When you're hanging out at a bar with Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps looks like a dude at a bar. A dude at a bar who's wearing a terrible pink shirt.
He's kind of a gentle ya-dude. Of course, with eight gold medals, he can be any kind of dude that he wants. But still...less than exciting. I don't know what I was expecting. A toga, maybe. Or skin that glows like a gilded halo of awesome justice. (Does that even make sense? Nope. Hooray for beer.) I might as well have been at Faneuil Hall on a Friday night, watching BC seniors toss 'em back and pose for photos that are destined for no greater glory than to liven up a Facebook page. Instead, I was at "Club Bud", aka Olympic athlete hang, go-to joint for free watery lager, and cheeseball haven.
Boston, I miss you more than ever. Who's meeting me for a beer at Deep Ellum upon my return? No gold medalists, please. Kthxbai.