Don't you love it when people say, "I don't give a flip."? I do. I actually caught myself saying that this morning when reading the paper. Except for instead of "flip" I said "fuck". I was referring to Floyd Landis and Greg LeMond. They're back in the news. Thankfully! Yeah, I've been on pins and needles ever since Floyd tested positive for being a cyclist. Seriously, who cares anymore? And who really cared in the first place? Maybe the French, but that's because they only have soccer to cheer about. In the US, pro cycling is about as high up on our sport list as volleyball. And volleyball only makes the list because women wear bikinis while they bump, set and spike. We have more important things to worry about. Like Brett Favre's daughter's graduation party. ESPN continues to hit record lows everyday with their coverage of both of those stories. Thank God for PTI. If not for that, ESPN would replace MTV as the channel that has strayed farthest from its brand. I'm sick that I know the name 'Floyd Landis', and I don't give a flip about who's in charge of the 3-layer dip at the Favre party.

You know who else doesn't give a flip? The folks over at The City Paper. I'm trying to be their new Weekly Geekly writer, but I haven't received a response. Three emails and counting. If you'd like to see me as the new Weekly Geekly columnist, drop them a note here: patrick@charlestoncitypaper.com

Yes! That headline is back! Anyway, did you happen to catch Tony snuffing out Christopher and then going on a Homer-esque (not The Iliad variety) peyote quest? All that was missing was Johnny Cash as his spirit guide. They did close out with a banging Calexico number, "Minas De Cobre". Fantastic song. And the week before? Another California band: Los Lobos. The Sopranos last season should make for a great soundtrack. Especially if they throw that Howlin' Wolf song in there ("Goin' Down Slow").

Speaking of music and killing people, I had the good fortune of cruising to Savannah aboard the Shady Lady, a 26-foot Shamrock, I think it was. From Charleston, it's about a 4 or 5-hour ride. Plenty of sun and beer and good music. We were greeted in Savannah by some more good music. First, at Pinky Master's, where the jukebox cranked out Neutral Milk Hotel among others, and latter at Hang Fire, where I remember hearing Television's "See No Evil". The only other thing I remember from Hang Brains was a foursome sitting on two sofas. A friend and I decided to sit down with them. We were a bit tired, understandably. This visibly disturbed the two we were sitting next to. One other guy on our trip was hanging around looking for a place to sit, and when the two we sat next to realized this, they moved over to the sofa with their two friends on it and offered their space to our guy. But not before belittling us. My friend sitting next to me was wearing Crocs and Khakis (great boating gear), so when the two strangers on our sofa moved over, the male stranger made a comment about how his girlfriend was allergic to Crocs and Khakis. He and his friends had a good laugh. After all, it was hysterical. I gave the guy a makeshift business card with my URL on it so that he could read this blog at a latter date. I told him to check the site on Monday. I should have said Tuesday. Anyway, what bothered me so much was that we were in what anyone would call an alternative, ultra-liberal watering hole. It seemed to be frequented by SCAD students and SCAD wannabes.

The whole scene struck me as a bit hypocritical. After all, I didn't make any comments about all of the body ink or barbs sticking through people's eyebrows. I couldn't care less. And I certainly didn't pass judgment. What had my friend done other than put on a pair of Crocs? Nothing. You know the old saying about assuming, right? Yep, it makes an ass out of you that me would like to fingerbang. Why do you care what we wear? What the hell does that have to say about a person? It says much more about you than it does about the wearer. The truth is there are no safe options out there anymore. If I want to forgo looking like a Lacoste ad, I just end up looking like an American Apparel ad. If I take off my $200 jeans, I end up looking like a guy who drives out of the way to find thrift store Wranglers (which I do own). We are all dressing a part. You with your tattoos and camo pants and me with my khakis and blue button down (which I also bought at a thrift store, by the way). And if we strip down to our bare skin, we end making an even louder statement. Remember Andrew Martinez? I'm sure you do, because you read a lot and are very cultured. We're all trying hard to look like something or someone. However, if you don't have a mirror in your apartment, I apologize for judging you like you judged us.

Another funny thing, bearded guy, is that of the 50 people in that bar, we looked the most different. You seemed to be the one conforming. Am I wrong or were there not three dozen of your doppelgangers in there? Oh, and can you believe I listen to Television? And can you believe I saw The Clientele that Friday night? Does it make me cool? Nope. It's just something I do with my free time. Like you and your art or coffee drinking or whatever. So the next time you see some guys you think are fratastic, stop and find out something about them before you chuckle at their "ignorance". As I tell everyone I meet, I'm much smarter than you (the plural you) and I will rape you (the plural you) while you (the plural you) sleep. It just comes with being really, really, ridiculously smart. Anyway, I've got to run. I just got a call from Ben Silver; my monogrammed bowtie has arrived!

If you happen to be that SCAD guy I talked to at Hang Fire in Savannah, you'll have to wait another few hours before I get to you. I'm sure you're upset.

Anyway, I'm what you'd call fairly liberal. I embrace diversity and fight for the little guy. Two traits you won't find in any of the GOP candidates. However, I do tend to stereotype from time to time (and this does play into the SCAD theme - more on that latter). This post is about driving and black people. Like oil and water, you say? Perhaps. All I know is that if I could design a car for African Americans (like the Escalade), I'd take out the blinkers and the rearview mirror. They seem to be superfluous. And before you call me a racist, I am an equal opportunity offender (or, rather, fact-stater). White men, it turns out, cannot jump. And they can't dance either. They also dial the phone just like Tracy Jordan said they do. Boop, beep, boop, bloop. White people also generally have sticks up their asses. And white people don't buy into a sense of community quite like minorities do. I'm sure it was a white man who invented the fence, the cul de sac, and the covered garage. Yes, there are many things the white man can learn from his black neighbor. Driving, however, is not one of them. 9 times out 10, if I am cut off by a car that doesn't so much as signal, it is a minority driver. If I am following a car that is taking up both lanes of Rutledge Avenue at an average speed of 12mph, it is a minority driver that I zoom past when I find an opening. If I have to swerve over into another lane because the car next to me decided that my lane seemed like a great lane to be in at the time, it is a minority steering the wayward sedan. What troubles me, though, is that minority drivers constiute the majority of these incidents. Look, I love black people. Maybe even more than white people. I just think a lot of them need some driving lessons. And it could be that uneducated people are the ones who can't drive, and in urban settings (like the one in which I live), the majority of uneducated people happen to be minorities. That is a problem for all of us: public education. But fixing that will take decades. Driving 101 would only take a few hours.

If you've been wondering where I've been lately, brace yourself. Like right now. Ready? Bam: I've been showering vomit and urine off of my torso and head. Seriously. So that's what you call not burrying the lead. And this is the rest of the story: I left Savannah (where I was doing some work for an Open House at Frogtown) late Friday night and headed back to Charleston so that I could get up early Saturday morning to make a trek up to Lake Lure (which just so happens to be where my all-time favorite movie was filmed) for a bachelor party for that Bri guy I made a reference to after my last bachelor party (which was shockingly not nearly as humiliating for me as this more recent one). So I left Saturday morning-ish and made the 4-hour drive up to the mountains of North Carolina. I arrived at a house that's aptly named Enchanted Cottage, for it was most certainly enchanted. Most of the guys (there were 12 of us total) were out playing golf. The few who weren't were watching Brady Quinn's ego shrink and fishing illegally. It's probably safe to say that both groups were drinking. Around 4pm or so the golfers got back (Bri-rohnie included), and I introduced my charming self to the folks I'd yet to meet. Most of the guys were Tarheels, and the majority of those I didn't know from Adam. They all seemed like "good guys", as anyone who's ever hung around a fraternity house might say. Intelligent and interested in Bri-doggie's other (non-Heel) friends, which is all anyone can really ask. Top shelf gents. So we all drank some more Natty Light and talked about how awesome we are. And, of course, we spoke respectfully of women. I think Bri-bitchy and his douchebag of a brother, let's call him Maction, pattied up some burgers, and I'm almost certain it was those two who grilled the burgers to a perfect mediocre. Anywho, we all dined on the mediocrity and drank more Natty Light (which, in another strange turn of events, I actually purchased).

The night was glorious: cool, clear and completely devoid of phone calls, car rides and decisions. The best kind of night. Just some guys talking about Mitt Romney and Pink Socks. Always in the same sentence. At some point in the night, we shotgunned some Natty Light in honor of the bachelor . . . not the Officer and a Gentleman, but Bri-sandwich. We then shotgunned another Natty Light. Shortly after that, I caught Bri-biscuitface drinking with his right hand, which as you know is a big no-no in some circles. Our circle being one of them. Truth be told, I just joined the game that day. It's called "Buffalo" and you are always playing it. The only way out is to not finish whatever you're drinking (with your right hand) when some other player calls "Buffalo". In other words, you never drink alcohol with your right hand. The game is played at all times. Even right now. Fortunately, my parents aren't players, so I can drink my Snatty with my dominant hand while I write about my misery in their home. Yes, I'm back in my parents' house for a few days, which has turned out to be about a few days too long. Nothing to do with my parents at all; this town is just pretty boring. Not to mention, when I've tried to go to the library to get work done, I've had to contend with a bunch of idiots playing video games and making explosion noises with their mouths. I can only imagine it's their careers being shot out of the sky. Anyway, I digress. Oh, but you know what I don't do? I don't mistake Bri-town's friends for toilets. Okay, so after I caught Bri-son Burger drinking a tall, fresh bourbon drink with his right hand, I yelled "Buffalo". It was a low blow. But it just goes to show that you should always have a Natty Light in your hand. Bri-daddy chugged the drink and then went off to his room to throw up and pass out. Or read. I can't remember exactly. Soon after the man of the hour bid us adieu, I retired to a trundle bed in the downstairs hostel; there were about six beds down there. I chose the trundle because I figured I'd arrived later than everyone else and more than likely all of the real beds were spoken for (some people had been there since Thursday). I removed my shoes and socks and was soon dreaming about rainbows and lollipops.

But then I felt a kick. And then another kick. And then I heard a voice telling me to get up. "Wake up", it said. "Wake up, man." I cracked opened my eyes and was understandably a bit groggy. But not so groggy that I didn't realize my bed was soaking wet. I remember my arm just rubbing the sheet in confusion. I was still groggy. And then I saw the source of the voice; he was standing over me saying something about how he was sorry. I first assumed that I had wet myself, which I don't think I've ever done. I blamed it on the mediocre burgers. But then I realized my pants weren't really wet - at least not anywhere near my crotch or lower leg area. I was clearly in something that was not mine. That's when I really woke up.

I stood up and looked down at the trundle bed, and saw not only a soiled bed, but a fair amount of upchuck, as well. I then noticed that the shirt I wore to bed was also completely soiled. The side of my jeans were, too. And I think my hair had some mediocre burger in it. About that time, the guy who hosed me down hours earlier said to me, "You might wanna take a shower, bud." Truer words have never been spoken. Bri-bopper's friend, whom I had met approximately 12 hours earlier, had apparently passed out in the bed above me, and relieved himself (both orally and penisly) on me while passed out. Somehow I didn't even wake up until the next morning. Bri-bastard's friend had to catch a flight, so he got up early and that's when he first noticed his gift on me. I can only assume he promptly woke me up, though I imagine he did think to himself for a second or two, "Man, I'll be in New England before this guy ever realizes what happened." Then he probably thought, "Fuck, we'll both be at the wedding in two weeks." He did the right thing by waking me up. And he apologized. I accepted it. Truth is, as disgusting as it was (and remains to be), it was kind of funny. I can appreciate the humor in it, even though one of my favorite tshirts is ruined. Bri-scrotum's friend washed my clothes while I showered early that morning, a true "good-guy" move. I washed them again when I came back from Lake Lure, but the shirt didn't really make it; there's a skunk-like stripe down the back of it. But it probably serves me right, as it was a blasphemous tshirt I picked up at a Bible-belt thrift store. Blasphemous only in that I was wearing it. Anyway, we can all laugh about it now. And hope that it never happens again. I am most definitely looking forward to Bri-soupman's wedding; I will not be sleeping on any trundles there. And I will be upperdecking the bathroom at the reception.