Here's something anti-climactic

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.

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