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.)
(ADDITIONAL SIDE NOTE: For those of you curious, here is the link to my raw slideshow. The folks who put the video together did a good job of showing the majority of the slides, but a few left out that I kind of liked).
Because we’re patient people, my wife and I have decided to wait to find out the gender of our unborn child until delivery day. By which I mean we flip-flopped 8 seconds into our 20-week ultrasound and had them put it in a sealed envelope so we could wait until the time was perfect to open it. Which turned out to be 10 minutes later at Andolini’s where we handed them the envelope and told them to make us a large pizza with the first letter of the gender (Boy or Girl) in pepperoni on it.
This is what they brought to the table.
Behold my adorable 2-and-a-half year old, singing a song to my wife. It’s a song that brings tears to her eyes because it’s called, “My Old Kentucky Home,” the state where she was born and a place where many of her friends and family still reside.
Because I’m a dick, I like to ruin all things sweet.
Great. All I ask of this stupid Twitter feed is to do one thing: shave my back. No. Wait. I mean show my last five tweets. And for some reason it can't even handle that simple task. Maybe it'll be back working soon.