I’m waiting for the Paper Scissor Rock World Championship to begin, drumming my fingers on the bar. Bartender slides my beer and I take a nice pull. My confidence soars and I think, This world is mine.
A woman numbered 200 on her competitors tag singles me out and challenges me to a few practice round. The rules are simple: Rock beats scissor beats paper beats rock. She beats me three times straight, no problem. My confidence slumps.
See, I’ve never been good at rock-paper-scissor – the classic children’s game and, later in life, the Great Decider of who buy beers or who rides shotgun. It’s usually me in back seat with a case of beer in my lap. Most people chalk it up to luck but luck, it seems, has little to do with it.
“There is no luck in rock-paper-scissors because there is no random determining anything…It’s a game of pattern recognition,” says Brad Fox, grand marshal for the event. “How fast can you recognize what patterns your opponent falls in to and how can you keep yourself from falling into recognizable patterns?”
He takes his role very seriously, describing game history and protocol with such conviction one might think the fate of our world depends on armies of scissors cutting through the planet's entire supply of paper.
Fox says RPS is one of the – if not the – most widely played game in the world, with versions of it existing on every continent, dating as far back as 2000 B.C. in Egypt. In the West however – in Toronto, in particular, at the Steam Whistle Brewery on a Saturday night – it’s a sport of true competition, drawing a crowd of 400 players and another 400 or so spectators, many of them dressed in outlandish costume. A bumblebee here. Captain America there.
“It really is the great equalizer in many ways,” says Doug Walker, co-founder of the event. “The richest man in the world, the male or female, the most able-bodied or disabled – there’s no inherent advantage “
An announcement is made and everyone gathers at the foot of the stage in the main concourse. The costumed drunks yip and holler. Someone had torn off all fingers but the middle of a complimentary giant foam-hand and now he’s waiving it in the air. Someone spills a beer on my camera and I think what a fitting sponsor this event has in Yahoo.
And with that, it begins.
Each referee is more serious than the last. Ours is a stout woman with a quivering voice. “Welcome to the sport,” she says, “you are the elite of your sport, congratulations on making it this far,” with no hint of irony.
She explains the rules – no cheating; best three out of three; once you’ve lost you’re out for good – and pairs us off. I follow her extended finger to a Nordic with a blonde crew cut and hollow eyes, clutching a miniature Norwegian flag.
He crushes me in four consecutive throws, no problem. The ref rips my undefeated stub from my competitors tag with dramatic flare and the Norwegian introduces himself as Petter Olsen, Norwegian national champion.
“Your routine was quite easy, I saw it quite early,” he said. “Sometimes its difficult but I saw your type and I just went for it.”
Disturbing. Who is this Norseman and how can he see through me so clearly?
And, more importantly, why can't I see through him?
“You have to read the person and what type of personality,” he adds. “Is he an intellectual guy, is he a macho type? Does he think he knows what he’s doing?” The game is an experiment in psychio-analysis to suss out each opponants playing patterns.
According to Fox, women statistically lead with scissors; men lead with stones. Journalists, regardless of sex, tend to lead with paper. Often, people will just “wing it” but because randomness can never be tamed, Fox says the best strategy is to plan one and recognize your opponent’s patterns.
The pattern. Yes. As the astrologers and mystics of yore understood, it’s all about the pattern. I see it now: my own daft inability to recognize the pattern. The ones who advance in this tournament, it seems, possess ultra-sensitive pattern recognition system that they may not even know about.
I plan a strategy – play the hand that defeated my last throw. I challenge a dozen people or so. I lose every match, every throw, every single time. There’s no hope here. The players missing “undefeated” tags grow larger in numbers buy the minute, sticking out like amputated soldiers. There’s a peculiar excitement in the air, cut with an endless drone of cheering, topped with dim lighting and weird costumes. A bumble bee here. Captain America there.
It turns out Captian America– aka Tim Conrad of Taylor, Michigan – will win the world championship, swindling $7000 from Yahoo’s pockets for throwing his fingers around.
But he had no pattern, he’ll tell me two days later. He just felt it from the gut and it rose like a snarling, primitive beast – that urge to throw rock and rock after rock after scissor.
Yes. A true life lesson, Captain America. To hell with luck! To hell with patterns! Throw what you feel and rule the world.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
New Job
When I got the call, I didn't scream with relief like I thought I would. Instead, I politely accepted the offer and wondered around my neighbourhood in a daze. Trying to make sense of it. Barely noticing the day's heat boiling my skin. The young mothers and their strollers. The hot bikini babes. The tall oak trees bending their branches down waiving to me as I go. The camera store employee with the long hair I always see smoking outside of Blenz. All of it seems irrelevant.
After all the stressing and drowning in self-doubt and almost folding under the pressure of it all – and waiting, waiting, waiting for Life to finally start happening – finally, all of it coming together with a single phone call. With a man on the other end, sounding very much what I imagine God to sound like (bold and assertive, yet jovial and welcoming!), and telling me: "We'd like to offer you the position."
"Uh...alright."
"Is that a yes?"
"Damn right it is."
"Do you have any questions for me?"
"Um. Is there anything I should ask?"
He laughs and said: "I'm surprised that I interviewed 42 people and not a single one asked me how much the pay is."
So of course I asked, but not necessarily because I was curious but because I was on auto-pilot, doing what I was instructed to do. And then hearing what they pay...
All of that feeding into this swirl of emotion. Utter confusion in the blistering heat, but a good confusion, like when making sense of the swirls on a head of cotton candy.
And then I start bawling like a newly orphaned child. Right there, in the middle of the street. In the city, with the heat pressing UV weights on my shoulders. My town, the one I love. The one with the sexy bikini babes and young mothers with their strollers. And the tall oak trees.
After all the stressing and drowning in self-doubt and almost folding under the pressure of it all – and waiting, waiting, waiting for Life to finally start happening – finally, all of it coming together with a single phone call. With a man on the other end, sounding very much what I imagine God to sound like (bold and assertive, yet jovial and welcoming!), and telling me: "We'd like to offer you the position."
"Uh...alright."
"Is that a yes?"
"Damn right it is."
"Do you have any questions for me?"
"Um. Is there anything I should ask?"
He laughs and said: "I'm surprised that I interviewed 42 people and not a single one asked me how much the pay is."
So of course I asked, but not necessarily because I was curious but because I was on auto-pilot, doing what I was instructed to do. And then hearing what they pay...
All of that feeding into this swirl of emotion. Utter confusion in the blistering heat, but a good confusion, like when making sense of the swirls on a head of cotton candy.
And then I start bawling like a newly orphaned child. Right there, in the middle of the street. In the city, with the heat pressing UV weights on my shoulders. My town, the one I love. The one with the sexy bikini babes and young mothers with their strollers. And the tall oak trees.
Thursday, 16 July 2009
Mouse
So, because I’m a man, she asks me, “Will you come by and get rid of the mouse?
“Uh, sure. Of course.”
“Are you sure?” she says. I’ve already forgotten her name. I actually never knew it.
“I hope you don’t mind. My roommate is, like, freaking out over it.”
“Sure. No big deal.”
“And my boyfriend would do it but I’m not seeing him tonight.”
“Absolutely. Not a problem.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
So we her friend Gabby alone at the with our wine and my personal items: journal, map, wallet. Not a good idea since I’d known these two all of 20 minutes. I consider myself a decent judge of character except when alcohol’s involved. I’ve been burned before.
Like the time in Brussels an Arab fellow wrapped his leg around mine and did a funny little dance with me. This didn’t seem weird to me. I just thought he was being friendly. After the third time, I was really into it. Until he ran off suddenly and I noticed that my wallet was missing…
But I’m not thinking about any of this. We’re walking down Queens Street and the Girl With No Name keeps thanking me, over and over. “This is so nice of you, oh my God” and so on. I’ve never visited Toronto so I have no idea if all women here are relentlessly gracious. I know she’s just being nice but there’s only so much gratitude I can accept in three minutes. Especially when I haven’t done anything yet.
She unlocks the door to her apartment – maybe three doors from the bar. It’s a discreet number sandwiched between two boutiques. Inside, her flat is spacious, the type of suite that costs people their children’s eyeballs in Manhatten.
“Nice place,” I say.
“I know! Isn’t it fun? The dead mouse is in her room.”
And indeed it is, in the corner, lying still on one of those glue traps, the flimsy platter types that toddlers sometime mistake as playtime toys, and wail like genocide victims when pulled from their chests.
This particular trap had attracted lint and what looked like human hair. I crouch down to pick up the dead mouse’s final resting disc but the mouse starts squirming and squeaking.
“Ah! It’s still alive! Look! See!”
“Oh my God, oh my god. You are such a trooper.”
The mouse keeps squeaking, trying to right itself off its side to no avail. It’s skin pulls with every thrust the mouse makes to escape and squeals in, what I assume to be, astonishing pain. It looks up at me. Squeaks. Eyes pleading.
“What are we going to do with this thing? Should we let it go?” I ask her.
“Let’s just leave it in the street.”
“And then what? Leave it for dead?” I say this in the stairwell and she opens the door, dusk light flooding in. The mouse and I squeal in unison.
I bend over to the leave the disc at the door of one of the boutiques – a fancy shoe shop, very classy.
“No, over here. In the alley.”
So walk four or five paces with the disc held out like it’s a platter and I’m a waiter serving Mouse a la Carte. A man notices and almost jumps out of his skin. Almost, but not quite.
“Ah!” he says.
“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s stuck.”
The alley is clean – too clean for an alley. No Dumpsters or hobos. No trash of any kind. It’s baffling. I set the mouse down as it gives one final pleading glance over its itty-bitty shoulder. I consider pulling it off with my fingers but the anti-rodent lobby has done a number on me. I’m scared it might carry malaria, despite the records showing no mouse has ever carried malaria.
But I still feel bad for the little bastard. “We should let it go. Do you have a stick?”
The Girl With No Name doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t acknowledge this query in any way, so we move on.
“Oh my god, you are such a trooper. Such. A. Trooper.”
“Yeah…”
So we sit down and I take a liberal swig of wine and tell Gabby the story.
“And those are supposedly the ‘humane’ animal traps,” she says.
I nod in agreement, but it gets me wondering how that’s any more humane than the traps that break their necks? Or killing it the old fashion way, with a boot or a bottle of shampoo? Letting it starve to death on a flimsy plastic disc is a cruel punishment for simply being a mouse in someone’s house. I wouldn’t like it a whole lot if the mouse did that to me; why should I treat it any different?
Later on, when I’m stumbling towards the hotel with my glass of wine in hand, a police cruiser stops me. They reprimand me, write me up. And I felt like that little mouse on the platter. Stuck and squirming to present my case to the powers that held my fate. The only difference is that mouse died that night and I slept in absolute luxury, with pillows the size English mastiffs.
“Uh, sure. Of course.”
“Are you sure?” she says. I’ve already forgotten her name. I actually never knew it.
“I hope you don’t mind. My roommate is, like, freaking out over it.”
“Sure. No big deal.”
“And my boyfriend would do it but I’m not seeing him tonight.”
“Absolutely. Not a problem.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
So we her friend Gabby alone at the with our wine and my personal items: journal, map, wallet. Not a good idea since I’d known these two all of 20 minutes. I consider myself a decent judge of character except when alcohol’s involved. I’ve been burned before.
Like the time in Brussels an Arab fellow wrapped his leg around mine and did a funny little dance with me. This didn’t seem weird to me. I just thought he was being friendly. After the third time, I was really into it. Until he ran off suddenly and I noticed that my wallet was missing…
But I’m not thinking about any of this. We’re walking down Queens Street and the Girl With No Name keeps thanking me, over and over. “This is so nice of you, oh my God” and so on. I’ve never visited Toronto so I have no idea if all women here are relentlessly gracious. I know she’s just being nice but there’s only so much gratitude I can accept in three minutes. Especially when I haven’t done anything yet.
She unlocks the door to her apartment – maybe three doors from the bar. It’s a discreet number sandwiched between two boutiques. Inside, her flat is spacious, the type of suite that costs people their children’s eyeballs in Manhatten.
“Nice place,” I say.
“I know! Isn’t it fun? The dead mouse is in her room.”
And indeed it is, in the corner, lying still on one of those glue traps, the flimsy platter types that toddlers sometime mistake as playtime toys, and wail like genocide victims when pulled from their chests.
This particular trap had attracted lint and what looked like human hair. I crouch down to pick up the dead mouse’s final resting disc but the mouse starts squirming and squeaking.
“Ah! It’s still alive! Look! See!”
“Oh my God, oh my god. You are such a trooper.”
The mouse keeps squeaking, trying to right itself off its side to no avail. It’s skin pulls with every thrust the mouse makes to escape and squeals in, what I assume to be, astonishing pain. It looks up at me. Squeaks. Eyes pleading.
“What are we going to do with this thing? Should we let it go?” I ask her.
“Let’s just leave it in the street.”
“And then what? Leave it for dead?” I say this in the stairwell and she opens the door, dusk light flooding in. The mouse and I squeal in unison.
I bend over to the leave the disc at the door of one of the boutiques – a fancy shoe shop, very classy.
“No, over here. In the alley.”
So walk four or five paces with the disc held out like it’s a platter and I’m a waiter serving Mouse a la Carte. A man notices and almost jumps out of his skin. Almost, but not quite.
“Ah!” he says.
“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s stuck.”
The alley is clean – too clean for an alley. No Dumpsters or hobos. No trash of any kind. It’s baffling. I set the mouse down as it gives one final pleading glance over its itty-bitty shoulder. I consider pulling it off with my fingers but the anti-rodent lobby has done a number on me. I’m scared it might carry malaria, despite the records showing no mouse has ever carried malaria.
But I still feel bad for the little bastard. “We should let it go. Do you have a stick?”
The Girl With No Name doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t acknowledge this query in any way, so we move on.
“Oh my god, you are such a trooper. Such. A. Trooper.”
“Yeah…”
So we sit down and I take a liberal swig of wine and tell Gabby the story.
“And those are supposedly the ‘humane’ animal traps,” she says.
I nod in agreement, but it gets me wondering how that’s any more humane than the traps that break their necks? Or killing it the old fashion way, with a boot or a bottle of shampoo? Letting it starve to death on a flimsy plastic disc is a cruel punishment for simply being a mouse in someone’s house. I wouldn’t like it a whole lot if the mouse did that to me; why should I treat it any different?
Later on, when I’m stumbling towards the hotel with my glass of wine in hand, a police cruiser stops me. They reprimand me, write me up. And I felt like that little mouse on the platter. Stuck and squirming to present my case to the powers that held my fate. The only difference is that mouse died that night and I slept in absolute luxury, with pillows the size English mastiffs.
Thursday, 2 July 2009
Stressful Day
Breath tastes like stale beer
Kiss her as I leave
Bike has a flat tire
Broke my sunglasses yesterday
Squinting in the morning sun
UV rays lead to headaches
$2.50 for the bus
Moment of serenity while eating a bagel
New task on the job is both dull and complicated
Health comes into question now that Michael Jackson is dead
Rising health concerns due to increased belly fat
Belly fat bulging over the belt line of my shorts
Mind never stops wandering to issues of great concern
Must attend a wedding in a week
Must buy a new suit for the occasion
Must buy a new tire
Should get some exercise tonight but I have some shopping to do
A protest to photograph
A movie to attend
My left knee is acting up again
I’ve been avoiding opening my credit card bill
It calls for my attention like an ugly ex-girlfriend
The tension in my chest snakes down to my arm
My left arm is weaker than my right
Scanning the web for degenerative diseases
Working with the knowledge that this job is a waste of my talents
I miss writing as an outlet for frustration and confusion
Blowing off responsibility to do so right now
Wondering if I’ll ever get where I’m going
Tapping senselessly on a keyboard
Thoughts wander as aimless as the Messiah
Chatting with workmates through an online forum
Looking at my workmates in the flesh
Pining away for my pillow
Break for lunch without a word
Pinch the fat of my belly as I walk
Tensions are high at the sandwich shop
The mall is a frenzy
$600 for half-decent suits
Dust in the office clogs up the sinuses
Deadlines are looming
Payment of Medical Service Plan approaching
Failing to ignore a toothache
Reading that dental health and life span are inextricably linked
Scanning the web for information on the matter
Resist the urge to buy myself a Slurpee
Fail to resist the urge to buy myself a Slurpee
Have the first afternoon cigarette four or five months
Smoking is a way to snuff myself out
Kiss her as I leave
Bike has a flat tire
Broke my sunglasses yesterday
Squinting in the morning sun
UV rays lead to headaches
$2.50 for the bus
Moment of serenity while eating a bagel
New task on the job is both dull and complicated
Health comes into question now that Michael Jackson is dead
Rising health concerns due to increased belly fat
Belly fat bulging over the belt line of my shorts
Mind never stops wandering to issues of great concern
Must attend a wedding in a week
Must buy a new suit for the occasion
Must buy a new tire
Should get some exercise tonight but I have some shopping to do
A protest to photograph
A movie to attend
My left knee is acting up again
I’ve been avoiding opening my credit card bill
It calls for my attention like an ugly ex-girlfriend
The tension in my chest snakes down to my arm
My left arm is weaker than my right
Scanning the web for degenerative diseases
Working with the knowledge that this job is a waste of my talents
I miss writing as an outlet for frustration and confusion
Blowing off responsibility to do so right now
Wondering if I’ll ever get where I’m going
Tapping senselessly on a keyboard
Thoughts wander as aimless as the Messiah
Chatting with workmates through an online forum
Looking at my workmates in the flesh
Pining away for my pillow
Break for lunch without a word
Pinch the fat of my belly as I walk
Tensions are high at the sandwich shop
The mall is a frenzy
$600 for half-decent suits
Dust in the office clogs up the sinuses
Deadlines are looming
Payment of Medical Service Plan approaching
Failing to ignore a toothache
Reading that dental health and life span are inextricably linked
Scanning the web for information on the matter
Resist the urge to buy myself a Slurpee
Fail to resist the urge to buy myself a Slurpee
Have the first afternoon cigarette four or five months
Smoking is a way to snuff myself out
Friday, 26 June 2009
Conservatism
Funny, that the conservatism of right-wing Christians is rooted in the philosophies and teachings of one of the greatest liberals that ever lived. Hilarious.
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
Families
Kurt Vonnegut wrote in 2007 that the Great Depression "was so bad, white people had to raise their own kids."
And it got me thinking: looking at the history of European and North American middle and upper class, they usually had maids, nannies, slaves, butlers. It was customary not to raise their own children. Which means, it's not in our blood or in our history to have close familial ties.
And I look at African families, Aboriginal traditions, South American traditions – all that – that supported strong familial bonding. Bonding within the community, where children aren't raised by their parents alone but by entire villages. Not always, but sometimes.
Just a thought...
And it got me thinking: looking at the history of European and North American middle and upper class, they usually had maids, nannies, slaves, butlers. It was customary not to raise their own children. Which means, it's not in our blood or in our history to have close familial ties.
And I look at African families, Aboriginal traditions, South American traditions – all that – that supported strong familial bonding. Bonding within the community, where children aren't raised by their parents alone but by entire villages. Not always, but sometimes.
Just a thought...
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Neda Soltani
I've been following this closely. Sad beeswax.
From yesterday:
Neda Agha-Soltani's Death Sows Seeds of Revolution
And today:
Neda Soltani Death Another 'Shot Heard 'round the World'
Enjoy?
From yesterday:
Neda Agha-Soltani's Death Sows Seeds of Revolution
And today:
Neda Soltani Death Another 'Shot Heard 'round the World'
Enjoy?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
