissors Tournament - to be held this weekend. I am unsure of how to react to this, except to say that I am in complete awe.


I took a moment to read the two "Strategy" pieces located here for beginners, and here for more advanced strategy (and awkward philosphy). The beginner strategy has nicknames for all sorts of combinations that you can follow. My personal favorite, the "Fistfull 'O Dollars" is the under-the-radar approach of rock, paper, paper (or RPP in the professional circles).


The more advanced reading instructs you to "Probe Your Opponent" (heh heh):

When you face your opponent, know what kind of match you're playing. Is it a lightning round (one throw), best-of-three, long-form game? In short matches, your best bet is to pick a good strategy or gambit and stick to it. In longer matches, you have the opportunity to "probe" your opponent. Many players will develop and practice several distinct strategies. Often, after the first five or six throws, you can identify which strategy he is using. That helps you determine which of your strategies will be most helpful. Consequently, many players develop a few opening sequences, from three throws to ten, that are independent of their larger strategies. The only purpose of these openings is to get a sense of how an opponent is going to play the match.

Here's my question: If you are in a tournament, and it is single elimination, and the MOST throws you can do at anytime is 3, how do you probe an opponent with five or six throws? Answer: you don't. Not mathematically possible. After three throws and you lose, I guess you could complain to the ref/ump/someone's mom that you were "probing" them and weren't ready. But then those are the kinds of dudes who:


a.) are still reading "The Tao of Rock";
b.) are further defining their "Meta-Strategies"; and
c.) don't think that "probing" is funny


I don't think I am ready for the psychological cat-and-mouse that is the "Crystal Ball" Meta-Strategy, which is where a player really gets in the head of his opponent by predicting what they will throw, thusly compromising the secrecy of the opponent's strategy. I may be going out on a limb here, but I'm pretty sure that's a fancy way of saying "taunting." To further illustrate this, I would tell a player that I know they are about to throw paper, based on their previous throw, and additionally - their mama is so fat that when she jumps, she gets stuck in the sky. It is inevitable that my opponent would succumb to my rapier-like observations and I would emerge the victor.


And then I had this thought. Do you think that anyone would admit to practicing on themselves? You know they do. To get ready for a tourney such as this, they can't practice on people who don't understand the philosophy of the game, no, that would be an insult to them and, in turn, their sport. So they have a beer and sit in their living room while their left and right hand compete. And you know there is that magic moment, where the person then feels like they are primed and ready. They go off to the Tournament, ready to probe their opponents.


Which brings us to our next lesson. Kids: don't smoke crack.

Depressing end of the day yesterday. I was going down the escalator at Metro Center and a man either fell off a ledge onto the escalator, or fell down the escalator really fast (as if he was running), and collapsed. This happened about 3 feet behind me. He jammed his neck against the metal sides and knocked his head. He was out cold. And we're talking about an older guy here, definitely coming from work (tie, briefcase, etc). I think he might have been feeling a heart attack or something coming on (and tried to run down to get help?). I do not know.


So he falls on top of several people who immediately know something is bad, and they are able to halt the escalator with him at the bottom, semi-curled and half-upside-down. No one wants to move him because several people saw his head really press against the wall of the escalator and given his age and the way he fell, it is definitely possible that he snapped his neck right there. I was asking a woman for her makeup compact so that we could put it under his nose to see if he was still breathing. But a really nice gentleman put his hand on the man's chest and could feel a gentle rise and fall. Duhhh. Here I am thinking I'm MacGyver, and all we needed to do was stop being busy and just watch for a moment. About 5 people called 911 while I got the station manager. Then time keeps going by, and there is no first responder team. I go up the escalator because I realize that no one is looking out to signal the ambulance outside. And from the 911 calls, the dispatcher was obviously confused as to which Metro entrance it was (what else could 14 and G sound like?). So then a fire truck comes roaring down the road - I go out into the middle of the road to flag it down, and it passes by me and goes to the entrance of the Metro stop about a block away. Unbelievable. I chased down the truck, told the guys who were getting off the truck and unpacking medical equipment that they were at the wrong spot and the guy who needs help is a block away and he might have really hurt his neck in addition to whatever happened that caused his collapse. I think I am speaking at about 1000 words a minute. OK, he says, we'll drive around.


Seven minutes later they show up. All they had to do was turn on the sirens and pull around 3 sides of a block. If this guy ends up a vegetable, it's their fault. I have a deep respect for paramedics and first responders, but that delay was unconsionable. Even one of them could have walked the 40 seconds to get to the gentleman and assess the situation. I am getting angry just thinking about it. It's like when I drive the 3 blocks to CVS instaed of walking, because it never occured to me to walk in the first place. Only, you know, someone's life depends on it.


Then they go down the now stopped escalator and begin to aid the man. But no one looked like they were in a rush. I guess though, these are trained people who know how to keep their cool. I am going to try and find out what happened to the man. Just sort of depressing because I'm sure this guy woke up yesterday and it was going to be just a normal day like every other. Maybe a hassle or two at work, but the weekend is almost here. He never saw this coming. But who ever does?

It is 1:48 a.m. EST. There is no way I am picking up the phone. And because I let it ring, I have now what I consider to be one of the better voicemails I have ever heard (not counting the legions of voicemails left by drunken friends who can't talk, begin to sing, followed by shouting, and then hangup in disgust). This is the message in it's entirety:

...Listen I don't care what time it is where you are, it's not even midnight where I am and all you need to know is that I went to a fucking jazz club tonight and our conversations were overheard about Jack Kerouac... They explain that this is where Kerouac used to come (I had a long conversation with her). You won't believe the owner - he's gonna be here soon. He hates me. So I talk to the owner. The owner hates Jack Kerouac. The owner has owned it since '52 and he knows what he's talking about. This guy honestly knew Jack Kerouac. Hates me. He hates people who wanna talk about Jack Kerouac... He said, "To you he's a hero. To me he's a drug addict I kicked out of my bar." So my friends and I worked a complex scheme out to skip the check via text message. And now...

Now that's something.

I have this recurring rage that I need to vent. It happens everytime TBS or PAX TV rerun the movie Cocktail. Arguably one of Tom Cruise's better movies, this movie had it all: copious amounts of liquor, attractive babes of the 80's (yes, there was such a thing), and a brief uncredited performance of Elizabeth Shue's brother, Andrew "looks-like-someone-else-is-driving" Shue - who performed brilliantly under the character of "Guest at Wedding."


Anyway - this film had a reasonable amount of plot development and characters who weren't always good, and weren't always bad. And for extra measure, bottles would be tossed around bars that glowed of neon and tacky set-design.


My beef with this movie is the underlying drive of the hero of the story, Brian Flanagan (Cruise). He is this focused, talented, savvy guy who busts his arse so that someday he can create the perfect bar called... wait for it..... wait for it.... Cocktails and Dreams. Oy.


That kills me right there. This writer put together a reasonably good story and trashes it with the protagonist's quest to open up a bar named Cocktails and Dreams. Say it outloud to yourself. Then say "I want to open a bar called Cocktails and Dreams." Now stop wincing. Admit it. You would never patronize such an establishment.


I find myself yelling at the TV, "No you don't! There is no way you want to open a bar of that name! This is a lie!" Even in the 80's, entitling a place of business with that name would have been, ummm, like, wicked lame.


Part of me realizes that this was but a brief a foreshadowing of the writer's talent. I mean, this is the same writer who brought us "Double Bang" - which gives you not one, but TWO Baldwin brothers for the price of one.


So there you have it. And before people email and comment on the fact that there are plenty of places actually named "Cocktails and Dreams", let me point out that a.) most of them are in the Caribbean or another tropical location (playing off one of the themes of this movie) and; b.) it still doesn't make it OK. In fact, it makes it worse.


I guess the easy solution would be to stop watching these bad channels to begin with, but honestly, I loves me some PAX TV.

Christian - as you depart for places more western and wild, I urge you to heed the lessons of the story I am to relate to you. Though I have already told you this story - I was drinking free beer, and well - details become irrelevant and lost at a certain point.


My buddy Tom was at a lake house - beautiful, serene, and had nice clean air that makes you feel warm inside and out. Having been there myself, I assure you that this place is an undiscovered paradise - the twin smells of conifer and juniper alone convince you that you are younger than you feel, especially in summer. Anyway, Tom was at the lake house in Northern New Hampshire. We're talking prime real estate here - nice boats, pristine water, and a beautiful dock. Then, suddenly and ominously, birds begin flying out of trees as if sprayed with buckshot, and neighbors closing up their windows. Mothers are calling their kids into the house, and though initially they are reluctant, they too begin to here what's coming down the unpaved drive. The redneck neighbors have arrived.


While he has many stories of the two days the neighbors were there, one story in particular relates to your impending departure.


There is a guy on the dock, pounding beers - I mean just putting these things away. One by one, as if one of them has the precious antidote to cure his sobriety. He is standing in water skis, precariously placed at the edge of the dock. A boat in the lake guns and instantly attracts his attention. He is feeling mighty this day. Yes, today is the day of days. According to Tom, the boat guns a few more times to attract the attention of anyone near the lake or the greater Tri-State area. A holler, soon to live in infamy, is bellowed dockward:


"IS YOU READY!!!!!"


Our water-skiing hero kills the last beer with an aggression he usually saves for gay people and the government. He grabs the rope. Tom is thinking there is no way he will actually live through what is apparently being attempted. He responds:


"MAKE IT HAPPEN CAP'N!!!!!"


(author's note: this very well may be the best call-and-response uttered in the history of mankind)


We all wonder if the soon-to-be-dead water-skier saw and felt this all in slow motion, as Tom did. The rope seemed to tighten up almost immediately after the boat accelerated, but in a circular motion reminiscent of a snake that is being charmed. Fortunately, for the people at America's Funniest Home Videos, our hero does not let go of the rope. Unfortunately for everyone else (and his insurance company), he holds on.


I'm assuming the premise here was to be lifted off the dock and land in the water and ski to glory and the next floating cooler. However, I believe this is as probable as being lifted off and lightly landing on a puffy cloud where you can float the day away and blow out the sun when it's time for all of us in fairyland to go to sleep dreaming of gumdrops and the Care Bear Cousins.


In mere seconds, this guy was lifted out of one of his skis - catching the other on the dock and breaking it - and was pulled about 40 feet in the air before crashing head-first into the lake. If Tom remembers correctly, he thinks the Bulgarian judge took of .25 of a point for making a splash during entry. It was an acrobatic and eerie silence, those 4 seconds he was airborne, but apparently you could hear his shoulders separating as they hit the water.


We shall end here and just say that he survived, but didn't go anywhere near a hospital until he had a beer first.


But Jones, how does this relate to your departure?


It teaches you one of life's greatest travel lessons: Always drive the boat.


IS YOU READY!!!!!!!!!!

I believe Jones and I are reluctant superheroes. We did not ask for the gifts that make us superior to all other Beer Pong/Beirut players. Yet if and when we play, while the journey may enjoy bumps and suspense, the outcome is never different. Alas, there is no fortress of solitude in this story (unless you count Jones' house... awwww snap!).


Case in point: Dr. Dremo's Beer Pong Tourney. We played because we were bored and sort of wanted to play - but still not be those old dudes who are playing beer pong. We scoped it out, pulled up to the bar and basically decided to pretend as though we had no idea what was going on. See what kind of people were playing (true assassins always case the area of their mark), and perhaps throw down that $5 per team and collect our winnings a mere 3 hours later.


So we did, upon the invitation of 2 seemingly nice girls we knew we could decimate. These same seemingly nice girls, did in fact, turn out to be psychotic hose-beasts.


So we were in, and we were immediately put in opposition of the only two guys we thought had a shot against us. We won the first and third games (best 2 out of 3) with a little tiebreaker in there. Regardless, we moved on and waited for our next assigned victim.


It is at this point that I want to point out how I now feel a previously unfelt empathy for pitchers who get "cold" while being in the dugout too long between innings. They wear their jackets over their sleeve, something - anything - to stay warm. We started to acknowledge we were getting out of rhythm by not playing. Though Pedro Martinez cannot just toss a ball in the dugout to stay warm, Jones and I could certainly just keep drinking to stay... errr... warm.


Next up: psychotic hose-beasts. These girls went from nice-enough and chatty to freaking crazy. I was too drunk to notice and thought that we must have been acting unknowingly confrontational - so I was acceding to whatever they said, making my partner be quiet and just "nod and be happy at whatever they say." This was not good for his game. The evidence is that once again, we lost the second game - the one where I was instructing him to stay nice. We did win the third game, where my partner eloquently, yet firmly, instructed one of these trolls to "fetch" a stray ball. If we hadn't ticked them off before, these ladies were now two small steps shy of living under a bridge and eating billygoats after that. But we won. And they vocally routed against us.


Everyone else in the bar thanked us for beating "those wenches." I like to think I did it for the game itself, yet I admit we took them out because we are damn good and just got tired of listening to them. Alas.


So we go to the finals after a while and play another two guys. We lose. Catastrophe. We were not paying attention, etc. There's a number of reasons. It's like the list of reasons you go through over why you are hungover. It's NEVER because you drank too much. It's always that you didn't have exactly 2 pieces of bread and then a glass of whatever precisely 9 minutes later. Whatever. You shotgunned eight beers. That's why you're hungover.


Anyway. We lost because we were playing poorly (and had basically shotgunned eight beers). But we then beat the next two guys decisively. Fine. Everyone was 1-1, and the winner would be determined by the margin of victory. We should have tied for second.


And this is why I love this game and the people who play it (minus the hose-beasts; they don't play MY game. They play something else altogether. All I know is it's the not the sport I know and love).


Because everyone is too drunk to do math, they randomly pit Jones and I against the kids who should have won. And we beat them quickly, even cruelly. Shouts are shouted. Clapping commences, happiness ensues and my back is still sore from all the patting amidst the celebration. We get money, T-shirts, fame. And then about half an hour later, we're told we sort of didn't win, because that game should never have been played. True. But I can sit here and list off several things that should never have happened (Saved by the Bell mini-movies, A-Fraud to the Yankees, my mom throwing away my Superman bedsheets), but we all lived on and accepted it.


Additionally, we beat the snot out of the supposed "champions."


Much like the rappers of the 1980's and anybody who was playing the World Series of Poker before 2003 - you know, the people who were there BEFORE the country caught on, I believe we are the generation who will know this game and wistfully remember it before it was corrupted and put on ESPN, "The Ocho." Screw the prizes. And that's how it should be. No more contests for me. It's not fun when there's money on the line.


Let's keep the game simple and protected - and make sure the rules always vary from town to town.