Bless you.

OK, so apparently there are these thing that happens in cities all over the world called Pecha Kucha Nights. (Pronounced: PET-uh KOO-chee.) (Just kidding.) (I hope you said that out loud.) (It’s actually pronounced just like you’d think it is.)

During these Pecha Kucha Nights, a handful of minds from the creative community stand up in front a paying crowd — in Charleston these crowds are typically in the neighborhood of 200-250 people — and take place at some cool location, like a park or a bar. The format is simple, yet challenging: Speakers are given a total of 6 minutes and 40 seconds to speak, which is comprised of the speaker talking as 20 slides are shown, each remaining on the screen 20 seconds at a time. I know all this because because about a month ago I was asked if I would be one of the eight speakers for Pecha Kucha 17, which was held at The Alley, a cool new downtown bar with eight bowling lanes in it.

Typically, the topics at PK nights center around whatever the speaker’s craft is — graphic design, photography, writing, you name it. But even though each talk is completely different, the one common theme you’ll find is that they all impart a lesson learned or some insightful words of wisdom. And then there was my presentation, which was about sweaty hands. Random, I know, but in a rare moment of sincerity I have to say I’m proud of what I said and I think it ended up going well, even if it was a departure from what they normally speak about at these things. I chose the topic of my sweaty hands because I actually thought there was a message there. This is the video from that night, which was a little more than a week ago.

(SIDE NOTE: Two things: (1) I am so mad I didn’t think to drop the mic at the end of my speech and (2) Andy Katz is actually a wonderful person. Now.)

Best pizza ever.

Because I’m a dick, I like to ruin all things sweet.

OK, before you get all upset (obviously after you’re done laughing) that I’m being insensitive to blind people, please know the following:

1. I did not set this photo up in any shape or form; my son has this pair of Mickey Mouse sunglasses that he won’t take off even at bedtime and a stick that he only puts down when he has to come inside.
2. One of our favorite neighbors is losing his vision and I’m pretty damn sure he’d laugh his ass off if he could see this picture.
3. I’m an asshole so you really should come to expect this kind of thing from me.

Somebody needs a haircut.

(NOTE: Yes, I know I shouldn’t have been drinking and driving but my A/C doesn’t work and it was hot outside. Plus, I’m an alcoholic.)

So I’m back from my two-month drunken lazy haze hiatus with a caption challenge. I’ll get the ball rolling.

RIVER: “I sure hope he’s OK when he lands.”

Aaaaaand go!

So, duh, just like we all expected Emily chose Arie Jeff on Sunday’s finale of “The Bachelorette.”

The first clue that things weren’t going to necessarily go as expected should have come when ABC pulled a fast one and aired the stupid thing on Sunday instead of during the show’s normal Monday time slot. Maybe that’s what they normally do with the finale, I don’t know. I might be a loser who watches lots of reality TV but I can tell you this: I do not pay close attention to things.

Anyway, Emily shocked literally dozens of nerds like me who thought for sure Jef was nice, but more of a novelty boyfriend than husband material, instead of picking sweet, beautiful, one-dimensional Arie. I mean, Arie drives race cars for crying out loud. Yeah. RACE. CARS. That bitch is from West Virginia. Nothing horns ‘em up in the Mountaineer state quite like a guy who drives a fast car in circles for three hours. Plus he has that pointy hair Emily really seems to like (*cough* Brad). Buuuuuuut nooooooo. She went and picked the Conan O’Brien/Brian Setzer hybrid and screwed everything up.

OK, so I really like Jef, and the odds are pretty good that he’s a great guy and with this newfound love he’ll probably also discover the missing “F” from his first name. But would it have killed Chris Harrison during the finale, when Emily asked for his advice on what to do seeing as she already knew she was in love with Jef, to sigh deeply and say, “Ya know, I think the right thing to do here is to go on your final date with Arie. I mean, don’t you think you at least owe it to him to give him 24 more hours of happiness thinking he might actually have a shot with you? By waiting and ripping out his, er, gently telling him at the final rose ceremony — and I would go into as much detail as possible as to why Jef is the better man here — is not only the right thing to do, but the ONLY THING TO DO. Now go.”?

But no, instead he said some stupid shit about thinking about Arie and his feelings and blah blah blah. BO-ring!

Anyway, after that moment, I pretty much glazed over and zoned out until during the “After the Final Rose” portion of the 17-hour marathon when Miss America said, “Charleston,” in response to where she was planning on marrying Jef. At that point I snapped out of my coma and was all, “OH HELL YES!” Immediately I wanted to text her and tell her all the great reasons as well as not-so-great reasons for why she should get married here. But then I remembered that I didn’t have her number. And plus there was the whole “restraining order” thing. Anyway, had I texted her I would have told her the following pros and cons:

Pros

• Charleston has so many beautiful churches and outdoor spaces, you really can’t go wrong
• My wife and I got married here four years ago so you’d be joining some pretty lofty company (yes, I cried)
• Charleston Magazine once called the Holy City, “The No. 1 wedding destination for people planning on going through with the second of their reality TV show engagements”
• OK, so I might have made that up
• Sweet tea vodka is mandated by law to be on hand for the reception

And then I remembered she’s from West Virginia and they have a Charleston there too. So, um, crap. Mighta jumped the gun there. Oh, well, who cares, “Bachelor Pad” is on now and I think I speak for all of America* when I say, BOOBS!

*OK, so probably just American males